The Pessimistic Character with the Optimist's Grace.

 

Why am I sitting under Algarvean eucalyptus trees,

Watching cork oaks grow in evening sun

Breathing in the scent, ancient and health giving,

Listening to honey bees,

Knowing all the time that this year could be the last one

For breathing the scented air, for loving, even for living.

 

I may never tread this Portuguese hillside again

Or feel its icy earth-spring round my feet,

See the sheets of cork stacked high, or draw one

To release its bottle’s Bacchanalian flow and greet

The sunshine held in Vino Verde’s fresh, young cheekiness;

For I am only fit to lie and absorb the Algarve sun.

 

What balderdash, what poppycock, for though I’m old in years,

Tomorrow dawns, another day;  it’s not to waste in tears.

Though many years to memory have  passed,

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’s life will be,

                                   I’m sure, as real; 

Still within the compass of my powers;

Then, even at the very last it will be said,

“He lived his yesterdays, and his todays

     And he'll sees  still from his tomorrows

         But right now,

            He's dead”.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

John, you always come out winning, your poems or prose always have that special ring that makes the reader read and read again, plus, transport him or her to that place, that time.

Not sure about the ending - it's sad tho true I suppose, and, it fits the preceding words, it's like an 'amen' in a way.

Thank you for sharing yet another fine piece of writing. :-)

[James Jason Dye]

This was great, kind of a fight between the glass half-full or half-empty, I usually say both is true. I hope you have many years left ahead of you.