In a Tumbler Spinning
Let us sleep now. Come death, the final slumber,
Shall we awake to find the shining soul
Polished like rocks that have been in the tumbler
By the abrasion smoothed? Time takes its toll
Upon us in the world, in likewise fashion,
That start out young, but must be buffeted
With difficulties, ere our corpse turn ashen
And troubles are relieved from off our head.
No, there is no escaping it—for trouble
Remains constant companion in our life,
The waters never calm, but always bubble
With tribulations signifying strife.
It is no accident, that “strife” and “life”
Rhyme perfectly—upon the heels of one
The other’s sure to follow, there being rife
Communion ’twixt the two, as so they run
Hand in hand matching pace with one another,
It seems that they accelerate in time
To match each other’s footstep, and to smother
The one but does the same unto its rhyme.
One thing is certain, that there will come trouble
Within this life, and if a body grows
Into maturity; to see to rubble
Reduced one’s aspirations and see woes
Supplant one’s former hopes; witness decay
Of one’s own body and the world around one,
Those things most precious, spoiled in the affray
And each hope dashed just as the heart has found one.
Trouble comes on, as sure as mirth and laughter
Give way to tears; and some of us are born
Smack in the midst of trouble, others after
Time in the world learn how safety gets shorn
Only with much experience—no matter,
Though each of us face new varieties,
Within the mortal world to live a squatter
Means that, of “squatter’s rights,” well few of these
Come into play, as there is little “right”
Bestowed by nature, though some precious gifts,
But more “squatter’s indemnities” bedight
Life of all creatures, interspersed with rifts
Of time—of moments, even millisecond--
Where peacefulness, tranquility may reign,
But for most lives, the common run be reckoned
The longer one within this world remain,
Detain himself for any sundry reason,
The trouble-spots expand, with grief and sorrow
Adding the spice with which the meal to season,
As peaceful moments are something man borrow
Against the future, such as are bestowed
In respite from the world, for “trouble-free”
A man may never be upon his road,
Though still some cultivate serenity
Amidst dire circumstance, with trouble fraught--
They learn to cultivate, restrain and train
The mind so that, what troubles may be brought
Are treated, as all life, on level plain.
These men are surely sages, who may keep
Their equanimity of mind despite
Troubles that challenge with an incline steep
Demanding to be overcome, when might
Has failed, with a new attitude of mind.
This is the only way, when ceaseless trouble
Nips at the heels and chases like the wind,
Nips from all sides, the planning mind to boggle,
Or worse, takes healthy bites out with its maws,
And one continues fighting, with survivor’s
Fury within a battle without pause,
Presenting problems new and ever diverse
To be dealt with, or in events one come
Upon the last of one’s resources, to
Relinquish up the will to and succumb,
Which is the sleep of death, where tried and true
For better or for worse, all souls reside
Upon the ultimate, past living’s shocks
In life that buffeted the mortal hide
Like so many, in tumbler spinning, rocks.
Is God the great geologist, collector
Of souls with all the rough spots worn away,
Of man in life not very much protector
Save in his faith, his spirit he allay?
It seems like bubbles floating on the water,
Life’s jostling, crashing, on the shoreline stops
When every creature, whether son or daughter,
Hits one last rock of trouble and it pops.
The only certitude in life is trouble,
As strife and life dance wildly hand-in-hand,
In reckless pirouette that seems to double
Velocity, the longer time expand
Duration that the two are do-si-doing,
Frantic cavorting, something big is up--
We try our best, despite them, to keep going,
Then Hell breaks loose, and all the jig is up.
Shall we awake to find the shining soul
Polished like rocks that have been in the tumbler
By the abrasion smoothed? Time takes its toll
Upon us in the world, in likewise fashion,
That start out young, but must be buffeted
With difficulties, ere our corpse turn ashen
And troubles are relieved from off our head.
No, there is no escaping it—for trouble
Remains constant companion in our life,
The waters never calm, but always bubble
With tribulations signifying strife.
It is no accident, that “strife” and “life”
Rhyme perfectly—upon the heels of one
The other’s sure to follow, there being rife
Communion ’twixt the two, as so they run
Hand in hand matching pace with one another,
It seems that they accelerate in time
To match each other’s footstep, and to smother
The one but does the same unto its rhyme.
One thing is certain, that there will come trouble
Within this life, and if a body grows
Into maturity; to see to rubble
Reduced one’s aspirations and see woes
Supplant one’s former hopes; witness decay
Of one’s own body and the world around one,
Those things most precious, spoiled in the affray
And each hope dashed just as the heart has found one.
Trouble comes on, as sure as mirth and laughter
Give way to tears; and some of us are born
Smack in the midst of trouble, others after
Time in the world learn how safety gets shorn
Only with much experience—no matter,
Though each of us face new varieties,
Within the mortal world to live a squatter
Means that, of “squatter’s rights,” well few of these
Come into play, as there is little “right”
Bestowed by nature, though some precious gifts,
But more “squatter’s indemnities” bedight
Life of all creatures, interspersed with rifts
Of time—of moments, even millisecond--
Where peacefulness, tranquility may reign,
But for most lives, the common run be reckoned
The longer one within this world remain,
Detain himself for any sundry reason,
The trouble-spots expand, with grief and sorrow
Adding the spice with which the meal to season,
As peaceful moments are something man borrow
Against the future, such as are bestowed
In respite from the world, for “trouble-free”
A man may never be upon his road,
Though still some cultivate serenity
Amidst dire circumstance, with trouble fraught--
They learn to cultivate, restrain and train
The mind so that, what troubles may be brought
Are treated, as all life, on level plain.
These men are surely sages, who may keep
Their equanimity of mind despite
Troubles that challenge with an incline steep
Demanding to be overcome, when might
Has failed, with a new attitude of mind.
This is the only way, when ceaseless trouble
Nips at the heels and chases like the wind,
Nips from all sides, the planning mind to boggle,
Or worse, takes healthy bites out with its maws,
And one continues fighting, with survivor’s
Fury within a battle without pause,
Presenting problems new and ever diverse
To be dealt with, or in events one come
Upon the last of one’s resources, to
Relinquish up the will to and succumb,
Which is the sleep of death, where tried and true
For better or for worse, all souls reside
Upon the ultimate, past living’s shocks
In life that buffeted the mortal hide
Like so many, in tumbler spinning, rocks.
Is God the great geologist, collector
Of souls with all the rough spots worn away,
Of man in life not very much protector
Save in his faith, his spirit he allay?
It seems like bubbles floating on the water,
Life’s jostling, crashing, on the shoreline stops
When every creature, whether son or daughter,
Hits one last rock of trouble and it pops.
The only certitude in life is trouble,
As strife and life dance wildly hand-in-hand,
In reckless pirouette that seems to double
Velocity, the longer time expand
Duration that the two are do-si-doing,
Frantic cavorting, something big is up--
We try our best, despite them, to keep going,
Then Hell breaks loose, and all the jig is up.