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After the Carnival - Apres la Fete

The carnival of carefree play
too long has tripped its careless way,
clowned senseless as an ass's bray
while flesh from flesh Time stripped away.

Once sun strong shone, when one made hay
cicada-like, would spend the day
in hasting-wasting, - led astray
by vain beliefs the day to pay
would never come. But hopes decay,
the ostrich-innings stumped. Today,
momentum lost, depressed dismay
notes there's no energy to pray.

Illusions fade, blue skies turn grey,
what once seemed certain from life's fray
has dropped defeated, options fray.
Careless of creed, one must obey
dread summons which to night turns day.

That one's posterity will stay
when life's departed holds at bay
a sense of impotence and may
part justify the role to play.
The carnival is over, May
to Winter bows, Spring may not stay -
its darling buds in blossom, gay,
tomorrow must return to clay.

For previous version revised 21 May 2005 see below
Life's Carnival swift sinks soon drive,
ambitions fail. What sense to strive
when dregs alone remain to drain
before forgetfulness stakes claim.

Who have the strength to goals attain
with principles intact remain
exceptions to life's ground rules lain,
clowns stride stage, pine, pain, soon lie slain.

Though some may for a time contrive
to fool themselves, they steeper dive
when time in pawn takes pawn alive,
soon sacrificed to failures' knives -
which often with ‘success' connive.

Illusions lost, we find with pain,
are seldom truly gained again -
what once seemed certain's then proved vain
when gain proves dross, and loss insane.

Dunce bee, once drawn to wicket flame,
no curtain call can still sustain, -
another worker t[r]icked from hive
which will remain no less alive.

For previous version revised 29 April 2005 see below
The Carnival is over. Drive,
ambitions fail. What sense to strive
when dregs alone remain to drain
before forgetfulness stakes claim.

Who have the strength to goals attain
with principles intact remain
exceptions to the ground rules lain.

Although some for a time contrive
to fool themselves, they steeper dive
when time in pawn takes pawn alive,
soon sacrificed to failures' knives -
which often with ‘success' connive.

Illusions lost, we find with pain,
are seldom truly gained again -
what once seemed certain's then proved vain.

Bee, moth, attracted to wick'd flame,
no curtain call will long retain,
another worker ticked from hive
which still remains no less alive.

(29 December 2010)

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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