An Old Story Poem by tora keo

An old, old story, yet forever new;
The son becomes the father who
In turn doth learn eternal truth -
There's more to life than known at youth!

But youth has vision, youth has dream,
Aspirations, ambitions teem,
So much to feel, so much to see,
So much unchannelled energy.

And from the start, there seems small need
To heed advice, but just proceed,
And carve ones way through jungle days,
For surely life is ours - always!


Ah, there's the rub, some Poet said,
To be alive, one can't be dead,
But somehow life it seems to send,
Each of us to that very end!

But let us look more closely here,
For seems to me a thought of cheer,
That all that passes from our touch,
Is but the worn out tool we clutch.

The artist with his brush may paint
A work fit for a God or Saint,
The writer with his pen, a book,
May make us feel and think and look.

The Carpenter, the Artisan,
The thing we loosely call a Man,
Each has a tool, to paint or write,
To carve, to cook, to love, to fight.
They each create by use of tools,
Something of use, for Kings or Fools;
It is the legacy they leave -
'We lived - we worked - behold - believe! '

And each of these when worn and used,
Through sweat and toil, become abused,
And as with every toy we play,
When worn and used, are thrown away.

Now look at all the works of Man,
It's by his deeds, alone we can,
So judge the fact that there was life,
Through action of the pen or knife.

As with the Sailor and his sail,
The Carpenter, his wood and nail,
The Comic with his turn of phrase,
The Playwright and his stage for plays.

It is the work that we perceive,
Never the tool for which we grieve.
And best of any work perused,
Is work where tools are worn and used!

So use those tools, what e'er they be -
Our hearts, our minds, are tools that we
Must wield to wage our war on death -
For while men work - Man still has breath!