Storm Tossed

Narrow the world, with very little scope
Inside its boundaries for warring creed.
Now seed, now bloom, now dead in word and deed,
Ended scarce begun, yet still we hope
To add an extra twist to Time's short rope,
Expressing trust which on itself does feed,
Energy recycling. Great our need,
Never flags, grows greater, while we grope
New yardsticks more secure, for seldom Pope
Imam or preacher can in conscience lead,
Nor can sham shaman really draw a bead
Exact between Hell and Heaven. Few can cope!
Their lives are lonely interludes which slope
Year after year towards the grave, their seed
Too thinly scattered, and their barren breed
With other worries blessed, which telescope.
One sighs while lonely hearts in silence bleed.

(1 January 1992)

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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