in the blackness of eternal night
I wonder what we might have been
had fate not gulped us whole
what roads would have called us on
what waves swept us to other lands
what mountains echoed with our joy
what babies cooed, what friends cajoled
what rainbows chased
what dreams
had fate not gulped us whole
and yet, in soul’s silence
as I hold her hand so soft and still
I know peace
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling, 1895
Source: A Choice of Kipling’s Verse (1943)
When I’m down and feeling sorry for myself, “If” is one of the poems I return to for inspiration. Here are YouTube links to great readings of this poem, the first by Holly Musgrove, the second by Sir Michael Caine-
once
my life was a never ending to do list
every minute, every hour, every day
riding the nowhere train
always something to be done
another meeting, another deadline, another promise to keep
the notion of a nap was a faraway fantasy
then
I jumped off-
now
today’s calendar is blank
an empty page
uncluttered, unfettered, unpromised
the delicious bliss of nothingness
what to do on this sumptuously lazy afternoon
the easy chair beckons
a deep breath, a sigh, a shuttering of eyes
red
it’s the color of summer
fragrant red roses dancing in the breeze
luscious red tomatoes clinging to the vine
bright red ketchup spurting from a hotdog bun
sweet red watermelon juice dripping down my face
a spoonful of ripe red strawberries oozing over vanilla ice cream
deep red cherry pie
a ruby red kiss at sunset
ouch!
painful red sunburn
which is why I’m inside writing about Summer
instead of outside enjoying it
the first time we walked together
we got lost
the perfect path
to knowing each other
she never complained
simply smiled
marveled at flowers and bird
held my hand
trusted
we’ve walked on
through mountain meadows
singing with bees and butterflies
dancing barefoot on foggy beaches
gleefully splashing in the waves
hiding under an umbrella in Spring rain
sampling strawberries at the Farmers’ Market
gossiping with passing neighbors
skipping to the grocery store
plopping onto our favorite bench