Omen Of Doubt

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ON OMEN OF DOUBT

He caught my eye in the heat of afternoon
Transfixed my gaze for seconds
A cardboard cutout of a man
Alone and palely loitering

Transfixed
Imprinted in  that fleeting glance
The bespoke figure etched in my vision’s glass
Brought a faltering wisdom

Leaning on my sense of time
Disturbing my sense of normality
Suggesting some bizarre fantasy
Relating to Old Father Time
A reminder of both past and present
Yet warning of what is to come
A comment on my state of mind
And on my own unstable sanity
A pronouncement best left to fade
To curdle in the whey
Of a newly felt despondency.

The sense that age had brought me no peace
Only an uncertainty
That caused me to doubt
Not only my present vision
But my once accepted faith
in a sure future
Hitherto grounded in certainty
But now clouded in the unknown
And coloured in the shadows of doubt

Photo: WHB – Surrey, England – 2020

TATT

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TATT

Feeling exhausted is so common that it has its own acronym, TATT,
which stands for “tired all the time”.

Tired All The Time,
That’s me, it is, you see.
You’ve got it, Summed me up,
Down to that final T.

Why am I so idle,
Indolent and lazy?
It’s as though I am half-drugged,
Bush-whacked, spent, stir-crazy.

Is it just a phase,
Or am I going barmy?
Am I on the way out?
I know I’m full of blarney.

One moment I am drooping,
The next I’m sleeping soundly.
Either I’m wide awake,
Or else I’m snoring loudly.

Do you think that I
Should be on medication?
Do you think the weed
Would bring me consolation?

Maybe my malaise
Is entirely symptomatic?
I suspect it’s just my age
Makes me so problematic.

IsThisReal

She Lives

she

SHE  LIVES


With wizened face and withered arms he looks his ninety years;

His hairless head,  those sunken eyes, not given to easy tears.
Though yet a smile lights up his face whenever he looks at her,
For she it is who lights his life, brings calm to soothe his fears.

But she is now a photograph, an image in her youth,
Mounted in silver, encased in glass, resplendent in its frame.
A memory of memories, written on his heart,
Reminder of a life well spent, of the lovers they became.

Long years, a life, have passed him by, the past now left behind.
What does the future hold for him that hasn’t once been tried?
Save memories, now fading, but alive within his heart,
Bringing rich fodder to his dreams, a full life justified.

 

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Drunk in Charge

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Drunk in Charge

 

Tell me, ossifer am I drunk,
Am I sipped as a newt;
Is my peech slurred, and jisdointed,
Do you drink I’m cute?

I only had eight piny tints,
Two friskies and a gin;
My tongue it’s full, my stomach dry,
My thirst has given in.

So when she offered to whet my wizzel
My stomach rose to meet me.
It told me not to chiss a mance,
It struggled to defeat me.

And soon I found myself committed,
As she scraped me from the floor.
I’d Rossed the Crubicon indeed,
I’d never done that before.

I’d never never, ever ever,
Been so dunk before;
Now I’d thrown fortune to the sinned,
Shown caution to the door.

I thought that I had scored, you see,
For though my shemory’s mady
I’d never even kissed before
So how could I defuse the lady?

She trapped me in her squeegee arms,
Offering more gin and sin;
Plied me with her cheadly darms
Till my pillwower gave in.

She meld my hind in threepest drall,
My soul it hoared to seaven;
She took advantage of my age,
I’m nearly sinety neven

So, occifer, please keat me trindly,
I’ve never dreen bunk before.
I promise I’ll not gain astray,
I’ll embellish you for chevermore.

 

redline-thin

A – G – M

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A – G – M

I met a dear old friend
Whose time I knew was fleeting;

He looked so frail and wan,
I asked how he was keeping.

He said he was ‘A-G-M‘,
A strange and quirky word,
In fact I thought it odd
And really quite absurd.

I asked him what he meant.
He said “Because I’m old,
And glad to be alive
I think you should be told …”

That I am still quite fit,
Not ready yet for disposal,
Still stepping out and free,
Above the Ground and Mobile.’

 

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Time To Linger . . .. A Kyrielle’

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Time To Linger . . ..  A Kyrielle’

 

I carry my age so lightly,
With others help, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll manage to last till midnight.
Give me the time to linger long.

For patience is a true virtue,
And I’ve not knowingly done wrong.
So grant me one last interlude,
Give me the time to linger long.

And when my time at last does come,
My final lucid grateful song
Will say as they whisk me away,
‘Thanks for the time to linger long.’ 

 

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NOTE:

Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza consisting of 4 lines), and each quatrain contains a repeating line or phrase as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the amount of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum  . . .  The rhyme pattern is completely up to the poet.

[  From:  http://www.shadowpoetry.com  ]

 

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Prufrock’s Lovesong Revisited

oldman
I stumbled into Prufrock’s life
At the age of twenty-one
A loner and a loser
He plucked a minor chord
How sad and sorry a life can waste
And end before death comes
Now, four twenty-ones gone,
As I stir my tedious cup
And knife still slices scone
Better by far to repeat his theme
Let daily chore recur
As daily deeds do
To live my life and measure it
In Costa coffee spoons
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On Being Cantankerous

cantankerous

Testy now, and truculent,
Jumping to conclusions,
I tend to speak before I’ve thought,
A source of some confusions.

When I was young and in my prime
I would have paused and pondered
Before I’d let my mouth run free;
My mind would not have wandered.

Now, grumpy and cantankerous,
I’ve no wish to be told,
Despite the fact the signs are there,
That I am growing old.

For age and life have brought to me
Such exasperation
That now I speak my forthright mind,
Inviting much vexation.

Now I’m content to be quite brusque,
To stir up some dissent.
My time of life has brought disdain,
I’ll say just what I meant.

With one foot in the waiting grave
Why pussyfoot around?
Just tell it as it is, my friend,
No comebacks underground.

 

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Incipience

filled juice with slice of orange

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I have an incipient cold,
A budding burgeoning cough.
I don’t feel ill,
I’m sentient still,
You can tell me to clear off.

No, you don’t want to catch what I’ve got;
No way would it enhance your lot.
You’d never thank me,
You’d definite-lee,
Be catching a Gordian Knot.

For a cold is a cold is a cold,
Especially if you’re getting old.
You won’t want to feel low,
Just retain status quo,
And let’s keep the future on hold.

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