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.

Do not resist change;
It is inevitable.
Resist being changed!

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

Random thoughts occur to me in poetic meter.
I tend to write my poetry like the childhood pastime
of connecting up dots
until those random thoughts coalesce
into my latest piece of verse.

Some there are who move through life
without creating a ripple
on the surface of any other person’s
existence.

Some there are who burn themselves out
with an excessive expenditure of energy.

But she . . .
she touched so many lives
she enriched so many others
she displayed so many talents.

My soul reached out to hers
caressed the chilled alabaster of her face
enfolded her in its embrace,
timelessly spreading its
tentacled grip,
at odds with the chilled alabaster of my heart.

And now she has moved on
and soon it will be time for me to follow.

When sights and sounds and sentiments
Once real have lost their worth;
And when those fragile elements
Lie dust-like on the earth,
Then shall my heart no more conceal
What it would most express;
And shall I come at last to feel
That unaccustomed bliss.

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

Don't tell me I've time
When we both know full well
It's time that has me!

She always bore her sufferings
with fortitude beyond credence
and always thought of others
before herself.

Music was such a large part of her life,
for her the bells were always ringing.
She would be saddened beyond measure
if she believed our grief
prevented us from singing.

For life goes on
and we move on
and she would be the first to say
"It is right to grieve
it is right to display sadness,
it is right to shed tears
so long as you continue to believe
that I will sing with you through the years."

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.

For so long were we happily united.
The divergence began a few years later.
It marked a time of sad and poignant loss.
A death with no cadaver.

What had we lost?
What had been ours to share and was no more?
How to apportion blame?
Why should blame even need to be considered?

There had been so much unity.
Our lives had meshed so thoroughly
and what had fingered one,
had snared the other.

Nothing is ever lost  (a physical law).
Every negative implies a positive.
So where was to be found
the serenity and joy
that had marked so many gleeful years?

The vacuum was vast and needed to be filled.
Her arms were opened wide;
while mine were clenched about myself.

I thought I could discern a pattern:
a repetition of highs and lows.
Perhaps, I thought, this could be the start
of a voyage of self-discovery,
and since, as Proust has said,
such voyages are less concerned
with seeking new landscapes,
than having new eyes,
I will have to microscopically
examine every facet of myself,
in order to find my true identity.

Then, perhaps, we will also learn
how to restore that unity.

And yet, and yet, the question
returns and re-echoes again and again:
After so many years, so many years,
how could we diverge so rapidly?

I have neither time nor patience
for anyone who lacks the strength of character
to admit blame when they know they are wrong.

Personally I would always
confess my faults immediately,
if I had any!

Overwhelmed by your
enormous response,
with thudding heart
and sense that once
again I've been
awarded
a demonstration
that virtue brings
more than its own reward,
please take my hand
in gratitude
for so much passion stored
and shared.

That is not a poem, just a piece of prose that I've written in poetic form as an introduction to an announcement that the next issue of my quarterly online magazine New Nurturing Potential (publication date end of December) is being prepared.

The Autumn issue, published in September 2014, included a poem from Hello Poetry contributor Amy Bells, which she kindly allowed me to publish therein.  I intend to publish more Hello Poetry writers in the next issue and will in due course ask some of you for permission to include your work.  Maybe, just two or three.  

Meantime, if you wish to see the last issue (and archives!) you will find it at http://www.nurturingpotential.net/New-NP07.htm.  I'm happy to accept also any prose articles you would like to contribute.

Thank you again for your validation of my efforts.

There are different levels of love
as there are different layers of onion,
and the trick is to peel the layers
whilst retaining the essence.

Be it of love
or onions.

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.

I was astonished to receive over 60 messages yesterday about poems I had recently posted.

But I was appalled at the possibility that some of the correspondents had not appreciated that many of these poems were not written by me, but were favourite poems that I wanted to share with others.  Most of them by authors long dead, but all within the public domain, and all attributed.

Reassuringly, however, many of the tributes were for my own verse and I simply wish people to know that where no attribution is given, the work is my own.  Otherwise the author's name will always be revealed.

Sorry I have not written this in verse :)

So, I make mistakes!
But I’m happy to do so.
If you learn from them.

Each time I re-read
Something I wrote long ago
I’m closer to me

To be possessed of
The wisdom of youth and the
Vigour of old age.

Seek if you would find
But seek not too intently
That way madness lies

Amidst the gloom and sadness
of so many hateful deaths,
I find I have again to ask myself:
is there a parallel universe
in which I continue
to exist
surrounded by
and pleasured by
the family and friends
I loved of yore?
It is a wonderfully
sustaining thought.
Giving up is not an option.
Humour lifts the climate of despair.

I look back to that time
when  joys were simple,
before
awareness of pain
and suffering
had started
to leave their mark.

Where have they gone,
those times of
yesteryear?
How do I rediscover
those simple joys,
experienced
before the aches
and tribulations
of adult life
had intervened?

Alas
the past
continually advances;
the future recedes.
There will be
less and less to
anticipate,
and more and more
to recall.


The future is a foreign country
and I don’t speak the language.

The longest lasting grief
is grief for one’s own self
for one’s mistakes
for lost innocence;
for real or imagined
harm to another.

The most important
lesson to be learned
is forgiveness.
And  the greatest
advice of all
is to forgive oneself.

The discovery of a small dead bird
this morning on my balcony
induced a totally unexpected
but keenly felt
feeling of deep loss.

Had it flown into
the reflected sunlight
of the French windows?

   *      *

Where are my French windows?

Don't forget, unless
You control your attitude,
It will control you.

I find the simplest things
begin to have the power
to irritate me.
The fumbling with the buttons on my shirt;
the standing, balancing uneasily upon one leg
while pulling on my socks;
the insecurity of standing on a chair
to change an electric bulb.

Today marked the low mark
of my dejected spirit.
The simple act of fastening
the zipper on my coat which
caught up in the cloth and then
refused to budge.
I was reminded of that symptom of ageing:
first you forget to pull your zipper up,
then you forget to pull your zipper down.

My god, I feel depressed!

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

I have now ended
the final years
of my
second adolescence.

I have attained
a plateau
of calm
and peace.

But adulthood is so boring
and childhood so demeaning.
I’m looking forward to
my third adolescence
when I can once again discard
the inner childhood self,
and yet reject
all adulthood’s
responsibilities.

"[A season message to all readers]"

I do not celebrate this pagan feast,
But others do, I know,
And some may call it Chanukah,
Or worship Christmas snow.

But call it whatsoe’er you will;
Light candles, deck your tree,
Or merely give your heartfelt thanks,
Please read this homily.

You do not need a good excuse
To celebrate a feast
You only need to have your fun
Before you are deceased.

"[So, whatever is your preferred option at this time of year, please have a wonderful time and a very happy New Year to you all.]"

There is this; that when I lay there
Unable to move more than my limbs,
Or my eyes, my thoughts, my dreams,
I yearned to cross the bridge between feeling and thinking.
  
There’s this; when I moved the pictures in my mind,
My thoughts began to follow.
I saw the many walls between thee and me.
I wanted to climb over, crawl round, see through.
  
I felt hemmed in, bound by love and affection,
Yearning to move hither and yon,
Longing to be somewhere else,
Yearning for a sense of direction.
  
And there’s this; when I began to crawl,
I wanted to fly.
I yearned to reach wide enough
to touch the edges of the sky.

When I began to walk, I longed to ride.
From here to there - and back again
To here, there, anywhere. Anywhere!
When I was riding, I wanted to soar.
Wanted my dreams to follow as far and as high as my eyes could see
And my heart could feel.
  
And when I could see, I wanted to run.
I wanted to feel the wind on my face
And the raging fire of. . . what?
I didn’t know.
I don’t know!
I only know I yearned to cross the bridge between longing and knowing.
  
And there’s this; when I thought I knew, I wanted to forget.
When I thought I’d forgotten, I yearned for recall.
When I tasted freedom I looked for walls.
When I found walls I reached for doors.
When I found doors, I often wanted to close them.
  
And still I dream, and when I lie here
Unwilling to move more than my limbs,
Not ready for giving and too tired for taking.
I yearn to burn the bridges between dreaming and waking.

I have been stupid,
I have been wise;
and I know this will come
as no surprise.

Stupid is
more fun.

It was
a nonsense time.
A time when
hope and opportunity
failed to mesh;
a time when
chance and comfort
came afresh.
And took what little pleasure
piqued my life
and turned it round,
at such a time
when summer had no end
and winter came with snow
and was a friend.

Where is it now?
Now with my hopes
and aspirations
turned to dust?
What sense is there now that
the buds have sprung
their open traps;
that trees have now released
their rich green sap;
thus striving to revive
that withered frame
with fruit and wild flowers
and perpetual peace.

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.

The heat of my emotions
Cools the coarseness of my words.

Il n’y a pas un croix qui surmonte mon église
ni une etoile à six branches.

On n’y trouve pas un croissant
ni un ******* non plus.

Cette église n’existe que dans mon imagination
mais elle est plus puissante que la pierre.

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

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.

As I wander through my life,
the distortions of my existence
provide an illusion
to warp my perspective

You may be unable to control
what is happening
in the world outside yourself,
but you can always control
your response
to what is happening.

And usually
that is good enough.

I have spoken many cruel words
I have harboured many unkind thoughts
I have been guilty of many unconcerned feelings
And these are all shameful.

But, at the end of the day,
I am not defined by what I say;
I am not defined by what I think;
I am not defined by what I feel.

I am defined by what I do
And I have done nothing
for which I need to feel ashamed.
Thankfully my deeds define me.

I strain my ear
to hear
a song that has never been written.
To hear it I need to explore
the innermost depths of my soul.
The song is me
and if I do not know it,
then how can I know myself?
And if I do not know myself,
how can I know another?

I thought she was my greatest love.

For more than half a century
I’ve nursed and cherished
a memory that haunted me.
My tinnitus and hearing loss
dating back to that bitter,
cruel and hateful
time,
has always been
attributed
to that recollected period
when I sat huddled and lonely
upon the vastness of
that couch in Antibes
and sobbed and sobbed,
and sobbed until I thought
I might expire.

And now . . .
having suffered a loss
that demonstrates how trivial
was that earlier experience . . .
and now . . .
having truly the need
to express my pain
in overtly demonstrable ways,
I find myself
unable to shed a single tear.
The pain is cutting me up
inside,
but no sign is visible
to others
and no physical relief
presents itself
to me.

Bite back pity.
Bite back pain.
Bite back remorse.
Disabuse myself
of trivia.
Embrace the exigent
and shed the
nugatory.
And then perhaps,
just perhaps,
I will learn the truth
about myself and others.
Perhaps I will learn
to accept my innocence
and place the guilt
where it truly belongs.
Perhaps after fifty years
I will finally see her
as the faithless creature
she truly was.

And then . . .
and then, perhaps,
I will be able to dispose
my grief where it truly
belongs.
And then, perhaps,
I will shed those tears.

Every freebie
has a tariff.

When you pray for rain
be prepared for mud.
When you pray for sun
be prepared for drought.
And when you pray for peace
be prepared for war.

Every granted wish
carries a price.

I love the susurration
of sibilant sounds.

The word “bliss”
is blissful.

The word “fuss”
is fascinating.

The word “stress”
is surprisingly soothing.

Tennyson has long enchanted me
with his sibilant Lotus Eaters.
His land of streams,
some like a downward smoke,
slow dropping veils . . .

His sweet music
that softer falls
than petals from blown roses . . .
and music that brings sweet sleep
down from the blissful skies.

I am enamoured
not with the sounds of silence
but with
the sounds of sibilance.

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.