Saturday, October 1, 2011

A Season of Entitlement?


What spurs the seasons of this life

Which bleed upon the sod?

We squander love and hate alike

To serve lust’s lesser god


Freedom is not entitlement

To please our pompous pride

Seasons splayed their glory when

Brave men of honor died


Beneath the red October sky

Beneath the warm spring sun

Beneath the passions of July

Our freedom has begun


Dare we to spill one hallowed breath

In thoughtless chivalry,

Or live as though we own the earth

Bought once through history?


Seasons and mankind mark the soil

Where soldier’s blood-drops fell

If freedom’s cost evades our toil

Then we are bound for hell


What spurs the seasons treading time?

Tis not entitlement

That brings the rain or sun to shine

On meadows that we plant


We gather harvest of the field

Yet, who evokes the sod?

Can we preserve our freedom’s shield

Yet spurn the hand of God?


Winter, spring, summer and fall

Will we be diligent?

Or blindly stumble through them all

Pleading entitlement?


Janet Martin

3 comments:

  1. In another book I'm reading (yeah, I know, I'm reading a lot), Writing to the Bone, Natalie Goldberg says that a poet could and should write about everything. However, there are subjects one really cares about, and anything written on those subjects reflect the passion of that feeling. Those poems are natural, unforced and the best we write. This is one of your subjects.

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  2. I will reply when the kids are off...my internet seems to be working right now...it is being very cantankerous of late!

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  3. Mike, it seems the older I get the more I value our fragile freedom. We live in 'micro-mentality' age, where self is on the throne...and I have yet to see a selfish courageous person. It is a sobering thought. Thank-you for your comments and encouraging me to keep writing about this thing I feel passionately about. I look at my kids and wonder what the future holds for them or their kids.

    I think I would like to read that book! I'll see if the library can get it.

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