Poetry With A Mission

...a thought provoking poetical exercise.


The Path

It’s as if he’d read my mind as I stood there deep in thought,
For he firmly shook his head as I turned and our eyes caught.
Then gesturing to the path that had held my steady gaze,
He said with deep conviction, “I wouldn’t, son, it never pays.”

His words I should have heeded, but this path still drew my eyes,
And as I stood there gazing, I soon felt my interest rise.
Reluctantly, he moved on, but his troubled look I saw,
For clearly he’d seen others take this same old path before.

At first it seemed exciting, for each step brought new delights,
And in time I’d wandered far, mesmerized by sounds and sights.
But trouble soon engulfed me, and I heard ringing in my ear,
“I wouldn’t, son, it never pays,” and I soon began to fear.

However, I still wandered down that path despite my fears,
Till the words that man had said ceased to echo in my ears.
I’d figured that my troubles might abate as time went by,
Though an uneasy feeling in my stomach seemed to lie.

That unease began to grow when more trouble came my way,
But other folk on that path told me that I’d be okay.
They were ready with advice, tried to comfort and distract,
And I found myself admitting there was still much to attract.

But just as night follows day, pain and sorrow came my way,
And the merits of proceeding I solemnly began to weigh.
As I paused to count the cost of my foolish headstrong way,
I now saw very clearly why this worn path did not pay.

Ignoring that man’s wisdom was something I now mourned,
For he, wise with experience, had lovingly this fool warned.
If only I had welcomed the sound wisdom that man had,
I wouldn’t be saying now, “I’m sorry, please forgive me, Dad.”

By Lance Landall

Something To Dwell On

No one should be prevented from saying what they believe,
Nor from penning such — otherwise, we’ll all have cause to grieve.
Freedom of expression is a right, and necessary,
For how else is truth found and error exposed, please tell me?

Hence why political correctness is not a healthy thing,
For out of such, even more can eventually spring.
Yes, it all starts with those small things that invariably grow,
And which in time see liberty and democracy go,

And us, then nothing more than puppets — who this’ll then learn, know.

By  Lance Landall