Cultures
Indoctrinate
Everybody
With
Unchallenged
Myopic
Views
Like
Xenophobia.
Youngsters
Have
Genuine
Needs
For
Zany
Joke
Kindling
Rules.
Perhaps
Better
Teach
Some
Quite
Different
Alphabet
Order.

.

Older widows

They'd like to have young;
they'd like to have rich;
if they can't have both,
the question is which.

How dull a woman's body is compared
to all the gorgeous finery she wears -
clothes in their infinite variety,
shoes, hats and gloves, scarves, hand-bags, jewellery,
perfumes and painted nails, coiffured hair,
and make-up enough to make men stare.

So how would merely being nude attract
as much attention as when dressed ? In fact,
how could the monotone of naked flesh,
whether firm or flabby, wrinkled or fresh,
yet offer anything clothed beauty lacked ?
Anticipation of the sexual act !

In those societies where nakedness
is normal, only youthful shapeliness
might raise excitement; older nudity
tends to sag and wobble apology;
without an invitation to intercourse
most female bodies fail to impress.

Marriage is also nakedness, revealing
characters more then bodies, concealing
only his fantasies. Ladies, mark you,
without the challenge of conquest or taboo
the lure of novelty tempts him to cheating;
it's not your body but companionship that keeps him.

"Write me a poem." you used to say
and didn't understand when I replied
I was too happy, too content and safe with you.
The things I wrote for other girls
came from my loneliness.
I said you should be flattered
that I didn't write for you.
Such laziness in love !
Too sure of you and glad to see you pleased,
(a moderate man, admiring the stoics)
I showed no jealousy at your flirtations
(such liberal, understanding views).
You thought I didn't care.
But now all things are changed and I am lost
from my control, drifting into memories:
remember where . . remember how . . .
when  we were here before . . .
so many, so many memories . . .
Suddenly come awake I brood in kin
with the rain and wet black night
and curse my niceness and understanding.
Here, have your poem.

Retired but not yet expired
and with too many hours in the day,
I try to keep busy and not get depressed
and mostly I manage okay;
but evenings aren't easy to get through unstressed
at home when not wanting to stay
and watch on TV pulp fiction expressed
in some melodramatical way.

So here's to sweet cider and bands that can play
the catchiest pop music going,
to bars and to discos that usually stay
open to late keeping alcohol flowing
till darkness begins to fade grey.

And here's to the people that take to the floor
with rhythm impelling their feet,
seduced by the tunes heard so often before
that their brains recognise as a treat.

Too soon sure to die through old age and illness
I dread being put into care,
dependent on others,  reliant on pillness,
more helpless than I could bear.

So I try to forget my sad situation,
ignoring the fact people stare,
drinking my way beyond desperation
and dancing in despair.

It's still so hard for my ego to accept

that no young woman would ever accept

me as a boyfriend, lover, husband.

Even middle aged matrons stand

afar off rather than get involved

with the probability of aging

illness

It's hard to speak when there's nothing to say -
only the way your eyes meet mine;
there's nothing to think of during the day -
how your eyes shine.

It's foolish to play with fire, I know;
what on earth am I thinking of,
hesitating before I go,
in love with love.

And yet that tingling of the skin,
the tenseness when you're near,
life should be this interesting
if it weren't so dear.