A sombre poem from Peter… Peter Weygang, Bobcaygeon ON
“As I f ”
A rather somber poem this time. At 87, the weather forecast is not so good! Warmest regards Peter
By Robert Emeny
If you can bear the brunt of a thousand callous elbows And hold your ground among a throng of hungry fellows If you can stand the stench of liars who rise above you And keep your thoughts on the one or two who love you If you can bend over backwards with stress and tension Or stand up tall with undivided attention Or lean from right to left with ease And not just wiggle in the breeze If you can sense your tragic flaw and give yourself a laugh Or lift a shining kernel from a crusty stack of chaff If you can chase the spirit of wanting that burns a man’s heart And loosen the desire before it tears your soul apart If you can drink from both cups of joy and sorrow Or wait for now and drink tomorrow Or see that coins are all two-sided And know your fate is not decided If you can take a page of Kipling and follow every letter Or find your heroes’ faults and do their deeds one better If you can stand alone and know that you’re right And surrender your words for good works in plain sight If you can bite your tongue and accept it with grace Or let your thoughts go drifting in space Or focus your mind on everything pleasant And know that forever survives in the present If you can forgive the crimes of those who write the rules And let go of the past and the pranks and prep schools Without forgetting what you stand for and why And never believing it’s useless to try If you can do what you can to steer clear of strife And act with respect toward all forms of life You’ll be the pillar, and carved out of wood And – what’s more – you’ll be misunderstood
The Last Act I’m waiting for the fat lady to sing. I’m waiting for the applause to stop. Waiting for the footlights to dim, And the curtain to finally drop. I’ve sung all the songs I can sing. I’ve danced my best steps for you all. I’ve had some great days in the sun, And taken my last curtain call. I sit in my room backstage, Wipe grease-paint from off my old face. I put on street clothes one last time, My stage clothes go back in their place. The stage door creaks as I leave. I’ve passed that way before. No fans are waiting for me. It’s not the same anymore. It’s a dark, and drizzly, night. I can’t see the end of the street. But I walk on into the dark. There’s someone I’m going to meet. So, Death, I say, where is thy sting? For now I am sans everything. Regards, Peter, September 2021
Robert the Scot
Peter Weygang, M.A.; D.I.C.; M.Ed. Sec., Citizens for Direct Democracy Email: peterweygang@gmail.com ♣
36 dialogue
AUTUMN 2021, VOL. 35, NO. 1
Alternative thoughts on Kipling’s poem, IF…
roberte256@gmail.com ♣
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