Poetry

 

 

Davidson Garrett

Time Travel

Why do I always long for days of yore?
Why such a sourpuss for the present?
In the past, did the world offer much more,

or, is it just mental myths I yearn for?
When losing luck's lottery, I rage, vent
like thunderbolt Thor, Norse god from days of yore—

blotting out weathered failures from before—
denying truths conjuring the unpleasant.
Think back: Did my world ever offer much more?

Childhood, bullied-blue, rarely peaceful, nor
teen years: great angst as an adolescent!
And yet, I always long for days of yore—

damming what I became, sometimes deplore.
Life could have been this or that, but wasn't!
Awake! When did the world offer much more?

Time to release——should-have-been, lock the door
to cobwebbed closets, stashed with deep regrets.
Why do I always long for days of yore?
In the past, did the world (really) offer much more?

 

A Villanelle for the Liturgical Season of Lent

We are dust, and to dust we shall return—
words chanted in churches on Ash Wednesday.
Yet, for most of us, we never quite learn

to praise quotidian days, to discern
gospel truth from pious claptrap, as we say
we are dust, and to dust we shall return.

In our lust for success, we connive, burn
bridges with foes, insist: DO IT MY WAY!
New paths are lost to us. We never quite learn

to swallow pride, offer heartfelt amends, earn
forgiveness from estranged kin. As hair grays—
we are dust, and to dust we shall return

eludes us. We grieve over failed dreams, turn
bitter, cursing Yahweh at our dismay.
If only— most of us could ever learn

time on earth, just an eye's blink; cease yearnings
for gold calves, idols of our mortal stay.
We are dust, and to dust we shall return—
yet, for most of us, we never quite learn.

 

 

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