Wrinkles

Originally posted on Another Way of Saying:

Everyone knows very well,
when a tortoise loses his shell
then everything goes to hell.
Everything goes to hell.

Oh misery, misery me,
I’m as wrinkly as can be
and a book is no company
for the evening.

Now the girls won’t give me a look.
What fun can you have with a book?
The wrinkles was all it took.
Just wrinkles.

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Aviator

Originally posted on Another Way of Saying:

Sometimes, watching birds in flight,
I wonder what it’s like
to rise up too,
be raised up too,
like when your father
used to lift you shoulder-high
and you felt special.

That’s quite a fall,

to feeling not so special any more,
seeing heaven
like there’s nothing there at all.

You were just small;
are still just small.

And birds are small:

aviators of strange genius
that seen in flight,
move me to imagine what that’s like.

Much to admire –
I would fly higher.

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Wrinkles

Everyone knows very well,
when a tortoise loses his shell
then everything goes to hell.
Everything goes to hell.

Oh misery, misery me,
I’m as wrinkly as can be
and a book is no company
for the evening.

Now the girls won’t give me a look.
What fun can you have with a book?
The wrinkles was all it took.
Just wrinkles.

Aviator

Sometimes, watching birds in flight,
I wonder what it’s like
to rise up too,
be raised up too,
like when your father
used to lift you shoulder-high
and you felt special.

That’s quite a fall,

to feeling not so special any more,
seeing heaven
like there’s nothing there at all.

You were just small;
are still just small.

And birds are small:

aviators of strange genius
that seen in flight,
move me to imagine what that’s like.

Much to admire -
I would fly higher.

Plums

Originally posted on Another Way of Saying:

I watched my father stooping on the path
to pick up all the rotten plums that fell
and made the old dog fart
before the fire.

I took him to the place I used to dwell,
showed him all four corners of the forest,
took him to the shed that we might lunch
among the cobwebs and old tins of paint.

I tried to tell him where I had gone wrong,
tried, while breaking bread upon my knee,
to tell him he’d been right,
right all along.

He smiled, while brushing down some fallen crumbs,
and said he must get back to clear the plums.

Now as the day recedes into the past,
I watch my father stooping on the path.

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The Experienced Walker

The experienced walker
walks about the town,
dressed in waterproof trousers,
his face set in a frown,
expecting foul weather
when all around is fine,
the experienced walker
has one thing on his mind.

The experienced walker
always walks alone,
weighing vowels and consonants
on his evening stroll,
the pavement is his sounding board
between the shops and home,
the experienced walker
never walks alone.

Memoir

History, memory,
shadowplay;
I shall not visit
the archive today.

Nor visit the trunk
in the loft,
nor the letters
behind the clock.

Ah, the clock,
the hungry clock.

Distortion, erasure,
elision;

history blurs into
fiction.

The Entertainment

The party was a washout,
the entertainment didn’t show.
The food was truly awful
and the music far too slow.
I danced a quiet tango
in a room all by myself,
said goodbye to no one
and went to bed at twelve.

At three I rose in torment
with a pain inside my head.
The party wasn’t over
but had carried on instead.
It’s just that I got sidetracked,
though in truth I’d had my fill.
I was the entertainment
just wasn’t quite as billed.

The Consolations of Art

On the consolations of art,
I shall not start
but lay me down in meadow grass
to watch the sunlight pass
along a spider thread.

And if the birds fall from the air
just at my stare,
I should not care
but let the world be aware
to treat me warily.

And if the family
at picnic in the field
think ill of me,
let me finally impart
that the consolations of art,
though considerable,
are not enough for love,
not by a half.