When I am a Solitary Old Man…

I will hate to be alone
When all I've got is the fear of loneliness:
That hollow, wan spectre
Of a time long in the past
When, at least, I could taste cheerfulness
And I could be happy with friends;
Before it all went sour
And the fun evaporated.

Old-aged Juvenilia

Gyrating to boredom.
Boredom lasts.
Boredom to some is a way of life.

Any excuse to say and do nothing:
Nothing interesting;
Nothing which stimulates;
And nothing of any value.

This is really boring…

Looking Out to Sea

The beauty of it:
Those powerful, foam-clad, rolling waves,
Drenched in late-Spring sun.
Far-off from Winter lunatics,
Who abuse their fragile frames,
And threaten the mighty sea,
With empty promises of conquest,
Or sport with overreaching self-congratulation.

The dredger passes by,
And it won't be long till early night,
When the Côte d'Albâtre admires another namesake,
As it narrows in to port at Newhaven -
And the Seven Sisters come into view,
On the starboard side.
Full of all-day, drinking Brits,
And their lairy, home-bound insults.

Diptych 14.5.15

I'm 42 now...

In the spectral shadow of failure,
This convoluted world, this complicated life,
Hard to come by, easy to go...
Like not finding a suitable tailor,
Or a fitting wife,
And having nothing left to show,
For efforts, which come to nought,
Where success was all that was sought.

And problems seem to abound,
Making all that inspires fall to the ground,


Words...

Forget the meaning:
It's Art concealing Art.
These words are nothing but an array:
A tower leaning;
A place to start;
A place to stay.
And nothing but an impromptu talk:
To listen to;
To walk to;
And something to choose,
Turning off the hate from this evil world.

That Time of Year

It's the indestructible life that I'm after,
It's the 'still small voice' I crave,
It's a candle in the wind that I want,
It's beyond this piteous time of the grave.

I envy those whose lot is done,
I wish I could be with them now,
I'd hate to wait till Kingdom Come,
My transit thence - could God allow?

I'd love to sing for joy above,
My rapture there would ceaseless be,
I can't recall what wrongs I've done,
My death would rather set me free.

Ecclesiastical Woes

This verse begins a tale of woe:
At least one that won't last long.
And before I'm done,
You'll be sorry from top to toe;
And perhaps wanting to take it more slowly,
Before the main events begin.

The venerable Solomon, you might recall,
Had the right idea:
His words most clear,
And written in full,
Says you will be miserable before you're dead and buried.
But anyway, I'm still glad I was born…

I've been around many a cathedral,
And seen many sarcophagi,
And many people die.
I'll try to quote Larkin's poem next to the couple's stony pall:
"What will survive of us is love".
At least that's one I won't be able to remember!

Now, let's change the scene:
Dead kings and queens in Westminster seemed poignant;
With Catholic sleeping next to Protestant;
In life not too keen,
To let the dust settle over them,
Or to allow their mortal remains to push up the daisies.

I've also been to Arundel,
And seen that poor chap Philip Howard,
He, being definitely no coward,
Chose Heaven from Hell.
Now, maybe you can tell where my life went so badly wrong,
Before I go and consult the Black Prince and Becket at Canterbury.

My time began with Archbishop Fisher,
And my "cup of suffering" too.
But at the end to begin anew,
And make this tale so much the richer,
I'll remember bishop Warner's backward-flicking mitre.

So why do I talk of holy places in this way?
It's really the history, pomp and circumstance that makes me stay!

Contact Unum

The wings of the mind:
Whims that we find,
Turning virtue into unkind.

Sound is intense:
Music,
Which means
To find its defence
In life, which never ends…