Once, in the time of plenty, we were great hunters.
Quick, brave, artful -- we deserved our feasting.

Now, each day the prey becomes scarcer.
We explore ever further, and walk back, weary.
Lately, our children have come to  know hunger.

Why, though we perform the sacred ceremonies,
do the gods not hear us?

Just me,
no distractions.
I settle down to work.
A day reserved for poetry --
pure bliss.

I search
for convergence
of meaning and music.
The right word is somewhere nearby.
But where?

Just here --
almost at hand.
Will I reach out and net
the breathtaking flash of brilliance
today?

A girl.
A cute girl,
Starting the journey to
Her prime.
A smile.
A broad smile,
Mixing benevolence
With joy.

Who will be your special person?
Who will spur you from proposal to accomplishment,
Or exorcise an unworthy stratagem?
There will be many offers.

Step boldly, my precious.
When the time comes, you will choose wisely.

Oh barman, fill my glass right up.
Fill it so it overflows.
I will try to drink you dry.
Keep it coming, till you close.
I'll drink until my sorrow goes,
Until I feel repose.

Oh jazzman, play that thing for me.
Play it slow and play it sweet.
Don't know why it makes me cry.
Swing the tune and scrunch the beat.
Send me crying to the street.
I'll cry along the street.

Oh pretty lady, take me in.
Take me in your loving arms.
I know you're tired, but I'm inspired
To taste your fluffy female charms.
Cushion me from life's alarms.
Please soothe my night alarms.

When you're with me it's easy to pretend
That life and love will stay forever green.
When I'm alone, I feel a fear descend.

A feeling that I barely comprehend,
A shudder that I try to keep unseen.
When you're with me, I easily pretend.

If you weren't here, on whom could I depend
To lift me to the heights, from my ravine?
When I'm alone, I feel the fear descend.

I talk too much, much more than  I intend,
As if words might avert the unforeseen.
When you're with me, I cheerfully pretend.

Our term is fixed. How far does it extend?
Will you or I be first to leave the scene?
When I'm alone, I feel the dread descend.

What hammer blows await, before the end?
Our fate is settled; none can intervene.
With you, dear, joy is easy to pretend.
Alone, I feel the clouds of doom descend.

Imagine how things used to be: before men and monkeys, before the dinosaurs, before any creature crawled on land, or any fish swam. There was no television in those days, no internet, not even a single shopping mall. And yet, life did exist. Tiny organisms, insignificant, primitive, yes: but life was there, in abundance, and the sea was its home. The sea waited, brooding, biding its time, until it spat out some of its children to dry earth, so they could begin their long adventure: they were to evolve into you and me.

Now imagine how all this must end. Eventually, the Sun will run out of fuel. Long before this happens, life will have become unpleasant, then barely tolerable, then impossible. As the temperature begins its inexorable rise, as carbon dioxide levels fall and photosynthesis slows down and stops, will any sentient creature still be around to contemplate its fate? Any creature that even remotely resembles us?

Here, mid-way between life's watery birth and its fiery death, humankind longs for patterns; hints to give us precious insight. Patterns leading to a hard-won understanding; one that could allow us to predict or modify our mortal destiny.

And so, my sweet love, from this dizzying perspective, consider with me if you will, the deepest mystery of all life's mysteries. Sprinkle enlightenment, if you can. Tell me now, and tell me true: why does it matter so much if I leave the ****** toilet seat up or down?

She seemed like a nice, pretty girl, so I had invited her to dinner in a small Italian restaurant. Over aperitifs (spritzer for her, scotch for me) she told me about herself. She was twenty years old, she came from Baltimore, her name was Lucinda, but her family called her Lulu. She had a passion for poetry, in fact she had just finished writing a poem, that very day: would I like to hear it?

In the circumstances, only one answer was possible.

I tried to look suitably impressed, and when eventually it was over, I applauded. "What imagination," I said, "What talent!" She smiled, reached inside her handbag and brought out a sheaf of dog-eared manuscripts. "Dear God," I thought, "There's more!" Oh well; there was still the possibility that after the liqueurs she might ask me back to her place, for ***. (Or, as she would probably pronounce it, "coffee".)

So on, and on, she went. The little lady had a talent all right: she could recite and eat simultaneously. Neither the pasta puttanesca nor the saltimbocca di vitello could slow down her almost-rhyming couplets. At last, the papers were all returned to the handbag. She looked at me expectantly. "So, do you think I could get my poetry published?" I paused, to consider my answer. But the pause was too long: she looked right into my eyes, sensed my mood, and in that moment knew what the answer had to be.

During the dessert she crumpled; large, heavy tears fell silently into her zabaglione. Poor lamb! I'd never wanted to hurt her. She didn't deserve the destruction of her dreams.

Who does?