The Joys Of Waking
When from camp bed cramp limbs I raise,
I never hesitate to praise
Lord Luck, loud laud and by degrees
attain crescendo! Nor bent knees,
nor moving lips, dumb witness lay
with supplication night or day,
convinced Fate’s finger points to please.
No reverential resignation
may undermine anticipation,
wish ill conceived, thought un expressed,
defensive mind-set, wants supressed.
Nowhere there’s sense of supplication -
for boundless strength spurns condemnation –
strength weakness spurns, by Fate twice blessed.
No shapes and thoughts some others see
in anguish and in agony,
up-starting from some fiendish crowd
of rued regrets bewailed aloud,
spoil waking moments which new dawn
should welcome, hibernation torn.
No nightmares bets hedged, lead head bowed.
Ignoring sense of painful wrong
lights lurid, frightful trampling throng,
for rights I fight forthrightfully
weave justice into equity.
Desires with loathing strangely mixed,
on threatening fearful neighbours fixed,
are strangers, foreigners for me;
The clock of optimism ticks
to scorn manipulative tricks,
thirst for revenge with powerless will
allied both baffled, burning, still
are absent from life’s waking leap
as from soft coverlets eyes peep
at fresh ambitions to fulfill.
Though aims stay hidden, flames are bid
to temper soul’s steel, conquering Cid
fools suffers not, time spilt, guilt, woe,
all banished by the will to know
without confusion, waste of time,
the causal links that tune life’s chime
through strings slave puppet daren’t o’erthrow.
Some toss, nights lost, to vain dismay,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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