Tweets 15

 

I strained my left knee

and then my right thigh

but vowed that my mind would prevail

(forgetting that the body's got

an awkward mind of its own)

Death is nothing to be afraid of. Dying is.

Dying may be difficult but death is nothing.

Different for octogenarian and bridegroom

waiting for bedtime  ' that the night come '

House plants are pets that don't need walking.

Though aging, two things still amaze,

enthrall the gaze,

enhance the hours -

the beauty of women and flowers.

Wealth, fame and power aren't for me

'cause I'm content as nonentity. 

My little life does little harm

but equally does little good.

Q & A

Reasonably tall, slim bodied, firm muscled,

weekend discos, usual place.

Who could possibly think that I'm old?

All those that see my face !

So you want cliches !

Saturday mourning writer's block

hoping the tutor might unlock

th latent talent squaring the circle

frantically active more than it looks -

a baker's dozen cooking the books.

(New Writing South, Crawley Library, 3/9/23)

Holes in my spinach

(on allotment not plate).

Maybe pigeons or bugs?

Reluctantly I used some bait -

one hundred nineteen dead slugs.

We wear the clothes of our time and place

and cut our hair and shave or not

very much as others do.

We eat the food of our time and place,

romanticise some holiday spot

for something to look forward to.

We watch the films of our time and place,

TV soaps and murder plots

to note the tell-tale killer clue.

We think the thoughts of our time and place

imbibing those acquired by lot

from birth to form our point of view.

As times and places change, no wonder

normality's no longer what

it used to be but something new.

The dreams that swim in rivers of sleep

gleam silver through the surface, glide

downstream towards the flowing deep

of troubled currents in the tide.

In oceans of unconsciousness

the nightmares hide beyond the light,

ride luminescent, motionless

till they float upward in the night.

At dawn the flying fish that pierce

the waves of memory may strand

themselves; the subtle colours, fierce

eyes dim; their bones crumble to sand.

Our dreams are not for keeping; they

dive waters of forgetfulness

with bright scales irridescent in spray.

Dreams, like fish, should be always fresh.

I thought it looked like a rat or mouse

running so quickly across the grass

but when I saw it near the house

and again it ran away very fast,

I could hardly credit that it was a bird -

a juvenile robin, breast not yet red.

Why didn't it fly? Just seems absurd.

A cat will catch it. Probably dead.