There is country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.

A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.

I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart

Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.

Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.

Epicurus put it well.

We need not concern ourselves with death, for
so long as we consider it,
it does not exist.
And when we cease to exist
and can no longer consider it,
it is of no concern.

So . . . what the hell?

Epicurus put it very well.

And so another year has passed me by
And once again I sigh a mournful sigh
As I recall the wondrous gift of joy
The passing seasons gave me as a boy.

Where have they gone those thrills of yesteryear?
(Nostalgic loss almost too great to bear)

Did you compare me to a Shakespeare sonnet
dear friend my head would not fit ‘neath my bonnet.
But, on reflection, I feel much better for
the recognition that it’s a mere metaphor.

He’s back.
Recovered from suspected heart attack.
Sense of humour undiminished.

To those who thought that he was finished,
unwilling to rest supine
and echoing Saint Augustine,
although aware the sun will set:

but not yet.

There is a country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.

A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.

I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart

Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.

Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.

He did not upon the coffin place a wreath,
to do so, he felt, would have been obscene.
His wreath, instead, was just a metaphor
to symbolise the life that once had been;
a memorial to spirit that remained
and not a talisman of something pre-ordained.

The years had been filled with inconstant strife
to enter the parnassus of an exalted life

If I can touch the heart and inmost soul
Of just one doubting anxious questing mind,
Responding to the most impassioned call
Of question marks that remain undefined,
Then may my sadly feeble efforts be
Rewarded without danger of rebuff
And my own inner doubts allowed to flee,
As touching just one soul would be enough.
If I have brought the monstrous regiment
Of hidden doubt or even abject fear
To bitter rage or hate or merriment,
Then would I count the cost to me less dear.
And finally what held me in distress
Would be resolved into unworthy bliss.

If I can touch the heart and soul
of just one questing mind;
respond unto impassioned call
of questions unrefined,

then shall my feeble efforts be
rewarded quite enough,
and force my inner doubt to flee
without fear of rebuff.

If I have brought the regiment
of inner doubt or fear,
to rage or hate or merriment
by words that I hold dear

Then I may finally reveal
what held me in distress
and I may come at last to feel
an undeserved bliss.

I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates  a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood!  You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful.  It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.

But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.

Sitting and waiting in the hospital reception area,
gave me time to think; and feeling even warier,
having just suffered the very first nosebleed of my life
and carrying within my wallet a warning card so rife
with the advice that its possessor is subject to the danger
(I know this may sound somewhat dog in manger)
inherent in an anticoagulant called rivaroxaban
and (if this doesn’t overstretch your attention span)
in the event of bruising or of bleeding
medical advice must be sought before proceeding
any further.  That is to say, at once, or even faster.
or, at least, with speed sufficient to avert disaster.

So, as I say, there sat I contemplating
(no, not my navel, but) the rather aggravating
progress of events that had brought me to this juncture,
that ended recently in a procedural puncture
preparatory to the insertion of a stent
the culmination of which they had to circumvent.
This gave me time, while waiting for the nurse
to minister to my problem, or at least rehearse
for my own delectation the best course
I would have to follow, not to make the situation worse.
At this point let me interrupt my own amorphous
rambling to pay due tribute to the hospital service.

This versifying for which I have developed a proclivity
means that I’m never at a loss these days for an activity
to occupy a boring period of gross inaction
replacing boredom with cerebral satisfaction.
So there I was, awaiting the arrival of the ****** nurse.
(Sorry, that sounds like an awful curse.)
In fact her blood-related treatment meant a lot to me
and was a simple adjective for her phlebotomy.
At that point my thoughts turned quite naturally
to the forthcoming repeat angiography,
and all the helpful comments by my  tender-hearted
friends, and the advice that they imparted.

I was quite astonished by the growing number
of people who this affliction did encumber
all of whom it seemed were anxious to ensure
that I was quite relaxed about what I had to endure.
Instead of being reassured I wondered
why the pessimists apparently were so outnumbered.
Indeed the views were so greatly one-sided
I found it strange there were no “undecided”.
Are they reluctant because of superstition?
Or is it that they wish to avoid an admission
that their empathic fear of ****** invasion
has led them to avoid arterial-related implantation?

But most of all I felt there should be scored
some “Nos” to balance the procedural record.
but they have been unbelievably silent,
whilst I’ve been growing every day more  violent.
Is it, dare I think, that it is just perhaps
because they may have suffered a relapse?
And then I had the most amazing thought of all,
and your objections I am anxious to forestall:
but I feel impelled to discuss the thought
that there’s a reason why they have not brought
their negativity to this post.  Is it quite beyond the pale
to suggest they’re no longer here to tell the tale?

(1)

The tremulous reaction
to her guileless approach;
the terrible attraction,
the terror of her touch

the unaccustomed measure
of closed lips taking aim;
the merest feather pressure
and I fled home in shame.


(2)

Her lips touched mine
as soft and gentle
as the feathered brush
of a butterfly’s wings,
and then they parted
oh, so slightly,
and I froze
and turned
and ran away.

And through the decades
that have since elapsed,
one thought is ever present
with me.
What if I had
simply responded
at that time?
How might my life
have changed?