Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away; But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday. But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.
For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine; I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline. I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone, So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.
And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now; I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow, ‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door. At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.
My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic; It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic. I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease; Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.
My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly. My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli; The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose, But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.
My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb. I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become; So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels; My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.
My lumber corset gives me an efficient spinal brace. My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace. I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be, Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.
The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life; No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife. I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed, Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?
They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill; Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill. I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again, No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.
They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee Of touring round my city in a bus as if in state Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty eight.
A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough, I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough; Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free, And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.
My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth; I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath. I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well, That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.
Today I am ‘having a go’ at the Etheree poetic form. It is somewhat similar to the Cinquain and the Rictameter, both of which I have tackled previously. The Etheree is a ten line form ascending in syllable count for ten unrhymed lines, and it should focus on a single idea or subject. Thus the syllable count is in the form: 1.2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. This can be altered to give a Reverse Etheree: 10.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.
The form is attributed to an American poet, Etheree Taylor Armstrong of Arkansas (1918 – 1994). Little seems to be known of her life except the poetic form she devised.
I have attempted both forms below – on the subjects of ‘Idleness’ and ‘Life’ …
‘Love In Idleness’ . . . Pen & Wash – WHB
IDLENESS – A REVERSE ETHEREE
Today I vow to spend in idleness, to do no more than listen keenly, allow the world to speak to me, while I, in turn, consider which way my life now leads, trying to find peace within my mind that will see my life through.
LIFE – A REGULAR ETHEREE
Life, in truth, defeats me. Midst storm and stress I struggle to keep that equilibrium which holds me in its stillness, waiting with some trepidation for that final push to reach the stars where my disquietude will cease to be.
Life drawing classes in Chelsea The chance of a lifetime fulfilled A chance to perfect my technique I should’ve been delighted and thrilled.
But it wasn’t quite like that in practice; Whilst I became more and more zealous I found to my utter dismay My fiancé grew terribly jealous.
So I gave up these classes to please her, My art took a secondary place To a contented future with landscapes. Yes, I gave in to her whims – just in case.
So, I never will be a Paul Rubens, And Lucien Freud’s not for me. I timidly gave in to persuasion, All governed by wifely decree.
CRICKET is a game which lends itself to hyperbole, and attempts to describe the game on sound radio have enlivened and intrigued for many years. To this end commentators have developed a highly descriptive language to convey the excitement and finesse which cricketers from all over the world apply to the game. For example, there are numerous ways in which the shots played by batsmen can be described. These are, of course, governed by the prevailing conditions of weather and the playing surface as well as by the whiles of the bowler they are facing.
I can make an anthology Of cricket terminology,
Particularly the strokes, And I’m not kidding folks,
Because in this descriptive way Commentators describe the play:
Will it be a slick flick Or a fickle tickle?
Do remember that a chance leg glance Is always better than a dull pull;
Although why not a deep sweep, Try a hook and tempt a duck?
A slash in a flash Is better than a trash bash;
But a loop of a scoop May get you caught out for nought;
While a cut in a hurry Will have you out in a flurry.
Try a snide glide, Or a fine slide.
Even a rich switch Must be better than a mere steer,
While a high five for a cover drive Easily beats a mock block.
Did you know, a bit of a trick Is a quickly executed slick snick?
But beware the rash slash, Or that devastating poke stroke;
Red bricked arch Red rose adorned Frames the entrance Bringing enchantment To meet history In this secluded pile
Once-stabled steeds Whinny in wonder From their equine tombs And boast of times when Bridle bit and brace Had cause to adorn These ancient crumbling Cobwebbed stalls
Long left to nature And to fate But now in trust To a Nation which remembers And celebrates Its history
Roland's Ragbag 