Up the Creek

Here I am, 77 next week, 

Oarless and up the creek 

To tread floodtide of life. 

Both stupider and wiser now -- 

Still till with a dull plow, 

Plant among clods of strife. 

One truth sure and certain -- 

Lifts that fateful curtain,

Foisted on my own knife. 

We sow, reap and brew up 

A potion to fill our cup 

To toast murky afterlife. 

Sweet or bitter we devour 

Our life's wine that hour, 

Leave to mourn friends and wife. 

Braced to face my maker, 

Like shaman, friar, fakir, 

Faith looks to mercies rife. 

Author's Note

When our own story nears the final chapter, we can only wax philosophical.

Reviews

[Guruji]

A fantastic summary of life processes and culmination set in the background of the worthy author's routine. What impresses is the flow in the scheme that strikes a special note in the mind of the reader. Believe me, the meaning gets deeper each time I read the verses.
I shall keep looking out for more from the author.

[bigfootprint]

Thanks for the flowers. The fun -- and therapy -- is in the writing, but it is also fulfilling to share with fellow poets.

[Onlyme]

Now, Doug, this was wise, insightful, fun even. As well as good use of tongue in cheek humour sprinkled inside this gem of a poem.