“Simplicities”

Last station Solms Fritz

“Simplicities”

Simplicities in classic form require
Prefects in a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments their acumen,
Their open mêmes, some rhymes to test these things as wholes inspire
Urgency to pause, to linger over aspirations no longer really there
In little more than a half a generation’s given youth in time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically designed,
Aloud come instant lamentations to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there always were and is
A here and there in rapid profits worshiped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories weighed as little more than in an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many, so catalogued, remain aloof
In cemetaries perfected in rhymeless textiles of embroidered truth.

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2 responses to ““Simplicities”

  1. Yes, very little survives of a given generation, very little in a hundred years, and so very much less in a thousand. Like the narator of a long novel, your closing couplet places the characters in perspective; where some did reign and some did bow… they are all equel now. A poignant poem, in its own stern way.

    • Yes, I often wonder about my grandparents and their parents (and on back in time) who must have felt that whatever their tasks and journeys were were not only desperately or even meticulously attended, but were so at least as seriously as mine and yet I know or remember so few memories of their hopes and aspirations beyond the sort of thing one finds in ancestry sites. I remember my grandparents, of course, but by the time I knew them, they were retired and tired and very little of their passions and former hopes were ever discussed with me as a child. Even my own parents’ intimate details and what they truly felt about life and living that I know they shared with one another and no one else are beyond me save for the results of their actions which I witnessed personally. I finished my career after both of them left this world (my father at the age of 50) and so even they did not experience or know the scope of fruition of their love and sacrifice for me in my own life. Odd it is, that for so much thought and travail that each of us experience, so very little of either actually arrests the attentions of friends and family, workmates and co-conspirators further than the latest news does with a longevity at least as fickle as the consumption of either the media or the gossip menu at the water fountain.

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