This is an experiment.
I hope it causes merriment.
If you think it rocks,
just tick the box.

Now that I live in a flat
and there’s a lift to use
I rarely have to scale the stairs
up to the second floor.

However sometimes I feel that
I need to take a little exercise
and then I use the stairs,
and engage on a strategic pause
at the half-way stage.

But soon I fear this practice
may have to have its ending.
Yesterday I took a pause
upon the first floor landing
and when I started off again
my face produced a frown.
I simply couldn’t recall if
I was going up or down.

It was a sudden impulse that
directed me to stir myself
and remove a well-thumbed dusty
volume from its shelf.

I opened it with fingers that
lacked the youthful dexterity
before osteo-arthritis had
curbed celerity.

I started to turn pages with
a reminiscence of delight
until becoming bothered by its,
failure to excite.

What is the cause of this despair
the loss of Nature’s circuit board,
a fevered stirring in the *****
fails to be restored.

Must I now accept as fact
that there are simply no springs left
in my body’s potency?
Is all now bereft?

Those springs may now be lacking in
my physical displays.
But please grant a mental Spring
in the
Autumn of my days.

You may say that she has gone to meet her maker
now that she is with the undertaker.
Or possibly it’s passed, passed on, or passed away
that you prefer to mark the day
on which finality did overtake her.

It’s fine to think she rests in peace
now that she’s pronounced deceased,
departed, gone, or finally succumbed
these metaphors have me benumbed
as a substitution for surceased.

She lost the battle, lost her life,
freed from further agonizing strife,
gone to heaven, breathed her last
and now has found eternal rest,
that mother, daughter, friend and wife.

She has gone to meet her Lord
from further pain she has been spared
I hate to break this sad news to you
sorry if it does confuse you,
but it simply must be said.  She is dead.

It’s all right
to admit my blame.
It serves
no useful purpose
to deny
and not confess
my complicity
in your distress.

The greatest gift
I can bestow
is to listen
to your words.
To still the idle chatter
of my brain
and take on board
your clear-cut pain.

It does not make me
weak to face
my weaknesses.
It brings me
close to you,
perhaps emotional,
well that’s fine too.

Bless you for
being with me
while I unburden
my heart.
It’s good to know
that you still care,
so thanks for letting
me share.

When I share my feelings
I feel closer to you
But I also
feel closer to me.

Clear your mind of CAN'T
Do away with OUGHTism,
Quit MUSTerbating.