Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

As wind doth teach flexibility to the trees,
though they stand stoutly stubborn in the wood,
time doth serve sweet wisdom to the leaves,
that why the winds do wail is understood.
Yet age is frowned on by those growing old,
for the power of youth yet seems the better fate,
wisdom seems not to be as youth so bold,
and everything we do seems all too late.
Yet mountains still have mysterious misty peaks,
though their cliffs are marked with crack and cleave,
from where the water flows to form the creeks
that are the veins of all that we perceive,
for as rivers they all flow into the sea
that is vaster than the human eye can see.

~ 2 ~

It had occurred to me when youth is lost,
that we perceive it as a sudden cost,
when surely it has withered over time,
without our notice slowly in decline.
Oft then we seek a reason for its demise,
and fit it where it seems of less surprise.
For veterans claim it as an act of war,
which subserves the quest that Hell all soldiers saw.
Yet folk grow old despite the life they’ve led,
disturbed by pain with sleepless nights ahead,
for the process is by stealth, time’s slow decease,
which withers like a sunset by degrees
To leave us facing truth that we will die,
despite our reference to the reason why.

~ 3 ~

‘Tis only time that we can blame for age,
if age indeed has need of blame at all,
and time recorded in old histories page,
shows death upon us all will so befall.
What age was Adam surely not a child,
for he was made so obviously endowed,
though none of this by scholars was compiled,
in the book they wrote to glorify the shroud.
He was designed as all Earth’s creatures were,
to reproduce and propagate his kind.
If in fact his creation did occur,
he was with defects initially designed;
therefore he aged as he was meant to do,
but without a childhood lived like me and you.

~ 4 ~

I lost not my youth in war as some might say;
now being old I know this to be true,
youth is not lost in the conflict of the day,
regardless of the complicated view.
Oh we might learn much faster about life,
by trick and trauma as doing doth return,
and step towards the equal of a wife,
whose babes do heighten her perceived concern.
So oft are phrases coined that they do stick,
where beneficial excuse determines thought,
sometimes becoming habitual rhetoric
that fits the doldrums in which we might be caught.
Youth is part of serving out our time
that sometimes is not reached before decline.

~ 5 ~

On equal ground and with far better grace,
stands the woman in her higher place,
sort by men but not to share her muse,
who suffers rape if she would but refuse.
But subservient time slowly changes law
that man cannot without distress ignore.
Despite themselves, they must change their ways
that, very slowly, prejudice decays.
Yet where law fails quickly man the beast,
become the Angels of the Devil’s priest.
‘Tis all the flowers when the sun doth shine,
that smile and flourish looking so divine,
but when the night doth creep about the land,
then the softer touch becomes a callous hand.

~ 6 ~

We cannot lose what we do not have
thus what we had, we have never lost;
some thoughts obscure tangled in the past,
might be misplaced at our bitter cost.
You can’t lose love if but once you’ve loved,
what love you had your essence has retained,
‘tis as a hand that still feels it is gloved,
be it removed that no longer is contained.
All that you were in all your prior days,
you still will be until the day you die,
and looking back nostalgia oft betrays,
with lack of hope as a false reply.
For being “old” is part of passing through
to where your mind thinks it has its due.

~ 7 ~

One cold summer does not all summers end,
nor doth the winter beyond the spring extend,
yet if in shade you prefer to sit,
then one can’t say what might become of it.
We can in Summer dream of falling snow,
or yet in Springtime ignore the flowers that grow,
that all our thoughts subservient to the cold,
reside in Autumn because we think we’re old.
Yet all the seasons at every age do form,
with sunny days and icy snow and storm.
Why would one winter all our summers spoil,
lest we but seek to make the old pot boil,
by adding fuel to a perpetual fire,
to keep us warm in the winter we desire?