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.

Some days I look in the mirror
and my father looks back at me.

So long as I can see his reflection,
sometimes sombre, sometimes sad,
occasionally smiling;
for that length of time, at least, I know
that he is not dead,
but lives on in me.

Thus do we survive.

Some day, perhaps, my son will look in a mirror
and I will look back at him.

Once upon a time
we were proud
We had beliefs
convictions
targets
and desires
that encompassed
more than our own
simple wants.

Indeed
we abhorred wants.
We embraced
needs.
The needs of others
as much as,
if not more than,
our own.

Where have they gone?
Who is there now
to pick up the mantle?
To run with the pennant?
To proclaim
a universal
truth?

Who is there
in this day and age
to plant the seeds
of selflessness?
To demonstrate
humility
and love?

Where have they gone,
the exemplars
of yesteryear
whose actions
matched
their words?

Who will be left
to live
happily
ever
after?

I’ve become an old man now
It’s something I can’t hide
For age is a condition
That cannot be denied.
.
But energy will linger,
So long as I survive
To pen these simple verses
That keep my mind alive.

The pressures mount incessantly
But I will overcome,
And  will continue marching to
The beat of my own drum.

Blood tests are awful
But they are necessary.
Why am I so pale?

I remember when
our golden dreams
inflamed my heart.
But the earth is warming
and my heart is now
a block of ice.
The fires that you lit
were excessive
and I needed to cool down.
Cast your dragon’s flame
away from me.
Let my blood spurt forth.

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.

I have now reached the age
where concern with
the colour of my *****
and the colour and consistency
of my faeces
have become matters
of matutinal preoccupation.

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?

I took a walk through the park today.
The leaves were gently dropping
through the light and shade of an Indian summer.
The warmth was quite unseasonal
and that weird contrast between autumnal death
and the arousing sunshine’s heat
struck me with the strangest thought
that that could almost be
a metaphor
for me.

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 these thousands of words
jostling each other at the back of my head,
trying to force their way out
in a certain order, a particular pattern;
trying to express something.
What?
And every so often a combination of them
will be expelled  in an unexpected way,
after we roll them around our head
as though they were candy
rolling around our palate,
being tested for flavour,
for consistency,
for shape.
Toying with them,
teasing them, denying them their natural
conclusion.
Sometimes we feel frightened,
we feel threatened,
we are fearful
that we may reach the end
of an exhilarating experience.
And then the candy dissolves,
the words force themselves into consciousness,
and are revealed in a form that
in fact
enhances our experience,
provides  a new sight to every sound,
a new flavour to every consistency,
a new pattern to every thought.
And we call it poetry.

Today is to enjoy
Don't think about tomorrow,
Better live in joy
Than die in sorrow

Following a visit to the phlebotomist this morning, I penned the following:

She stuck a needle in my thumb
I gave a mighty yelp.
She said that she was satisfied.
I asked: “Do you need help
To take my blood that ancient way?”
To answer which she said
“It’s simply that you look so pale
I thought you might be dead.”

Vandalism should be unfulfilled.
What a fool may destroy in an instant
Ten wise men may need a lifetime to rebuild.

A poem is a form of expression
which patterns a thought
to naked emotion,
and then clothes it with words.

As I make my progress through life
I am aware constantly
Of the need for answers
and I am equally aware
that I have not been asking
the right questions.

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.

A Kindle near me on the toilet seat,
A fine Prosecco and pizza to eat,
My i-pad playing loudly in my ears;
Ah, who could find a Paradise more sweet?

I grow cold . . . I grow cold . . .
The drips shall drop from my nostrils uncontrolled.
Shall I put a sweater on?  Should I risk a cardigan?
I shall dress myself in white, emulate a ptarmigan.
I have heard pelagic puffins on the shore.

I do not think that they were warning me.

The irony is not
that old men forget
but that we remember;
and much of what we remember
is fantasy.

In a fast-food establishment
I sat before my plastic tray
of great hamburger,
crisp French fries
and quite delicious chocolate shake.

When all at once
I did espy
A pudding man, with pudding wife
and their two doughy children
stuffing their pudding faces.

Obesity, the modern scourge.
How did we encourage it,
I asked myself,
before the advent
of the fast-food chains?

Before the coming
of McDonald's and the KFC
how did we suffer
anorexia, bulimia, and diaphragm activity,
and so much mortal, morbid, disability?

And just to make sure
that we didn’t miss out
on these delicious fattening goodies,
they introduced the internet
and asked us to accept all cookies.

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.

Wherever we go, whatever we do,
there comes a time ultimately
when we must say goodbye.

We can gaze at the stars, be amazed at the sky,
be enthralled by the galaxies
that may be hidden from view.

But no matter how vast the universe seems
or the new constellations that are ever revealed,
the time surely comes when we must say goodbye.

Before taking our leave, breathing a sigh
as the time of departure draws hurriedly near,
we recognise sadly the last knell appears.

Not alone for ourselves; that has always been so,
but the old earth itself is preparing to go.
And now is the time we must say goodbye.

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

I shall have tales to tell
Before my final breath is drawn
Of such enchantment
As has stirred my soul
To flights of wild delight

She woke me up
this morning
when I overslept.

She brought a cup of tea.

When I opened my eyes
she wasn't there.

Nor was the tea.

I would exchange the
Entire output of my life
For one perfect word

Life is a grain of rice
is a paradox that
I have considered
for many years
to the following
conclusions.

Nothing is forever.
Everything ends ultimately.
The eternality of time
will cover all in a silence of
dust and overgrowth.  

We can but accept
the constraints of pain and time,
greed and need,
joy and love,
fear and lust,
and the paradox
of self-awareness,
and its relevance
to the grain of rice.

And the only conclusion
I can reach is that
Life is NOT a grain of rice.

If you ask me
what it is I search for,
I will be obliged to
answer: “The truth”.

If you should then ask me,
“What is the truth?”
I will be obliged to
answer “I have not yet found it.”

How will I know
when I have found it?
Will it be
self-evident?

I will discard
everything that is not the truth,
and what remains,
however unlikely,
will be the truth.

Or possibly
it will not be
the truth.

Before I lay myself to rest
there are mountains I must climb.
Before I go, I must construct
the perfect paradigm.
There are bridges that I have to cross
and rivers I must ford;
and metaphorically at last
cut the umbilical cord.

Those things that I have left undone
from my long bucket list
must rapidly be tackled before
they can be dismissed.
And superficially at least
are tasks that need to be addressed,
and any sins remaining
that need to be confessed.

I will not go gentle.
I will shout and scream
and beat my breast,
withstand all mental
pressures that would seem
to put me to the test.
It will suffice just to resist
the forces that will persecute,
and, knowing I have done my best,
shall raise my fist
into a victory salute
and stay defiant to the last.

The suddenness of her departure
came as a vast shock.
She had clung to life as tenaciously
as a limpet to a rock.
But her acceptance of her final breath
as though she had been blessed
with relief long sought from suffering and pain
took her to a deserved and peaceful rest.

I saw a thrush upon a bush,
a graceful bird was she,
and next to her I saw a rook
as black as black could be.

And as I looked, into my head
these words occurred to me:
Oh rook, oh rook, please tell me please,
why do we disagree?

For, after all, we both have beaks
and wings that we might fly,
and yet you know these things we share
just seem to pass us by.

Our main concern it seems to me
is how we might apply
abilities that each may have
that take us to the sky.

Beyond the rainbow we both soar
but what do we bring back?
For some of us it’s peace and joy,
for others its attack.


You may be black without concern
for my own speckled brown
but why should colour matter so
when, wings spread, we have flown

up to the heights and back again
albeit on our own
and you just treated with disdain
the friendship I have shown.

Although this thrush upon its bush
invited you to play,
you  gave a quite incurious glance
then turned your head away.

I do not want to seem to push
or tell you what to do,
but if you want a friend, this thrush
will still be here for you.

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)

I wish I could shake that feeling of loss.
I wish I could recapture that moment of bliss,
that joyous acceptance of rapture
of halcyon days, beatitude, delectation,
euphoria and serenity.

To bathe in a basin of bliss; to enter a state of bliss.
You don’t seek bliss, bliss happens.
My spirit-ear listens; my spirit-heart feels;
my blissful search suffers, My spirit-mind heals;
Peace and infinity.

Oh, Boris told such dreadful lies,
One just gazed wide-eyed at the skies,
Astounded at support from these
Parliamentary colleagues
Who rallied to their leader’s cause,
Secure in the male menopause.

Gove, Michael, who was quite gung-**
Wanted to believe him, though
In trying to maintain his credence
While avoiding intercedence
Got his knickers in a twist
Which hardly pleased a hedonist.
But may have done so, had not he
Been faced with obvious perfidy.
For once, towards the end of work
He realised that the stupid berk
Had joined a party out-of-doors,
Knowing there was nothing worse,
But given the alternative,
Was doggedly conservative.

While as for dear effete Rees Mogg
Whose mind was often in a fog,
Though evidently of good breeding,
Slept through parliament’s proceeding.
And in The Mogg Cast Jacob wrote
“Unquestionably” – and I quote:
“The PM is an honest man”.
What brave words from a loyal fan.

He seemed to share with Donald Trump
A failure to maintain the ****
Of his supporters who only lasted
So long as he felt they could be trusted.
Thus Priti Patel with whom, besotted
He must have been, for when she blotted
Her copy book, he kept her in
The Cabinet, despite a sin
That others, far beneath her station,
To leave had had no hesitation.

But once, towards the close of day
Hearing merry sounds of play,
Bojo took his health in hand
Ignoring rules from his command.
“No-one tells me what to do”
Quoth he, “I’m off to have a few.”
“Allow me, please, to beg your pardon
And join my colleagues in the garden.”

It was not long before a tide
Of censure came from every side.
From Kensington and Camden Town,
From Aberdeen and County Down.
The premier has been found out
As if there could be any doubt,
For, after all, his lying skills
Had long replenished the gristmills.

When young he suffered from glue ear
So, what he did not want to hear
In later life, he could ignore
And simply choose to underscore
His frequent absurd recklessness
On the misfortune of deafness.

At Oxford in the Bullingdon
His drunkenness was quite well-known.
His early exploits as a Yuppy;
Flirtation then with Darius Guppy.
As editor of the Sextator
With thanks, doubtless, to his Creator
More flirtations, some quite grave;
“Who, sir?  Me, sir?  I’m no knave”
But Petronella at his back
Could not avoid the sack by Black.
Earlier it was the Times;
Distortions were his major crimes.


And, finally, to Downing Street
Where the circle is now complete,
Surrounded by his faithful lackeys,
Standing up for the Iraqis,
Risking the enmity of *******
Whose Durham trip was unbecoming,
Though not condemned at all by Boris
As extinct as a brontosaurus.


His lies have not grown any sweeter
They’ve more in common with a foetor,
When embarrassment heads his way
He simply takes off for the day:
“Sorry for this Obfuscation
I have to go to King’s Cross station
To provide a possible disclaimer
For my absence from the Chamber.”

by J.B.S. Haldane

I wish I had the voice of Homer
To sing of ****** carcinoma,
Which kills a lot more chaps, in fact,
Than were bumped off when Troy was sacked.
Yet, thanks to modern surgeon’s skills,
It can be killed before it kills
Upon a scientific basis
In nineteen out of twenty cases.
I noticed I was passing blood
(Only a few drops, not a flood).
So pausing on my homeward way
From Tallahassee to Bombay
I asked a doctor, now my friend,
To peer into my hinder end,
To prove or to disprove the rumour
That I had a malignant tumour.
They pumped in BaS04.
Till I could really stand no more,
And, when sufficient had been pressed in,
They photographed my large intestine,
In order to decide the issue
They next scraped out some bits of tissue.
(Before they did so, some good pal
Had knocked me out with pentothal,
Whose action is extremely quick,
And does not leave me feeling sick.)
The microscope returned the answer
That I had certainly got cancer,
So I was wheeled into the theatre
Where holes were made to make me better.
One set is in my perineurn
Where I can feel, but can’t yet see ‘em.
Another made me like a kipper
Or female prey of Jack the Ripper,
Through this incision, I don’t doubt,
The neoplasm was taken out,
Along with colon, and lymph nodes
Where cancer cells might find abodes.
A third much smaller hole is meant
To function as a ventral vent:
So now I am like two-faced Janus
The only* god who sees his ****.
I’ll swear, without the risk of perjury,
It was a snappy bit of surgery.
My ****** is a serious loss to me,
But I’ve a very neat colostomy,
And hope, as soon as I am able,
To make it keep a fixed time-table.
So do not wait for aches and pains
To have a surgeon mend your drains;
If he says “cancer” you’re a dunce
Unless you have it out at once,
For if you wait it’s sure to swell,
And may have progeny as well.
My final word, before I’m done,
Is “Cancer can be rather fun”.
Thanks to the nurses and Nye Bevan
The NHS is quite like heaven
Provided one confronts the tumour
With a sufficient sense of humour.
I know that cancer often kills,
But so do cars and sleeping pills;
And it can hurt one till one sweats,
So can bad teeth and unpaid debts.
A spot of laughter, I am sure,
Often accelerates one’s cure;
So let us patients do our bit
To help the surgeons make us fit
____________
.
*In India there are several more
With extra faces, up to four,
But both in Brahma and in Shiva
I own myself an unbeliever.

                                  J. B. S. Haldane (1964)

I wake still and far too often
with the all-too-slowly
but oh so evanescently
fading memory of her voice.

Ever since that odious event,
that heinous malevolent and
deafeningly persistent
drumming in my head

that disturbs my sleep
distracts my thoughts
and haunts the daymares
of my diminishing life.

The blaring, blasting bluster,
the eruption of molten viscous sound
that barks, yaps, yelps and yowls,
that sounds, resounds and reverberates.

How can I escape the cacophany
that threatens to enmesh me?
How can I return to the
tranquillity of a serene silence?

I held her hands.
I gazed into
her eyes
and willed her strength.
I smiled.

The merest flutter
of her tremulous
fingertips
suggested she had
understood.

Her eyes, though open,
were unseeing.
Yet I knew
we had a meeting
of the souls.

“Stay with us,” I willed.
“Stay with us;
we are not ready
to let you
go”.

Was there an echo
in response
from her fingers?
Or was it wish
fulfilment?

And did a smile
linger on those
frozen lips?
Unlikely. . .
She was gone.

Ajbure confrontation.

You gain nothing in trying
to demonstrate your worth to another.

You may gain a world
if you believe in your own worth.

I arouse myself from joyful slumber
and contemplate the assault
on all my senses
that I know will aggravate me
as I anticipate

the odour of freshly chopped onion
that assails my nose,
in contradistinction
to the aroma of freshly mown grass
that elevates my soul.

When politicians speak their lies
my nostrils twitch,
in complete contrast
to a metaphysical debate
that enchants my essence.

I consider the “gherkin” in London
that degrades my sight,
so divergent from
the view of the Parthenon in Greece
that arouses my spirit.

And as I make the best of it,
I grit my teeth
and hold my nose
and settle back to contemplate
my inner peace and calm.

This is a mystery that has  me baffled ,
The answer's one I simply cannot see:
If I would be like someone else,
Who would be like me?

Creation was an engineered design
and, if we are to believe the Scriptures,
planning preceded execution.
Since when there’s been no ceased attempt
to improve the initial configuration.

Biodiversity, extinction, reproduction,
new designs, new genesis, new formulation,
but who is the new engineer?
And what ulterior motive
stimulates the new creation?

The dinosaurs (and they were not the first!)
preceded the birds and the bees.
Nature needed no stimulation
beyond mankind’s ****** desire
To encourage or restrain procreation.

And now we have seemingly learned
by trial – but more by error –
how simple it is to fashion anew
an environmental disaster
with the portent of universal dissipation.

We have the statesmen and politicians
to thank for our lemming-like rush
to oblivion.  The next metamorphosis
may be the last – at least in human terms
without transubstantiation.

In linguistics
and in politics,
it’s a really small step
from creation to cremation.

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.

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

When that which once
did touch my heart
and left it
torn in shreds,
then sought
to reappear
and readdress
the trespass
it had wrought,
I first believed
the end had come
and nothing good
remained,
but common-sense
prevailed
and though
still pained
I took the path
of least
resistance,
half-shrugged
one shoulder;
half-filled
the bucket
of my vanished
dreams.
Half-shrugged
the other
shoulder
and said
**** it!