A marvel awaits, as we cease to attempt,
To right every wrong and the Victor preempt.
We race far afield,
Forgetting to yield,
And cultivate strife. Thus, we harvest contempt.
We pique in a pickle and wrinkle fair brow.
We pause not for progress; our tempers endow.
And so in our prime,
We lose the sublime,
To sacrifice joy on the altar of now.
The sudden has surely been much oversold.
Our striving earns nothing but shiny fool’s gold.
In each now and then:
We might wonder what may our waiting behold.
c2023 by Linda Ann Nickerson
This poem was posted
in response to these prompts:
- Five-Minute Friday: “attempt”
- Meme Express: “in a pickle”
- Simply Snickers: “field,” “fair”/”fare,” and “far”
- Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “prime”
- Writer’s Workshop: “beginning again”
Image: Victorian Portrait of Unknown Woman – vintage/public domain, finder’s credit to Sepia Saturday
Feel free to follow on Twitter, and follow Nickers and Ink Creative Communications on Facebook. Please visit my Amazon author page as well.