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.

Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.

I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.

I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.

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

May the fleas of a thousand camels invade
the crotch of the person that ruins your day.
And may their arms be too short to scratch
that invasion away.