What If I Like Rudyard Kipling

What if I like Rudyard Kipling’s
quest
to keep his head about him
without rest
while others, untrusting of selves
might doubt;
and in their doubting prance
about —
and in their pouting rant and rave
without abate,
unmindful  of the viciousness
of their state…

What if I like Rudyard Kipling
wandering…
about the need for patience —
not meandering…
while others sauntering, in ignorance
floundering —
preoccupied with thoughts
not sobering…
to find life’s pathways
troubling —
and  with such mindset kept on
stumbling…

What if I like Rudyard Kipling
dreaming
of ways to make life better —
beaming…
at opportunities that chance
does offer…
would seize that gift encased
within life’s  coffer…
the valuable lessons learned
to make one wise…
instead of wasting time in telling lies…

What if I like Rudyard Kipling
writing…
could write the things one finds
exciting…
how one can dream and make the dream
come true…
could conjure up some magic potion—
even a brew
that would cure a timid mouse —
perhaps a nagging shrew…
could change misfortune into fortune—
providing start anew…

What if I like Rudyard Kipling —
rhyming…
with poetry of good timing…
the souls of men uplifting,
and in this act…
not rifting;
their hearts and minds not breaking…
Instead, their disappointments—
abating…

Oh, what if I could  wondrously write…
like Rudyard Kiplng’s ‘If’…
and in the writing, rid the world of every
bitter tiff —
considering how the human mind is full…
of so much rift…
driving mankind to, oh so ever drift —
Then that would indeed be to all the world an upward lift…
Surely ‘twould be discerned by all —
as a divinely inspired gift!

What if I like Rudyard Kipling…
musing —
with rhyme and meter—
fusing…
The Malabar scholar
scheming…
his melodious lyrics
streaming —
I would find my own lines
teeming…
my mellifluous messages
gleaming …

What if I like Rudyard Kipling’s literature
inspiring…
poets among others —
admiring…
his pen and ink the pages
bleeding…
the span of time his wisdom
not impeding…
and that I, bereft of youth, a neophyte
could  find a way to scribble —
in spite of  limbs impaired, no longer firm
but shrivel…

Then I could ask the poet nesting
at Westminster Abbey, Poet’s Corner
resting—
for  tips to keep an old mind
tinkering…
the  body sore, yet spritely
limbering…
and so withal by making “just so stories”
brimming —
achieve the goal,  a poet’s mind
not dimming…

Oh, with such  a master’s granting I’d be
surely blessed
to have the legacy of poets
made manifest…
For poets like all artists court
the  human soul —
‘Tis their everlasting innate impetus
to become whole…
Pray, with dispensation that I find
that royal  place
where all poets in due time—
are given Grace.