Rembrandt Pearl
Introduction
I wrote the following two poems at WSU during the autumn semester of ’22 for my College Writing I class. It was one of the first weeks of the semester. My professor, the creative and fascinating Andrea Martin, had devised the following prompt for an early class assignment:
“Write two stories from the perspective of yourself at an old age looking back at your life; one where you’re happy with your life and the choices you’ve made, and one where you look back with disappointment and regret.”
I began to write, but something about the prompt, my mood at the time, or both made poetry seem like the only viable medium for the two stories. And so, I successfully did what I’ve tried many times before and since to do, never with any success: I wrote two complete poems.
It just goes to show that we all have a creative spark within us; we have only to be patient with ourselves and be ready for whenever the spark may ignite, lest we miss an opportunity to create something beautiful. Never tell yourself you’re not creative!
With that said, I hope you enjoy my poems.
Things That Might Have Been
This deathbed
Not a bed of rock or a bed of snow
Not what I’d hoped
But a bed
An ordinary bed
Surrounded by loved ones and those I’ve known
I see the sorrow in their faces, yet relief I see, as well
I can feel it too
Not relief from pain; no, I’m more or less content
But relief from the burden of being a burden
From being cumbersome; a chore
I’ve made too many mistakes, too often, too young
Too reckless in my junior years
And look where it’s led me
An outcast, a fugitive, a cripple
I never climbed the highest mountains; just stumbled on the foothills
Never sailed the vastest seas, but nearly drowned at shore
I never did do something great, for when I tried, I failed
But a failure of my own doing it was
The reasons for my faults are twofold; never an aim and not enough care
Had I taken the time to focus, taken the time to prepare
I never would have been here
But alas, here is me
So many things I could have done
So many people I could have met
So many sights I could have seen
Anything I could have been
This I’ve always known
But for every place I could have wandered
An opportunity did I squander
Before it had even been
So, this is how the story ends, the story of my life
Not so much a story of what is, but of things that might have been
Reflections in a Snow-covered Hill, or, The Years Lost to Time
As I lay in this den
In this lightless, lifeless grave
Hoping, wishing to hear a voice
Any voice, or a sound
Other than the violent whipping of the wind above
Any sign of life which may have come for mine
A rescue party perhaps, or a wolf or a bear
Come to make my departure easier to bear
As I lay in this grave, knowing that no one will come
As no rescue party had been called, and I’m higher than any wolf or bear would dare
Part of me knows it’s for the best
After all, how much longer shall I go on?
Another day, perhaps
Or a week, or a month, or a year
Would I really risk a rescue party’s lives for that?
Besides, I’ve lived a life of wonder
Full of peace and love and joy
I’ve lived what feels like lifetimes in the length of almost two
I’ve lived my hopes and dreams; each one better than I’d wanted
And my fears; not as awful as I’d thought
For six-score and fifteen years I’ve roamed this Earth
Many on two wheels
Meeting every stripe of man and woman
Those who fall between
Seeing many a culture this world’s to offer, and some that since died out
And in my final years
When no longer could I ride
No longer could I cook or work or run or swim or hide
By some miracle, I climb
Ah, how the memories come rushing back
Of the years lost to time
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