Sixty six - an unpoetic age
to pen, for plaudits, on this splintered stage.
My bones are aching and I need to rest
in dreamless sleep, on days when I’m depressed.

Poetry is wasted on the young,
while senile sonnets have to stay unsung!
An ageing poet’s, after all, a fool;
discarded, like an obsolescent tool.

“Old age is just a number,” so they say,
“The old are growing younger everyday!”
But I don't buy that patronising crap,
when every afternoon I need a nap!

"Destroy the books" was the hue and cry
"We won't let you read the truth",
It was 1933 in Germany
It started with their youth.

Ninety years have passed since then
And we must learn from past mistakes,
The current cries for censorship
Must be fought with all it takes.

The logic slightly different
But the end results the same,
No need to ban what offends a few
Their minds to narrow and constrain.

Really I ain't poor,
The world tells me to want more.
Really I have enough,
Don't need yet more stuff.

I don't need yet more blings,
I have quite enough things.
Likely too many possessions,
What's with these buying obsessions?

And then when I really think,
My heart begins to sink.
When I look at my perceptions,
Rather than worldly expectations.

I see what I really need,
Not the wants I plead.
All the things that make me glad,
That take away my sense of sad.

“Willfully blind,” the paper said
and all the world knew it was true
though so many refused to acknowledge it
even to themselves

And so the once proud country
now caught in the gears of machinery dedicated to power and party
domination and debasement
slipped ever more closely
circling, spinning
toward the gaping maw of obliteration

In the realm of brown eyes and flowing hair,
A girl graced the world with beauty rare.
Yet, in her thoughts, a tumultuous sea,
Obsessed with appearance, it seemed to be.

She acknowledged her allure, without a doubt,
But yearned for more, a beauty to tout.
Her mind fixated on perfection's quest,
Determined to surpass, never to rest.

Why did she dwell on such futile thoughts?
Loneliness whispered, tying her in knots.
Dreams of flawlessness became her shield,
A refuge from rejections, yet unconcealed.

Love is more than hugs
Touches and kisses are signs
Love creates feeling

Love is held inside
Capturing our heart- felt thoughts
Lasting forever

You are a soft diamond
in the rain and morning light,
spectral at the surface
as dragonflies in flight,
delicate and beautiful
as blown and brindled sedge,
a rippled, dappled stream of light
I watch from water's edge.

Bryan Adams sang on
About loving and being loved
Having a hand to hold
And a smile to look upon
On this journey called life

Bryan Adams sang on
As I sat there, tears in my eyes
Listening to the bitter fighting
Erupting from the kitchen

Caught between the song
And the nightmare
I covered my ears to shut them both out
But there was no escape
From either of them

With excitement building
I sit down to rehearse
Better everyday
Could always play it worse

I asked for a booking
Which I then received
Now I’ve got to work
Although my soul’s relieved

Make it my routine
Like the decades past
Focus on the performance
Until the very last

Final note sustains
I come back to myself
Return from sonic journeys
With treasure chests of wealth

I suppose it is necessary,
addling the eggs of the geese.
They are beyond plentiful,
proliferating abundantly,
destructive and messy,
aggressive, dangerous,
and downright
mean.

But watching the devoted female
nesting over her four eggs
day after day,
her mate close by guarding both
mother and clutch so steadfastly,
felt cruel and deceiving -
like a cheap inside joke,
a painful, horrid lie.