Longer ago than I care to remember; my English Professor once said that the hardest thing an aspiring poet can write is his ... or her own eulogy. (Without making the readers reach for a sick-bag.)
So; even though I have no intention of dropping off the perch for a considerable time, as yet;
here's mine...


When I am gone, weep not for me; but raise a glass; be of good cheer.
No morbid dirge... no unctuous priest who means no single word he speaks.
For, I am never really lost... not whilst my words and thoughts lie here;
and, I would see the Ladies smile...
not waste their tears upon their cheeks.

Lady Love has smiled on me as we have danced among the stars;
for She has let me keep the dream of Love... and how it ought to be.
No trail of Broken hearts; though I have loved, and lost... no hurt to mar
the dream,
and that... perhaps, is why this is my style of poetry.

All I would ask... Six feet of Mother Earth where I might peaceful, sleep;
no Oaken coffin... pretty casket; just a simple winding sheet.
The swifter, to return into her arms... our covenant to keep;
Earth to Earth...
indeed, the last, Great Adventure I will meet.

And so, perhaps, a Marker Stone with simple words... nothing sublime:
He strove to bring a gentle smile...
and, He could weave a pretty rhyme.

The wind is in the East tonight; whispering like a lullaby;
A soft caress upon my face, as gentle as a lover's sigh.
It wanders gently down the Vale, and on, out to the open sea;
and, listening to its gentle song, a silly thought occurs to me.
A silly thought... but rather sweet; wrap a kiss in words of love,
and cast them out upon the wind; would they whisper high above
The Western Ocean, carried soft, to find you there, so far away?
A gentle, whispering breath to kiss your cheek,
at closing of the day.

Or, should I wish upon a Star?... perhaps, the one that I can see
hanging, like a drop of dew on spider silk, out Westerly.
Low there in the Golden glow of Sunset; sparkling, like your eyes;
in a few, short hours you too, might see it in Your Eastern skies.
And, perhaps, think of me; far away... cloaked in the dark of night,
perhaps, you'll wish upon that self-same Star that hangs there, clear and bright.
Another silly thought? perhaps; but sweet, as are all dreams of you;
one day, we might wish on that Star together;
sometimes, dreams come true.

So silently, the shadows formed and cloaked what once, was shining bright.
How softly, crept the darkness into what, was once, a sweet delight.
Your hand has slipped from my hand, and the touching... just too far away;
the hopes of what might once have been... perhaps, not destined, then, to stay.
What might have been... but, futile hope; but, futile hope... for what might be;
futile... perhaps, but then... not wasted; lingering, as sweet memory.

A fleeting promise blossoming; a heady taste of sweet romance,
star-crossed from the beginning, for, in truth... it stood, but little chance.
The blossom failed... beset by frosty circumstance, it did not set...
and bore no fruit; yet, l cannot, that fragile blossoming... forget.
All echoing the promise of the springtime after winter snows;
but springtime was too late, alas... and silently, the promise froze.

No more than now a soft reflection... drifting mists of yesterday;
l know not where you might have gone... l know not how to find my way
to you, again... the path is lost; like tears in falling rain... swift washed
away...
your footsteps fading softly... how long then, 'til they are lost
forever... into nothingness? No memory of you and l.
A fledgling love, lost from the nest of hope... before it learnt to fly.

To wander far into the realm of shadowed, half-remembered dreams,
seeking out some absolution... this then, is my fate, it seems.
Searching always, for some reason as to why it could not be...
knowing always, that there is no answer there to comfort me.
And, in the shadows... soft, faint echoes of your footsteps linger still...
a sweet refrain; unfinished...ever haunting... as it always will.

When I fashion words and thoughts, and weave them into lucid rhyme,
they say to me, "Why do you bother?... it's all just a waste of time.
There's nothing in it for you; it's all done for free, with no reward."
They miss the point completely, in their grey, and avaricious world.

I find it sad... this crass indifference to this portal to the thoughts,
from whence, spring such diverse confections, tantalising mind and heart.
Enticing those, who keep emotions captive... out of others' sight;
to blossom... like a fragile bloom unfolding in the warm sunlight.

I use the English language in the fashion it was taught to me.
That wondrous journey of discovery through the Oxford Dictionary.
A set of tools, unrivalled, to one who plies a Poet's trait;
so many words... so many ways, a thought one can elaborate.

The style, and subject of my rhymes; by some, it's true... are deemed to be
a little maudlin; perhaps dated... incorrect, politically.
Whilst outwardly, so worldly wise; inside... and hidden, there exists
in me, a hopeless, true romantic... an iron glove - but, a velvet fist.

The thoughts and dreams behind the words... I hope, reach out, and touch your mind;
and gently soft... caress emotions; thus, I hope that you may find
your pathway to forgotten memories... loves held secret and discreet;
if this is true, the circle of my poem then becomes complete.

And that is, in my world at least; what poetry is all about;
seduction by imagination... no regrets, or pain, or doubt.
Except in words upon the page; ephemeral... no deep wants or needs;
the sensual stroking of the senses; making love with words... not deeds.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words are couched in subtle style... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it wishful thinking? They are just some lines of poetry.
I read the words again, and yet... I know my heart cannot be wise.
There may be nothing there at all; and yet, my heart insistently
whispers...
read between the lines. She wouldn't use those words, unless
She has opened up her heart for you... it's true; can you not see?
But this would be a bold conceit... for such a thing to second-guess.

And, why should She choose me, alone... amongst so many willing hearts
arrayed before Her there, to choose? I am no better than the rest,
except, perhaps, in weaving words... such pretty pictures to impart;
but, they are only words; although, in truth; I think, if I were pressed;
I would confess that they were more than that... they are soft whisperings
my heart tells me I should reveal... though seeming better not professed
at all, for fear of gently tugging at Her fragile, sweet heartstrings
laying forth the heart-truths She might wish were better not expressed.

The Lady tip-toes through my thoughts, and whispers soft, of what might be;
her words read like a Lovers Kiss... is that some clue before my eyes?
or, is it just my wishful thinking? And, is it just poetry?
I read the lines again, and wonder if my heart, soft tells me lies.
I cannot read the truth as by her subtle thoughts, I am caressed;
a tiny hint perhaps, just there? And further on... that phrase, likewise.
Is there a whisper here for me? A few soft words that might suggest
something I might hope to find... on which a fragile dream relies.

A fragile dream of whispered words soft penned, perhaps, not just for me;
what makes me think it could be so?... such bold conceit is most unwise.
And yet... I feel there's something there; the softest, sweetest melody
I scarcely hear at all; a whisper softly cloaked, beyond my eyes.
Does my heart deceive me? Is there nothing there? Perhaps, it's true.
Little here to base a Love affair upon... it's too absurd;
and yet... from less than this; down through the ages, Great Romances grew;
and Love will always find a way... and not least; through a whispered word.

Sweet Lady, such words I might sometime weave here, hold no cloaked device;
no honeyed subterfuge to soft, beguile and steal your heart away;
to ease a pathway to your bed; seducing, couched to soft entice;
unless... of course, you want it so; but, that is a different game to play.

A game to play 'twixt you and I, alone... such words you will not find
here, upon some page laid forth before the all-consuming eyes
of others...
No; such words to whisper thus, remain yet in my mind
for you, alone; as yet, un-versed; for you, l would not compromise.

What you see here... words of the song the hopeless, Lost Romantic sings,
of love as it was meant to be; that sweetest hope each heart holds true.
Together, 'til forever; such a simple hope to which it clings;
and, in its bright-eyed innocence, must always, this sweet dream pursue.

And yet, love tends to show its face, when we least expect it to;
As yet, the un-versed words lie sleeping;
might I waken them... for you?

Come, let me take you by the hand; I'll lead you to a secret place
where dwells the hidden one who seldom feels the Sun upon his face.
Come tip-toe past dark memories that echo down these shadowy halls,
be not afraid... you will not stumble, I will catch you, should you fall.

Within this labyrinth of sorrow, strewn about with shattered dreams,
discover now, the secret one... for 'naught is ever as it seems.
The lost romantic, pierced by evils selfish cynics say and do;
His words of love quite out of fashion; used by all... meant by so few.

His woven words spun soft, and gentle have no place... cannot succeed,
in a world of subterfuge, mendacity, and naked greed.
What happened to the childhood truths once taught with patience, and, with care?
Shed carelessly, with scant remembrance; damage words cannot repair.

Remember then, the hidden one, who, in the darkness, must remain,
shackled to his empathy; he knows the sorrow and the pain;
and, turning back with eyes unseeing, snuffs the flame he strove to free;
his words... no more than sparrow's tears in a sea of brash cupidity.