50+ sports club

We play at racquet sports
and bowls and swim and socialise
and organise long local walks
and Christmas meals and holidays.

We pan last night's TV,
update each other's families,
discuss the latest films we've seen
and recommend new holidays.

We analyse our ills,
admire the drama group's new play,
dissect our recent restaurant meals,
consider our next holiday.

Now cruises are much favoured -
the almost perfect combination
of foreign places lightly savoured
from quarantined accomodation.

The sky is blue and calm
the sea; we sail along relaxed,
not fearing any likely harm
from winged objects at our backs.

But up ahead they forecast storms;
conditions will deteriorate
and though the evening sun still warms,
there's nothing we can do but wait

as fading power brings concern
when things start to go wrong.
For we can't mend when we can't learn,
no longer being young.

The structure suffers from fatigue;
the frame begins to shake and creak
and though embarrassing to believe,
the vessel starts to leak.

The navigational aids won't work
and worn parts need replacing;
there isn't any way to shirk
the future that we're facing.

The sea ahead is all downhill
but it won't help us if we rage
against the dying light so we'll
just carry on cruising through old age.

Sparrowhawk

A sudden shower of white feathers
raining down from the edge of an oak tree.

We stared and stunned each other 'cross the room.
I shouldered through the crowd to reach her.
I took her hand and kissed it. Then her mouth.
"Get off ! What are you doing ? Who are you ?"
"Don't be upset." I said, "We know each other
from eternity. You're in my dream
and I in yours. We share a common soul."
"You're mad." she said, "Completely off your head."
"No, no, not so. Marry me." I beseeched her.
"This is ridiculous."
"Come with me now."
"With you ? Where to ?"
"My car. My house. My life. My bed."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this." she said.
I kissed her hand and then her mouth. She came.
We made love more than sex yet in the gloom
there wasn't anything I could teach her.
The early morning light peered round the blind,
the herald of another Monday murk.
The pillow held no memory of her head.
I ate some breakfast. Went to work.

Though not a leper, I know the feeling
of a pariah with skin that's peeling.
It's because my wrinkles caused disgust
when my eye twinkled with ageing lust
and I asked a young woman to dance with me
in a local disco at seventy three.
The look of horror that crossed her face
really shocked me back to my place.
But it's good my skin hasn't worn too thin -
my elephant hide 'll let me try agin !

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Round Oz at eighty

It seemed a good idea at the time -
a car drive round Australia.
They said "You're too old."
I said "What the hell.
I've always been a bit of a failure.
Now before I'm dead and cold
I want to do something well.

Along the way I made several friends,
young women in particular.
They said "You're so brave."
I said "Not at all."
and avoided most talk vehicular.
"But I always give a cheery wave
to drivers who think I crawl.

They'd give me a sort of thumbs-up sign
but use their middle finger."
One girl was outraged -
"To a man of eighty !"
Now I don't want to be a pommy whinger
but eighty's not my actual age -
it's my speed in k p h.

A superfluity of incongruity

O lucky modern poets, freed at last
from manacles of metre, chains of rhyme,
free to explore the natural rythms of speech
(which we hear everywhere and all the time)
invigorated by subtle cadences,
the lilt of intense feelings crafted to reach
more sensitive intelligences.
And as for that old-fashioned full-on rhyme -
who wants their dazzling landscaped flowers
trampled down by ugly clomping boots ?
(Though laymen might think near-rhyme more a crime.)
And no more boring repetition of verses
now that lines can be stopped
anywhere
                 for visual effect
and novelty of
                       s                  s
                         u             e
                            r        s
                              p   i
                                r
But all the usual prosaic tricks
can be exploited as before -
alliteration, rhetoric
and obscure figures of speech for sure.
This isn't merely tennis without nets;
why be constrained by all those cramping lines ?
Away with Tyranny ! You owe no debts
to generations of poets from earlier times.
What you've discovered and they failed to see
is that the nub of poetry is imagery.
But then prose writers do use imagery too
so you as poets really have to do
better meaning more illuminating yet
often degenerating to what is easier -
originality, appropriate or not.
For what is new may not be insightful
but only some unusual combination
of ideas or words in juxtaposition.
What gains the prizes and the muted fame
must meet the standard of your bizarre game.
Although superior to most pop lyrics
and clearly better than manic rapping,
it calls to mind those crazy quotes from Zen -
what is the sound of one hand clapping -
itself ?