TOMORROW (an ‘almost’ poem)

tomorrow

Playing out her dreams, rocking plate in hand, she sieves for golden crumbs along the wandering river trail, oblivious that paradise is ablaze. That a harmless crèche playground drizzle had fledged, turned into a streetwise gang of ripened raindrop bullies troubled her not a jot. Welly boots and tangled locks tucked inside an oilskin rainhat saw to that, for they were, in any event, more than a match for bittersweet elements.

Long ago, back when she cared, she had concluded the rosy vagaries of fate to be the most romantic of things. Then one bleached shivering winters day, thumbing through her unsullied little black book of ‘then and now lovers’ it dawned on her all had been handpicked; realized that circumstance had played no part…that each and every way she looked at it, eyes wide open ‘choice’ and white walking cane blind ‘fate’, were sworn enemies.

It was at that time, staring at four walls became less of an issue, more a consuming hobby. It no longer troubled her if all that matters or mattered was reduced to ashes and gifted to the breeze.

“Slim pickings today, que sera, sera. I’ll try again tomorrow”

 

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55 thoughts on “TOMORROW (an ‘almost’ poem)

      1. Young Zoolon won’t let me near his projects, except when he wants his accounts sorted out…he seems to overlook Purchase tax was in place last time I did any accounting.

  1. Made me think: the poet writes not for the reader but for the poet herself. The poem written turns to dust when spoken. The pseudopoet at this point gives up; the true poet writes on and on and on . . . I agree: your characters have real character . . .

  2. another incredibly brilliant piece, my friend – your imaginative way with character presentation and philosophical observation handsomely underscores your atheist creed that we choose our fate

  3. I can relate to this post, lol…BTW: have you ever read any Jean Rhys books? She was English girl born in West Indies, came to England in the ’20s as “poor relation”, became a chorus girl who hated to sing–and to smile. Later on she drifted between lovers and alcoholism, living in increasingly reduced circumstances, mostly in Paris. Her books are elegant, bleak and brilliant (the holy trio). I’d highly recommend! Annabelle

  4. Very mysterious and thought provoking! Is this part of a bigger story too?
    Personally, I don’t believe choice and fate are enemies. I think it’s more complicated than that, but I don’t have a good metaphor for it. I think they’re allies, but only sometimes.

    1. Pretty much all these type of posts of late are just me trying out characters and testing reactions on WP. I find that writing a proper book demands so much more discipline than knocking out a book of poetry. It is thus that I cannot claim the accolade ‘writer’ in part or at all at this stage. Maybe I never will, but I am progressing at least at the moment. The freezing weather has ensured that!

  5. This piece saddened me, because I have been contemplating the picking thing lately. When did it go wrong?

    It is sad that the world is rapidly shrinking until it is finally reduced to the space withing four walls. This poor soul reminds me of that old lady you wrote about – the one from the shop. Beautiful piece, it hurts to read it.

    1. On the occasions I allow it to happen, or when it forces itself upon me, life is so very dark. When I get it out of my system in the words…good words or bad, they’ve all I’ve got…sometimes I feel the weight of just thinking eases things a little.

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