Colin F. Jones
IT IS SAID OF ME
Awarded: April 28, 2005It is said of me that I have much time to write,
Though the truth of this suffers pale sight,
Though with all this time tis said I have to muse,
It seems I’m still “unread” as some accuse.
It seems that Virgil, Plato and the book of God,
That I daily read, might well be a cause to plod,
Since haste, is not an ingredient of spare time,
And the works of Muggeridge and better works Divine,
Like the Art of Fouquet, Carvaggio and Emil Nolde,
Have long been read and stored away as old,
Onto my shelves where other volumes wait,
Aristophanes and Acvschylus half read to date,
And all those books on guns and ships and tanks,
Knowledge from which I gain without good thanks.
And indeed between I cook and clean the house,
And with some care I tend my ailing spouse,
And edge my paths and lawns and trim the trees
And study the birds and wind among the leaves,
I paint those parts that do some painting need,
And sometimes plant for food some garden seed.
I rest then in ill pain for an hour or two,
Writing more verse lest I have naught to do,
And think of ways that I can ease the pain,
That cripples my feet and aggravates my brain,
Still searching for the truth beneath the lie,
That seems to be avoided by the eye,
Of affluent societies of the modern day,
Trained to conform as their freedoms slip away.
©Copyright April 26, 2005 by Colin F. Jones