Poetry With A Mission



...a thought provoking poetical exercise.

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On Reflection

Our life is somewhat like a diary, a diary that is filling up fast,
Yes, filling with experiences written with a pen that cannot last.
Sentences and paragraphs document our incredible life journey,
Which we’ll look back on as the pages fill, aware of less agility.

Our life is a story, an unintentional autobiography,
Not a work of fiction, nor some fantasy, but rather, reality.
A record of our actions, both good and bad, (a record sometimes airbrushed),
A story, a journey, a great adventure, too often thoughtlessly rushed.

Yes, a panoramic compilation tracing our life’s activities,
Chapters into which things said and done, or encountered, we over time squeeze.
A very revealing insight into who we are, our thoughts and feelings,
Our choices, our responses, our everyday dealings, our hurts and healings.

Millions of picturesque words conveying frustration, worry and concern,
Perhaps turbulence, difficulty, a rebelliousness, an about turn.
Or maybe joy, an unbounded happiness, moments of ecstatic bliss,
Which, over those chats around the table, or photographs, we’ll reminisce.

Yes, a kaleidoscope of happenings, challenges, risks and surprises,
That one in their later years, and in hindsight, reflects upon, analyses,
Or as life’s frail curtain gradually descends, regrets or celebrates,
And the inevitable dust to dust, peacefully or anxiously awaits.

Our lives are a story that we each get to write, to tell, well or poorly,
A story others will read over time — and hopefully, enjoyably.
For those passages in our diary are windows through which other folk see,
Windows reflecting images, and sometimes very influentially.

Yes, every day each entry is seen by others perusing our diary,
And there are also those who stumble across passages accidentally.
But either way, what our diary conveys, will either attract or repel,
Because the way in which we live our life, much will verify or dispel.

By Lance Landall




A Diary

If you had a diary where you recorded your daily deeds, what would it reveal,
A diary containing all your thoughts and words, which nothing about you would conceal?
And how would you be left feeling were your diary left behind somewhere publicly,
Your name and address inside, a life you couldn’t hide, there for everyone to see?

And what if it were discovered and its contents released on the six o’clock news,
Or printed in some tabloid with a worldwide readership that your entries would peruse?
What if its contents were circulated in your neighbourhood, your town or city,
Or delivered into the hands of your workmates, friends, close relations, family?

Would such hardly faze you, see you hold your head up high, leave you smiling confidently,
Would you remain cool, calm and collected; be basking in compliments, pleasantry?
Or would you be wanting to hide, quickly flee, consider such a catastrophe,
A reason for feeling depressed, anxious, frantic, scared; and retire embarrassingly?

Isn’t our life a diary, for all to see, though not everything, undoubtedly,
But enough to reveal what is or isn’t nice, sound or unsound, on or off key?
Yes, we may have two hats, one that we wear privately, and one that we wear publicly,
But often life has a way of exposing the truth, so mind what goes in your diary.

By Lance Landall



It's Not Until Later

Some of us have done crazy and regretful things that we can’t believe we did do,
That is, now that many years have passed by, and that via wiser eyes we see anew.
Perhaps having grown up, perhaps having sorted ourselves out, and learnt the hard way,
But now, wishing it was all a bad dream, rather than the folly of yesterday.

It seems that when we’re in our youth, (even a little older), we’re somewhat blind,
And that it’s not until many years later that twenty twenty vision we find —
Figuratively speaking, that is — and then, like someone who has regained their sight,
We see what we didn’t before, and where there was darkness, now there’s revealing light.

Yes, light that shows the true nature and painful consequences of those self-centred deeds,
And oh, how we regret our foolishness, how our more pure and sensitive heart bleeds,
For not just we are left suffering, but whoever was on the receiving end,
Be they a spouse, a son or daughter, a family member, a stranger or a friend.

If only younger bodies had older heads, far less cause for regret there would be,
But no, it seems that it’s not until later that we finally or clearer see.
And when we do, it’s sometimes with utter disbelief, and terrible pangs of pain,
For certain things we did before, we wouldn’t dream of doing now — and can’t explain.

By Lance Landall


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