The Daily Act Of Presence Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Eight hours at work, commuting sometimes two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
its p[l]ace, weak celebration paid in kind,
traced race to waste bereft, much left to do.

Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out of as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.

Three hours of leisure, then, without ado,
day's drive departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck luck's trend bends in the end to Death
whose lock mocks motto 'to thyself be true! '

Three hours for chat, sex, net or television,
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision.



16 May 2001 revised 18 December 2008
robi03_0936_robi03_0000 SXX_EJZ
for previous version see below

The Daily Act of Presence

Eight hours at work, in travel up to two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
and celebrated weakly, paid in kind, -
so much to waste, so little left to do.

Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.

Three hours leisure, then, without ado,
the day departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck the trend bends in the end to Death -
what sense retains 'unto thyself be true'?

Three hours for music, films or television –
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision!