THE ROAD OF LIFE poem

[amiam*]

Way back in the sixties I saw a painting hanging in my friends apartment in Berkley. The painting was done in a monotone color of green. I recall, as I was looking at it that it is the road of life!

THE ROAD OF LIFE

THE ROAD OF LIFE IS AS THAT,
WHICH I HAVE SEEN.
WHO BUT PAINTED THIS.....
I DO NOT KNOW.
BUT THERE WAS A ROAD,
AND MANY STROLLED ALONG ITS WAY.
SOME HAND IN HAND.......
AND SOME ALONE. AND THIS ROAD HAD MANY TURNS, WITH LAMPS TO LIGHT THE WAY. AND ON EACH SIDE WAS THE SEA....
AND NOW AND THEN A FOG
COULD BE SEEN.
THE ROAD WAS LONG.....
SO VERY LONG.
AS IF TO STRETCH TO ETERNITY
AND SO DID VANISH
AT HORIZON AND SEA.
AND WHAT OF THEY......
WHO WALK THIS ROAD?
FOR THERE IS THE FOG......
AND SO MANY TURNS......
AND SO THERE ARE SOME WHO LOOSE THEIR WAY SOME FALL OFF.........
AND OTHERS GO ASTRAY
BUT, WHAT IS THIS FOG....,
THAT BLINDS THEIR WAY?
PERHAPS THEY HAVE QUARRELED.....
AND GO SO FAR ASTRAY.

 

[enigmablue]

I like this for its evocation of a journey. Thx for sharing. I might say, however, that the ending needs reconsideration. It sorta just dangles. While this might represent the on going journey and how there are arrivals and no destinations, you might need to tie together the threads of the poem up a bit more?

 

[editec]

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;[SIZE=-2] 5[/SIZE]

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,[SIZE=-2] 10[/SIZE]

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.[SIZE=-2] 15[/SIZE]

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost
(1874–1963)

I met this guy in 1959.

Didn't have a clue who he was, but the adults that day made me pretend to care that I was meeting him, like he was some kind of big deal or something.

I think, he has potential to become a fairly good poet, don't you?

 

[enigmablue]

amiam does show potential as a poet. I thought of Robert Frost and that poem as I read amiam's and shunted the echoes to one side so I could better see what this poet offered. To write from the vision given in a painting takes imaginative talent.