Volume 10 - Issue 1, February 15, 2008 - Lake Chapala Review

February 2008 Lake Chapala Review
Page 55
The Tables Turn
by Roger Johnson Opus One and Opus Two
Opus One
I had been a manager for a decade and eight,
And a good one I’ve been told.
Three promotions had been my fate,
And my salary increased five fold.
As I look back and recall,
And assess in an unbiased way.
What did I accomplish after all?
Who had I helped each day?
I counseled fair and sometimes long,
There was a tear or two,
Career, family, life; no right or wrong,
Decisions made, a start anew.
Now it’s my turn, the crossroads near,
I found myself not needed,
And I am experiencing that awful fear,
Alone, uprooted, frustrated, pleas unheeded.
To have talent one day, And then not any.
To be earning my pay, And then not a penny.
Contributions past don’t count,
I’ve become a liability.
My manager’s problems seem to mount,
Helping me is not a priority.
Should I have been more political?
Would that provide visibility?
Or is it business pressures, however radical,
That is forcing this on me?
It’s time to move, or change, I know,
To what I cannot say .
Believe in yourself, that you can grow,
And again you’ll find your way
Opus Two
The kids were three and five back then,
And their mother went back to work.
A new degree, hot in my hand,
But no job, Oh God, it hurts.
Two years, I’d said, a promise not kept,
Our problems grew, and feelings were stuffed,
Things were said, often cruel, but not meant,
And the shouting just widened the gulf.
After ten years, I sit. . . divorced, alone,
While her career blossomed five fold.
From weakness grew strength unknown,
At the expense of a relationship, now cold.
For better...for worse, I cry out at night,
We can, we must, risk one more try.
My heart believes this union is right,
What awaits? . . . a heaven sent high.
I offer my heart to listen,
Hands and eyes to communicate, My arms, a
strong, silent haven, And gentleness to nurture our fate.
My senses ultra-tuned, any minute there may be a sign, My
stomach churns, but my hope remains brave, Her unsure
wish, that my love should die on the vine, Oh, but this love
I will carry to the grave.