Into the Sunset and other poems

Jon B. Albertson

 

 

Into the Sunset

 

Presumptive errant knight of academes,

The Rosinante Rhetoric I ride

Full gallop, muddying the stagnant streams,

Disturbing far too peaceful academic pride,

I charge the fruitless windmill’s fray

Defending Dulcinea students’ rights.

They patronize, and with a smile, betray

What trust they may’ve once had in errant knights

As I.  Yet I attack the epidemic

From within the system—by its rules.

I set myself up, errant knight academic,

Though codes I follow render me a fool.

Charge rank pretensions!   Even if little more

I fade out to be than idealist metaphor.

 

Jon Albertson reads Into the Sunset

 

 

A Rose by Any Other Name

 

The days love fails to pay proportionate

Assessed risk dividend, the investor must

Determine whether he should liquidate

Or hold his ground and go for bust.

Will broad portfolio maintain potential

Despite a sacrificed diversity?

Love’s investments seem inconsequential

In proportion to assessed adversity.

Inestimable sacrifice of self

Is the initial minimum deposit.

But days the dividend pays off

There is no bank vault can contain it.

So as to whether love is worth its risks…

A rose by any other name still pricks.

 

 

The Only Gift

 

A child, I made the assumption dad was mine—

He’d brought me to this world to bend his will.

With pride and few complaints, he gave his time.

 

A middle-aged adult now, married, doing time—

I work sixty hours a week for every frill

a child should expect to have, if he is mine.

 

A cursed blessing now, a son is mine.

His oyster-world complying well until,

with persistent complaints, he wastes his time

 

expecting me to willfully resign

my time to wait on him, to pay his bills….

A teen, he dares assume he can take mine.

 

In desperation, I get my father on the line—

“I’ve given everything imaginable and still…”

Calmly, and with no complaints, dad gives his time.

 

Now, an adult, my son persists to whine

that after all is said and done, I owe more still—

“A friend,” he says, “I dreamed that you were mine.

The only gift I wanted was your time.”

 

Jon B. Albertson has been teaching English for a decade and a half.  He is currently an AP Literature and Creative Writing teacher at an Arts Magnet School in the Northwest.  He is previously unpublished as a poet.

 

Photo Courtesy of 123rf.

 

 

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Poems Copyright © 2008 Jon B. Albertson. All rights reserved.