readings denied
so I scratched your name in shale
alchemy of sand

You must have looked so good when you were young!

You still have shapely legs,
high cheekbones,
sparkling eyes,
a mischievous smile,
a neat figure,
slim neck,
strong shoulders...

You must have looked so good, but I can't remember you
as your were, unless, too occasionally,
I take down a photo album from its dusty shelf,
and there you are in your young glory,
making me feel that other men
must have envied me then
and perhaps they do now!

Many serious thoughts …cross one’s mind
when the need draws
some say it's normal,
just wait… others shed tears
what will happen
when I'm no more!
who shall whack my back
as I whine
who will say a bloody good man divine
and who will laugh and shout aloud,
gone is the self wallowing clown
then there aren't many dirty fish
In the ocean of life,
many suffer beyond variable strife
yet survive … some die
ere and ere…
but no one about them does care
ere they die somewhere

quite like an old man’s gaze
I thought I felt my shadow grow
as the survey extended to gash
the weighted blade sparing the bones

the sole horizon no longer pure
against marring pedestals of mud
which these hands hollow built
growing harder with each sun

seeking to silence the past
is of no use for the chamber swells
the reverberating echoes
live and shake the cracks
the only perpetual character

I was here a year ago
and many were the friends I lost.
Casualty lists now mount and grow
a tally of the whirlwind's cost.

All those shallow graves from then
laid bare by twelve months' wind and rains
leave, exposed, skulls' ghastly grins
still bearing clothes with moldy stains.

Those bones throughout these woods so thick
invite us to fall and join their ranks.
They drain morale relentless as a tic;
accusations swarm from sockets, blank.

Death is like a dentist’s injection
the fear of long needle
brought from behind the dentists back
a jab
a slight Ouchy pain
then all ends

so does this happen with life,
I have physically experienced
5 minutes of death
from being….
to nothingness
and
Sorry no heaven
NO HELL
no death
neither angels nor God
nor any wifey or friendy
just none at all
a dead rat- like
that ,that's all

Being Seventy two
I am in a right stew
As all the girls are far too young
To talk of love
I would appear to be a bum.

I enjoy all their lives
As I move slowly around
They are like rose petals
Scattered on the ground

Being of a spiritual leaning
Their energy and feeling
Would blow my lights out
if I were to run about
Seeming not to touch the ground

I love having them around
There is such a flow of energy
I could sit in the dark
And become a misery
But old age is too long

I see another woman has been stabbed to death.
She had sixteen wounds.
I suppose there could have been more.

A man has been arrested.
It usually is a man, isn't it?

At least she wasn't raped,
which makes this a rare case.

But I've seen so many horrors of this kind
(and acid attacks, beatings,
stonings, whippings and so on)
in over fifty years of T.V. news
that I'm ashamed of being a man.

The old bridge lantern swung to and fro, searching
wanting just once more to illuminate anything
before its life flickered out.

Then she stepped out of the shadow into its light
tentatively, one foot first, as though testing the water
like a diver does before climbing the ladder.

Each cold rung reminded her of failed dreams
as she pulled herself upward for the first time
only to reach the heights of despair.

The only truth about birth is guaranteed death