"dobyns" poems
Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its ****
-Stephen Dobyns
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
In time we learn that the world is a cold place;
friends go off to fight wars,
relatives die from disease or drugs
and you don’t reach your goals.
Dobyns sees this
and he lives with it just like everyone else.
One can choose to make their time with people great
and know that someday it will end,
or one can recluse and feel the pain of loneliness instead of loss.
It’s a hard choice but it’s one we all make.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC