I want to see her one more time;
One more time to say the things
I should have said before;
One more time to say I’m sorry
and how much I deplore
the ill-concealed behaviour
that she could not ignore.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to gaze upon
that so beloved face;
One more time to visualise
that look of peace and grace
so unappreciated
while it was commonplace

If only I could see her one more time,
I’d be able to expiate my crime,
express  contrition
for that disgraceful act
unintentionally hurtful
and more a lack of tact.
If I were granted only one more time.

Like a bad smell that’s gone viral, like a **** within a ****,
To expel it in a spiral is effectively an art
You may squeeze it out quite gently, or let it just go rip,
You may do it differently, hold it in a tight clenched grip,
Knowing it will not be anything like lavender in bloom
As the **** moves like a zephyr sending fumes around the room.
Like the noises that I find coming out of my behind.

Like a small bug that’s attacked me, like pill on top of pill
What it does to my digestion is a matter of ill will
If I know that it is bad for me why do I ask for more?
Like one tequila, two tequila, three tequila - floor!
I have a simple question, Is it something that I ate?
If I wasn’t meant to eat it, why’d you put it on my plate,
Producing noises undefined coming out of my behind?

Food that gurgles in my belly, drink that goes right to my head,
Why does my stomach rumble every time I go to bed?
Like a morsel that you swallow, it simply holds its own
As it travels through a passage where the sun has never shone;
And though it would appear that my obsessive petomania
May be derived from meat that I once ate in Transylvania,
I hope you will excuse me; I don’t mean to be unkind,
And I know that this last comment is completely unrefined,
But take your nasty thoughts and blow them out of your behind

There were so many superstars
Conducting somber seminars
And I’ve attended many in my time.

And they seemed to take for granted
We could only be enchanted;
That their facilitation is sublime

And since those presentations are
Now displaced by the webinar
Their pedagogic hubris is enlarged.

And they can add computer skill
To their old-fashioned power drill
Engagement thus is positively charged.

And we still can choose to slumber
Through a course no longer somber
The internet will simply intercede

So gird your ***** and drop your guard
Send reverence to the graveyard;
The superstar is an endangered breed

I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.  
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?  

De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******,
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.  
Speak nothing but the truth.  
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.

I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop

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.

I am experiencing something
that is unique for me:
a growing belief in
my own mortality.

Whatever strength and sustenance is mine to give
are yours to take and use;
to nourish you
throughout
the pain and trials
that lie ahead.

There is an invisible tie
that links my daughter and me.
Though not visible
It is as strong and as sharp
as tempered steel.

Though we have spent
so much time far apart,
the bond has never weakened,
and nothing can diminish
the way we feel.

I have lived many lives;
I have worn many hats;
I have sown many oats,
and touched many hearts.
I have enjoyed adventure
and reaped a rich harvest.

And now there are

no new lives to be lived,
no new hats to be worn,
no new oats to be sown,
no new hearts to be touched,
I look forward to the next,
perhaps the last, adventure.

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.

If he feared to do it,
he simply hid it.
He knew it must be done
and he did it.

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.

I shot my brother in his rear.
He fell to earth
But I don’t care!

I used to have expectorations
But now I don't give a spit.

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

Morning came.
The sun, though wanly yet,
From out the clouds did creep,
And chilled but more the coldness in each heart.

Night had passed.
Their craft its course had set;
They roused themselves from sleep,
Despairingly aware this was the start.

*
And then within their ******* a wondrous joy:
“We are alive. Our pained heartbeat
Is Freedom’s precious blood;
Though fugitive, we plant our feet
On this uncertain road.
Reprieve, we pray, these victims of Hanoi.”

But what inexorable dream did drive
Them to this pass? Utopia . . .?
Can desperation so
Produce a mass myopia?
Or did they simply show
A crass and rude desire to stay alive?

Freedom they sought and yet from freedom fled;
Their sorrow spent, alike their gold,
(Why give up gold for strife?)
Bewilderment assailed the old,
The rest were for their life
Content, who measured wealth by rice and bread.

This is no refuge for the older men.
Here Mammon reigns. Who dares offend
Its promissory trap?
The tree retains a bitter blend
That yet within its sap
Contains the best of threescore years and ten.

No sanctuary this; no lotus land
With blossoms sweet. Another scent
The fragrant harbour bears.
Its airs defeat their loud lament
And gives voice to their fears:
Retreat or here remain to make a stand.

Accumulated wealth; decay of man;
The evidence is all around:
This is cold comfort farm.
No penitents do here abound;
No charity; no charm.
“Dispense with it” some said “and change our plan.”

But still they stayed, and still more of them came
In constant hope: some few sanguine,
Some cynical, some scared;
The misanthrope and the benign,
Each really ill-prepared
To cope, alas, when menaced tongues declaim:

“You are not wanted here! You have no right
Our aims to thwart. We have our own
Philosophy to fill
An empty heart. Leave us alone
To line our pockets still.
Depart! Desist! This scene offends our sight.”

And whither shall they go when doors are locked
to them and barred? Another land?
Another sea serene
Yet still as hard? Forever banned;
Regarded as obscene;
Ill-starred, kept out, each avenue but blocked.

The days lay heavy on them, and the weeks
Marked mournful time; and endless nights
Of sleepless hours compose
No rest sublime. But lawful rights
And liberties opposed
By crime whose legal putrefaction reeks.

Pity those huddled masses in their hive
Of human pain. What choice had they
Beyond their selfish dream
To hope again? Perhaps to pray,
Or, with a piteous scream,
Complain once more: “We merely want to live!”

Was it not ever so, since the first dawn?
Did not our Lord (perchance, too, theirs)
Enjoy the same disdain?
(The same reward?) For what compares
With crucifix and pain
Of sword and scourge, save that one is reborn.

*

Winter brought
Another wakening day;
The menace of that dream:
Demoralizing symbol of their fears.

In the Spring
The well-tide of their gay
And sacrificial stream:
The flower must die before the fruit appears.

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.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to say the things
I should have said before;
One more time to say I’m sorry
and how much I deplore
the ill-concealed behaviour
that she could not ignore.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to gaze upon
that so beloved face;
One more time to visualise
that look of peace and grace
so unappreciated
while it was commonplace

If only I could see her one more time,
I’d be able to expiate my crime.

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?

Today is to enjoy
and not think about tomorrow.
it is better to live in joy
than it is to die in sorrow.

So finally they’ve been forced to confess
that they have found a complication,
that they will now have to redress
and will require procedural reflation.
Calling it a procedure is less worrying, I guess,
than calling it an operation.
And if it ends up in a mess
the end of which is a cremation,
there’s no need for that to depress,
at least it will provide a point of conversation.

I look back to the memory of one revered
and recognise belatedly that, as I feared,
with all such thoughts that are but refugees
from Life’s repugnant and loathsome disease
that is a chronic chronicle of cardinal regret,
the anguish is not prepared to leave me yet.
The pain enters the maelstrom of my mind
sufficiently, it would appear, to raise the blind
on life’s insidious theatrical disguise
that renders impotent such exercise.

The jack hammer’s incessant pounding in my brain
brings infinitesimally lesser pain;
whilst rotting matter that life does excrete
continues to mould pallid at my feet;
and I, the perpetrator of the piece,
anticipating the relief of a surcease,
must yet continue suffering the bitter blend
of redress that forestalls the dividend.

There is a situation that, when taken out of season,
evokes a painful memory for whatever reason.
A rainbow within a bubble of soap,
the search for trouble with a bronchoscope,
the desperate wish just to recuperate,
despairing hope that they will not reciprocate.
And when all else is but a heap of ash,
other than that consigned to a memory cache,
then it is time to place within that store
those ills from which recovery can be no more;
to tread a path and seek a blessed state
from which to be a learned advocate
of such as heaven and not the living hell
in which the guilt of conscience still does dwell.

Now count your dead, you others who survive
as bees continue to enjoy their nectar in a hive.
As animals may play, imprisoned in a cage,
As we creative writers persevere despite our age.
It is but propaganda to deceive
and not sufficiently authentic so as to believe
when  Death, that great aggressor, determines to intrude
and interrupt the joy of an imperative  good mood.

I’ve opened curtains and raised many blinds
and peeped into the crevices of minds.
And now it seems at last it’s all been said
There’ll be no further peeps, and so to bed.


.