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The Daily Mail
I do not name The days Anymore; There seems No sense In that. Some Drag their feet Like old men Limping, Others Skitter past Playing tag Together. It is their speed Of passing, Not the names Which chart them. Anyway, I have A phone Now; It tells me When to turn The page.
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Out, Out, Brief Candle
I realize I’m getting old -or is the gerund no longer necessary for me? My thoughts -my questions- are of necessity sliding epilogically toward the last chapter of my as yet unwritten autobiography. So it will come as no surprise that I am empathetically wired of late. I am an unabashed fan of John Donne’s…
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The Once and Only
We had not met And never will. She travelled through the crowd An island, With people Breaking over her Like waves. Submerged in thought, She sometimes cleared Her head Enough To rise above the sea- Sadness Painted in her cheeks, And loneliness A smudge Upon her face. But once, She surfaced in the stream Her…
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A piece of valiant dust?
Who listens with their ears alone is deaf. I have to admit that I love aphorisms; there’s something about the brevity that commands attention; something about the message that is often multilayered: usually understood immediately, but occasionally appreciated only in retrospect. Aphorisms are by no means a recent invention; Hippocrates supposedly coined the word for…
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Memories of a childhood dog
No matter whatThe yearsMayWhisperIn my ear,There will beSurprisesStill.There areNightsThat hideUnopenedGifts,DaysThat waitFor meIn unmatchedColours;And yetYourEyesWill alwayssearchThe spaceBetween usWith silentHope.I amOldNowAnd sheddingMemoriesLike leavesIn autumn,ButThose thatRemainSeemNewSometimes.I do notSeekTo knowThe reasonThough-ThatTheyAndYouAre hereAgainIs quiteEnoughTo see meThroughUntilI’m not.
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The Old Man
Old man coats And old man pants, Old man ‘shoulds’ And old man ‘cants’. It’s what you see, Not what he was; That’s all you get And that’s because… His clothes are old And nothing fits; His socks appear Each time he sits. His tie is stained His shirt is frayed, They are not ironed,…
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Society is no comfort to one not sociable
I’ve been wondering about loneliness lately; I’ve been wondering if it really constitutes the epidemic it has been termed by various government health agencies -not the least of which by our neighbour, the US Surgeon General Vivek Murthy. Perhaps I’m being overly pedantic about the idea of it being an ‘epidemic’: an outbreak of a…
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Flutterbys
Perhaps we live our lives in parts, segments that seem distinct only in retrospect. But now that I consist of gnarled limbs and painted, fragile leaves already heavy with the luxury of years, I am allowed think of butterflies as ephemeral markers, unlikely bookmarks in my life. I’m not really sure when this idea took…
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Oh wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here.
There are times when it’s all too much -or perhaps, all too little. Here I am close to the end of my season, and to borrow from Macbeth, ‘My way of life is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf.’ So what is left? What remains of what I wore in the heat of youth?…
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