Where does my shadow end
and I begin?
Or, contrariwise,
where is my ending
and my shade’s beginning?

Captive
in my body’s helpless
state,
I am aware
of the detestable
but inexorable
consuming of my body
by its shadow.

Decomposing bodies.
swollen stomachs
hollow sunken eyes
Beaten and degraded
Less than animals
Music bursts forth from their wounds
The blood long since gone from dried veins.

Those chimneys stand there still
As vast totem poles
To pay silent tribute
To those six million souls
They will be reborn
as new flowers from the dust,
new life from death.
Remember them
but for an accident of birth
it might have been you . . .
or me.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to say the things
I should have said before;
One more time to say I’m sorry
and how much I deplore
the ill-concealed behaviour
that she could not ignore.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to gaze upon
that so beloved face;
One more time to visualise
that look of peace and grace
so unappreciated
while it was commonplace

If only I could see her one more time,
I’d be able to expiate my crime,
express  contrition
for that disgraceful act
unintentionally hurtful
and more a lack of tact.
If I were granted only one more time.

I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.  
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?  

De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******,
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.  
Speak nothing but the truth.  
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.

I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop

The irony is not
that old men forget
but that we remember;
and much of what we remember
is fantasy.

Why is it that
the foliage of the trees,
with their multi-faceted
shapes
and multi-coloured
hues,
that mask my bedroom windows
from the doubtless uninterested gaze
of neighbours,
endure for eight months of the year
and are absent for four,
and yet those eight fleet by
while the following four
persist so boringly long?

Is there a parallel
with my own life?
Each day is boringly long,
and yet
the preceding eighty-six years
seem to have vanished in
the blinking of an eye.
And those past boring days
seem also to have
disappeared
without a ripple to disturb
the historical calendar
that preceded them.

The sun has brightened up
the dull autumnal morn
and those remaining birds
who have not yet begun their exodus
have now commenced their song.
Let us then rejoice.

It comes, it comes,
the air sweetly thrums
to herald the presence
of chrysanthemums

I am experiencing something
that is unique for me:
a growing belief in
my own mortality.

Whatever strength and sustenance is mine to give
are yours to take and use;
to nourish you
throughout
the pain and trials
that lie ahead.

There is an invisible tie
that links my daughter and me.
Though not visible
It is as strong and as sharp
as tempered steel.

Though we have spent
so much time far apart,
the bond has never weakened,
and nothing can diminish
the way we feel.

I have lived many lives;
I have worn many hats;
I have sown many oats,
and touched many hearts.
I have enjoyed adventure
and reaped a rich harvest.

And now there are

no new lives to be lived,
no new hats to be worn,
no new oats to be sown,
no new hearts to be touched,
I look forward to the next,
perhaps the last, adventure.