What's a Man to Do

In a poetry mood today. Wrote one for one blog, and now this one, too. Trying to get in touch with feelings, I guess.

My poetry is not the best. Hopefully, it's not the worst. I tend to maintain the same cadences, so all of my poems eventually sound the same, I suppose. Doesn't matter. Poetry is a direct expression of the heart - when it works. This one only kind of works. It didn't express everything I wanted, but I'm not up to revising it. It's a first go. Seldom will I revise a poem.

What's a Man to Do
by Bevie James

There was a time when I was young and fate was in my fingers
That time is gone now, long since past, yet memory still lingers

Young and strong, invincible, that’s what I was in youth
Now old and feeble, that I am, at last I face the truth

When hope was something I wore each day, I did not fear the days
Now hope is stretched, and needs are strong, I cannot find my way

To trade today for yesterday, sometimes I think I would
But I knew not then what I know now, there’s no way that I could

Suffering life’s realities, that’s what aging means
Hope, belief in one’s own strength, from that is what I’m weaned

Though cynically I face my life, a spark of life remains
For hope will never die in me, it is my life’s refrain

So when I cry and feel down, a frown upon my heart
I prune myself like shrubs in my yard, and then I just restart

Perhaps that is what life’s about, the seasons of a soul
Spring and summer wend to fall, and then through winter’s low

But winter warms and what’s frozen melts, and life begins anew
So periodically I cry, just what’s a man to do