That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
“Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
“Must never hope to reproduce the faint
“Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
“Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Stories of the pranks we'd done
Moved quickly round the table:
Eric's water balloon  story:
Teen boys driving around water bombing cars
Running red lights to escape an enraged convertible driver...
Wide-eyed son hearing his father's indiscretions for the first time
(Father and Grandfather trying to spin the story to teach a lesson).

Dad's vinegar breakfast drink:
The visiting preacher ******* down a breakfast gulp
Of cider vinegar that drained his face to pale,
Sent him running for the toilet,
Made him ill enough to whisper from the pulpit
(No good explanations, only gasping laughter).

Then came my story of "the stolen VCR":
Staging a robbery in our mall-parked car,
Frightening my wife and her mother into tears,
Bringing telephonic anger to my withering ears;
Laughter turned to silence as the table turned to see
My sweetheart's mother glaring hard at me....
And words revealed the anger fresh again
From thirty years' brooding....
(At loss for words, I asked forgiveness once again).

The fact that father and grandfather and great-grandfather
Had done stupid things accentuated the heat of
Great grandmother's rage.
Children and adults sat fidgeting...
Awkward stillness brought the evening down....

My attempt to teach and bring to rest by looking at the failure
Of 30 years' consequence for a foolish prank that I had done
May serve as worthy instruction for a grandson who has
Mischief in his eyes.
"Before you do a thing, look ahead to see
What consequences there may be!"
(My feeble sermon to a wide-eyed grandson).

I left the table reflecting on the meaninglessness
Of empty words,
Felt again the hopelessness of meeting standards,
Realized that forgiveness hadn't happened,
Reveled in the glow of knowing my wife was standing
Beside me in the heat of the moment,
Reflected that consequences
Follow every foolish thing,
Every action that we take.

I leave Victoria
And 'Green Fields' by The Brothers Four comes on shuffle
And buildings crumble
London deconstructs
A primal forest laps at the southern service
As it flees to a coast populated by leviathans and krakens
The concrete suburbs fade to green fields
Kissed by the sun
And in that
I thought I saw you
Until the clinking train tracks reminded me of our slavery
And of the ticket collector
Tapping on my shoulder

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The young lady sat with her head in her hands.
Sat on an old wooden block.
In the middle of the local park.
There was sat the spirit of the lady Boleyn.
(C) Livvi

Youth is fading.
Like a flickering candle, manipulated by the breeze of summers lick.
Inside the self not long ago.

Ageing was unthinkable,undrinkable.

Today,

Stiff joints,
muscles buzz,
stretched in wretched torment.
Knees red as blazing rugby *****.

Broken hips as crushed up glass, cheap market glass.

My greatest wish would be.

To wrestle with the beast of age,
Half Nelson?
Smash it neatly out of the way.

A role reversal of all powerful father time.

Oh well,
We can dream.
At least I can still drink it up.
Use of the pleasure.
This sweet thing called life.
(C) Livvi