Pampered Infant or Adult?

 

Here is a question

That should not be deferred

But I dare not answer it now

Rather, to you it’s referred.

 

 

Pampered infant or adult?

Which of the twain be it

Seeing they both wear pampers

Out of needed habit?

 

 

For an infant, for certain,

Until he or she has control,

For an adult who’s lost this control

Though matured.

 

For the old aged adult

It is called incontinence,

However, for the very young infant,

There’s another bent.

 

Pampered at the beginning

And also at the end,

Two times we may be pampered

Is what I contend.

 

Which is it, I must ask,

As it relates to a country

That is fifty-eight years of age?

Could it be senility?

 

I scarcely think so,

Neither could it be infancy;

Not around fifty-eight for certain!

Incontinence it must be.

 

Pampered in the sense

Re lacking waste control

And not the showering of gifts

Beauteous to behold.

 

We are an infant republic

Clothed with naked butt

Venturing out into the wider public

Constitution having forsook.

 

 

Assuming much control

As in the Emperor’s new clothes,

His nakedness evident to a child

But to adults yet to unfold.

 

Pampered by partisans

That are too blind to see

Beneath the alluring cosmetics

Covering up its reality.

 

 

 

Pampered infant or adult?

Which of the twain be it?

It could be a bit of both of these

From where I sit.

 

But you can tell me

When it’s convenient to you,

As for right now I am out of here

And I guess you too.

 

Stewart Russell © October 13, 2024

 

To Each His Story

Gazing at the cemetery

I took in the many tombstones

And it occurred to me

It all started in the womb.

And right after this

The messy infant in arms

Followed by the whining schoolboy

Somewhat void of charm.

Quite the opposite though

As Shakespeare regards the lover

That is soon confronted by death

As he becomes the soldier.

And on and on this goes

Until the seventh stage

Sans teeth, sans eyes and everything

Like a child again but in his old age.

No doubt the women too

Encountered their own stages

As they move from point to point

At the various ages.

Whether man or woman

To each his story

Whether the outcome of the story be

Disappointment or glory.

And each story

Full of its own importance

Should be seriously considered

Regardless of the circumstance.

Often we view one’s tombstone

As though that is all

But there was a story here

Before death made its call.

I watched a decrepit old man

Hobble up the path,

He looked so out of place

I was tempted to laugh.

Then I thought

There go I in a few decades or so

And it occurred to me then

What would my story show?

Our stories vary

Influenced by time and place:

Some of glowing achievements

Some of unbelievable disgrace.

Some of mixed narrative

Perhaps such like are the most:

There were times of disappointment

And times of which to boast

People tell our stories

Different from the way we do

And often one is left to wonder

Which of the stories is true.

There are likely inexactitudes

By whichever biographer

But hopefully from one’s memoirs

We can get a better picture.

I observed an old lady

She was wheel-chaired bound,

She screamed intermittently

It was quite a distressing sound.

But she too had a story

That would not have started there,

No doubt she was a mother

That demonstrated motherly care.

Each of her children could tell

How she looked after them

Though at the present time

She was considered a problem.

Each life a matrix

And each existence a story

Consequently an array of matrices

And therein lies history.

A story on its own

May be perceived as great or small

But if allowed to stand on its own

It cannot tell us all.

For each story is impacted

By the circumstances that abound

And to treat to each in a vacuum

Would be insanely unsound.

But to each his story

Each should be given his say,

Preferably during his lifetime

For this is the only way.

Footprints in the sands of time

Are the stories that we write

And who better to tell them but we

Before our day becomes night?

Stewart Russell © April 2019