I’ve been obsessing, lately, about what I’ll say at the last
When I’m called to account for my present and past.
Do I begin with, “I’m sorry—there’s very little to tell”—
And explain how most of my life, I was vaguely unwell?
Should I detail the worries and reasonable fears,
That I trundled in bundles all through the years?
Should I put it all down in black and white,
So when reporting time comes, I’ll get it just right?

Now don’t get me wrong—I really did try,
Though some might be asking and wondering why
Most that I planned is still left to do!
So let me explain with just a reason or two.

I’ll start with my intentions to write about life,
But with so much toil, trouble, and strife,
That poor paper-baby never saw the midwife.

And be sure I tried piano to sooth my soul,
But a neighbor’s complaint keyboshed that goal.
And I couldn’t afford till the piano was paid
To take up painting; and by then I was afraid
Of all those others with talents galore;
Anything I did, I’d just hide in a drawer.

And, of course, I tried singing, but the sound of my voice
Made me admit that was a terrible choice.
So I resolved at once, some time to give
To the lonely and aged; but as if through a sieve,
My intentions escaped down some free-flowing drain
And I’m sorry to say, I’ve never seen them again.

So I decided to study history, beginning at the first
But a glance at its expanse promptly quenched that thirst.
So I turned to poetry for its beauty and expression,
But immediately declined into a terrible depression.
Those poems looked so easy—so short and concise,
But the critics of mine were neither short-winded nor nice.

So I made up my mind to try physical stuff
Intending, at the least, to get fit enough
To climb my front steps without loosing my breath
Or to get through the day without feeling like death.

I said I’d try swimming—in a month or two,
When I’d learned to float, but that I couldn’t do.
Twice I was pulled from deep-ended pools—
Another attempt is only for fools.
And, I would’ve pursued rappelling, except for the tiff
That arose when they ask me to back over the cliff.

As for learning to ski in the new winter snow,
I would if I could, without getting fouled in the tow.
But I’ve seen it happen to other poor folk,
And I’m darned if I’ll be the butt of that joke.

I finally took up jogging to relieve all my stress
But soon from shinsplints has to convalesce.
So I thought I’d try sewing—just a class or two—
Till I realized all the unpicking I’d have to do.
And that handyman course to fix the sink? —
Well, all those extra parts nearly drove me to drink.

So I took up the Bible—to read cover-to-cover;
That’s always my resolve, till again I discover,
That Leviticus stands so near the outset,
And combined with Isaiah—well, it’s just best to forget.

I also made plans for an impressive degree,
But the time and the money just never seemed free.
Besides, the first class to start down that road
Had for a teacher, a veritable toad.

So I determined to study old Shakespeare’s plays,
But I’d be stretching the truth if it lasted two days.
So I turned to language—French, Russian, and Greek;
But was so confused within a week,
That I turned to the outdoors, along with this poem
And a vow that I’d finish or I’d never go home.
And there in the midst of nature’s backyard
I saw my main problem—it wasn’t that hard.

For right in the open—there in plain sight—
Were a hundred, hundred daisies pushing toward light.
And my, how they pushed amongst the weeds,
Despite their beginnings as tiny seeds!
And in those seeds I saw myself
Packaged and dormant on a deep, dark shelf.
But seeing them, I’ve vowed to try
NO! DO some things before I die.
First, all those weeds that choke my starts
I’m going to dump in garbage carts.
And when that’s done, I’ll break the rule
And like this poem, expose the fool.

For perfect I shall never be
At least down here, and They agree.
So what’s the good of looking cool,
It just won’t work when earth’s a school.
So if I fall flat on my face,
At least I’m doing it mid-race.
And I shall never leave the track
Until they take me on my back.
And even then they might not see
The part they got, just isn’t me.

For I’ll be gone to make report
And from what I hear—They like ’em short.
For a life full of nothing or full of wrong,
Seems to stretch those accounts out awful long;
For all those excuses take time to invent,
So the longer you talk, the more need to repent.
And if it’s too late, They measure how deep,
By stacking your excuses up in a heap.

So take it from me and get rid of them now,
Just like I’m learning and discovering how.
So when at last this tough business is through,
We’ll have better to say than, “Well, I intended to . . . “

Now this is the hint for spending time
So the days don’t pass with more backsliding than climb.
Just take ONE thing and do it well.
And if the rest must wait, well, what the . . . heck.

So ends this poem of my lengthy confession.
With a slight surprise, that I’ve just made a progression!
For in finishing this poem—this nice poem, if you please?
I’ve launched the good fight against excusitis disease.

                       THE END & THE BEGINNING