THE CLOCK STRUCK NINE ON FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH

The clock struck nine,
But that was
a quarter hour ago–

I’d best be moving on–
not like a sleepy planet
but a super meteor,
if, like Jack London,
I should want to use my time,

in fiery brilliance thus to soar,
leaving former rotten satisfaction
and comfy, frozen disappointment
in the dust,

I’d do that best
by moving boldly to the fore,
by doing first
what I want
done most,

so I can bring the world and me
some work that shines,
along a very lengthy stretch
of lush and sunny coast,

where winds
the pathway
to my biggest dreams,

which might prove
quite capable
to bring us outcomes
of true wonder,
to morph our world
reality
in such great ways,
that, if I could foresee
them now,

I just might,
in honest reverence,
descend on bended knee,
before these things
that turn out
quite like
the general color of my dreams,

but spanning vistas
unveiling countless, startling blessings,
that,
though they might seem
perfect answers
to my prayers and dreams,

I find, in actuality,
I don’t think I even asked for these,
because
held up beside my biggest dreams,
they’re ever so much more.

But since I’ll have had the power
and the pleasure
to have served
so many others in the Universe,
I just lose track
of all the graphs
and charts and curves,
and give up keeping score.

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This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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