I have resigned to only one
Hug a day,
Because the rulers say
I need only one
Hug per day.
I have resigned to only two
ComplaInts a day,
Because the rulers say
I need only one
Hug per day.
I have resigned to only three
Poems a day
Because the rulers say
I need only one
Hug per day.
I have resigned
To discard twice a day
Any complaints conveyed
Through poetry.
As the world dies
I die with it,
My sap sets
In a public puddle
Around Marble Arch
Beyond the Reform Tree
Along the Serpentine
To the Corner and the Broad Walk,
I speak my mind in a dying world
Unlike those that went
before me
I carry little weight,
I claim to be
No Marx
No Orwell,
Nor make an impact on the world
Like Callinan
Like Marcantonio
Like Quinn.
In the sunset I wonder
About a dying world & a dying man,
Who dies first
& if it really matters.
Marginal Peripheral Anomaly
Cycling the circumference of the greener world
Greener grass and greyer moss
& by a punctured ego
— flattened
Marginal Peripheral Anomaly
Meeting the force of familiar faces
Blending foreign spices
& happy local hops
Marginal Peripheral Anomaly
Bidding last farewells
As years turn to seconds
& no rain fell on the fellows
— feeling strangely akin.
& the Demon of Time stalked the young man heading for home where greener pastures awaited, of that he was sure.
Along the winding promenade by the cracked grey Vanishing Lake.
Through the silent Forest of Old, where smouldering pines coughed and snored.
Above the tickling trickling streams of silver where gold was found and the rich got richer.
& the Demon of Time stalked the young man who never knew the dangers — of not looking back.
I will never tell my loved ones
My woes and struggles with life,
The success they saw
Came at a cost; never tell
My loved ones
I produced three offspring
But not a single child; never
tell a loved one, because
There are none.
Grey moss grows on an ancient tree
Fattened in solitude
Beyond the reach of Humanity.
It reflects in a nearby Loch
A desire to be cut – chopped
Down into pretty pieces,
Ring by ring – year by year
The wisdom accumulated
– in risk of fading.
Lichens cling and clamber
Towards the top of the ancient tree
As it stolidly stands in attention
– pondering the coming peace.
I comb my hair roughly.
My five skinny fingers
Carry soil under untidy nails,
Dandruff cover my shoulders
Like snow on late November days.
Old skin and old scars festering,
While I blow my trumpet
You blow my trumpet
– away,
And I comb my hair
Backwards
With lard like a loony loser
With five digits protruding
Like shovels
Fit for winter rain.
I write my own endorsements
as others never will
understand my point of view
or the struggles deep within
I sing my own hymns
from sheets I pressed and penned
not nearly divine enough – just echoes
of me seeing me being me
I will write my own obituary
on a day with a sparkling sun
where fields wave their goodbyes
and Meadowlarks lament a loss
