First-Year Student Journals : Robert : Reflections

Reflections

Of the Profession

Round dusty pages, even author's souls grow vivid and die,
But as with the muse of antiquity still they find release
In giving the inspiration to write, as a corporeal figure will lie
Awake in bed, song and rhyme give no end to creative unease.

The scene turns to that of a beatific hilltop, green to the peaks,
And the rolling rises give way thus to flat farmlands of man's origin,
In this valley, where no semblance of the civil may be seen for weeks,
We find our hero, the agrarian of times late, living closely with kin.

Brother to the spade, the hoe, the needle, the rule, and the ax,
This man may with lusty determination work as the sun, tirelessly,
Then as day meets night and implements give to lamp and book, relax.
No other model is necessary in this ephemeral day, here lies quality.

There is no higher profession, no better means of sating want,
Than for your toil to result in your bread, your shirt, your roof,
Directly at best, and giving all due respect to human pursuit of art.
His will at heart and his fortune in mind, man needs no more proof.

©2003 Robert Walsh

A Conversation

A chance meeting in the midst of a moonless night brings
An interlude, with a man walking and thinking
Movements of arm and synapse, in use, finding
Expression in a conversation with nature and rarer things.

One solitary streetlight stands, not threatening, not villainous,
But it has come to represent all that humans have done
As well as all that they will leave when they are gone,
And in that light of the streetlight, he becomes quite vicious.

“Why you, harbinger of everything that is artificial, you disturb
My night. Think back to when, prior to your arrival,
This spot right here was the scene of straight survival,
Animal and human did not live in servitude, not by this curb.”

“I mean no harm, I simply exist to guide your travel
Make you feel comfortable, safe and not scared,
Where Man and his minions this land bared,
Putting up factories and houses with the gravel.”

“I can think back to when, when no clock existed, these hills
Were shrouded by woods, but Man could
Not have feared that shroud would
Be a death shroud, that they would be taken over by Man’s mills.

I will repose, sit and envision, this time when no Man
Roamed, no Man thought of material gain
At Nature’s expense, never to drain
The land of its beauty, its original charm, by devious plan.”

“Sir, I apologize, it is not mine to question, simply to light.
I am not to blame, while there are still a few acres
Left to nature, or almost, you may find them at the rears
Of houses, and while paltry, this is all I can give this night.”

©2003 Robert Walsh



	Robert \| Profile \| Reflections \| Journal 7 8 9 10 11 Fall 2002 \| Home
	Reflections Of the Profession Round dusty pages, even author's souls grow vivid and die, But as with the muse of antiquity still they find release In giving the inspiration to write, as a corporeal figure will lie Awake in bed, song and rhyme give no end to creative unease. The scene turns to that of a beatific hilltop, green to the peaks, And the rolling rises give way thus to flat farmlands of man's origin, In this valley, where no semblance of the civil may be seen for weeks, We find our hero, the agrarian of times late, living closely with kin. Brother to the spade, the hoe, the needle, the rule, and the ax, This man may with lusty determination work as the sun, tirelessly, Then as day meets night and implements give to lamp and book, relax. No other model is necessary in this ephemeral day, here lies quality. There is no higher profession, no better means of sating want, Than for your toil to result in your bread, your shirt, your roof, Directly at best, and giving all due respect to human pursuit of art. His will at heart and his fortune in mind, man needs no more proof. ©2003 Robert Walsh A Conversation A chance meeting in the midst of a moonless night brings An interlude, with a man walking and thinking Movements of arm and synapse, in use, finding Expression in a conversation with nature and rarer things. One solitary streetlight stands, not threatening, not villainous, But it has come to represent all that humans have done As well as all that they will leave when they are gone, And in that light of the streetlight, he becomes quite vicious. “Why you, harbinger of everything that is artificial, you disturb My night. Think back to when, prior to your arrival, This spot right here was the scene of straight survival, Animal and human did not live in servitude, not by this curb.” “I mean no harm, I simply exist to guide your travel Make you feel comfortable, safe and not scared, Where Man and his minions this land bared, Putting up factories and houses with the gravel.” “I can think back to when, when no clock existed, these hills Were shrouded by woods, but Man could Not have feared that shroud would Be a death shroud, that they would be taken over by Man’s mills. I will repose, sit and envision, this time when no Man Roamed, no Man thought of material gain At Nature’s expense, never to drain The land of its beauty, its original charm, by devious plan.” “Sir, I apologize, it is not mine to question, simply to light. I am not to blame, while there are still a few acres Left to nature, or almost, you may find them at the rears Of houses, and while paltry, this is all I can give this night.” ©2003 Robert Walsh