With Tongue In Cheek

Oh yes, I’m now old and decrepit,
But neither past it nor fetid.

In no way I’m over and finished;
My ardour still has not diminished.

… ‘COS …

Age has not wearied me yet;
Desire is still with me,
Lust still stirs within me,
I’m a game old codger, you bet!

…  SO …

IF YOU WERE MINE

You look divine.
If you were mine
I’d drool and dote,
You’d have my vote.

I’d fire Love’s dart
To win your heart.
That’s not a sin,
I know I’d win.

I’d face the press,
Ignore the mess.
I’d  tie you to me
And Lose the key.

With every wish
I’d  be selfish.
You’d have to be
Welded to me.

And each new day
Would show the way
To hold love fast,
To make it last.

And every kiss
Would speak of bliss,
Would prove at last
Life had not past.

They say I’m old
And won’t be told;
That love has past,
Dried up at last.

But yet I know
I’d love you so.
Despite my age
I’d take the stage.

You’d be my queen
And reign supreme
Over our peers.
For which three cheers.

So here’s the rub,
The heart, the nub.
What we’d have then
Is our Amen.

‘Twould gave us hope,
Help us to cope
With life, with pain,
To live again.

And when at last
Our time was past,
Our journey done,
We’d be as one.

. . .   so . . .

Take a note!
I’m not dead yet,
And, get this quote,
“I’d like to bet
You’ll be like me,

You’ll have a ball
When you can see
Work is not all.”

Dribble Verse #2: Methuselah

WHB: Pen & Crayon – 2021

Continuing my, for fun, experimentations with newer verse forms, here is my second attempt at DRIBBLE VERSE.

The dribble is a brief poem consisting of exactly 100 letters (not 100 characters—spaces and punctuation are not counted).  Dribbles most often take the form of a quatrain that turns on a single rhyme and usually provide a humorous observation on a mundane or unconventional subject, but like the haiku or sonnet, some modern poets adhere only to the counting aspect of the form  . . . The name of the dribble is derived from the micro-fiction form known as the drabble, a story consisting of exactly 100 words. Rhyme scheme: abab
From:  https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble/

Dribble # 2: Methuselah

Methusaleh died at a ripe old age, (27)
Nine hundred and sixty nine. (23)
I read he died in a filthy rage, (24)
Incensed he’d got a parking fine. (26)

The numbers in brackets represent the number of letters in each line -totalling 100 ]

At Play – Then & Now

Photo: WHB – 2002 (manipulated)

Delight and joy
radiant-coloured youth
ignorant of innocence
and centred on life
with due delight
in present days
radiating their found-freedom
in carefree games amongst the summer trees


Unheeding days
unmelted moments
to be
segued in due time
into the concerns of age
until
at length and in their history’s dusk
appears that second coming
a new oblivion
second innocence


Now untainted
by the warts of knowledge
life-worn futures yet unknown
the pains of caring
hidden from their vibrant view
again sensing nature in its infancy
hell-bent
heaven sent
unfractured youth
presaging the oblivion of age
reflecting only the here
the now
present joy shielding
what once was caring
since faded from life’s reality
by-passing tensions
never now to be revealed



On Spring’s Approach

Bring me the head of a daffodil in bloom
Or a buttercup’s yellow gold.
For Spring begins once more
And I am old.
My tears are wept,
I need redress for promises kept.

Show me the butterfly
As it darts and flutters by,
While beneath its breath it sings,
And with burgeoning wings,
Greets the new day’s warmth.

Celebrate the zigzagging bees
Attending each welcoming flower;
Keeping time with the breeze
And gathering nectar
To store in their bower.

For vibrant Spring is on its way,
Rebuilding now its vernal bouquet
Of warmth and renewal,
Pursuing its promise with every day.

On Being 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.

Omen Of Doubt

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is ripley-faceatthe-window1.jpg

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

brown tabby cat in white knit hat

Photo by Maria Sanchez on Pexels.com

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.

 

Bar-Rose

Drunk in Charge

grayscale photography of man pouring liquid from can on his face

Photo by Harrison Haines on Pexels.com

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

photo of elderly man walking on pavement

Photo by Immortal shots on Pexels.com

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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