Soul, don't slip through that windpipe
Soul, hang on even if it be on thorns
Though you bleed to find tomorrow
Angels, fledge his soul from the wind
For wind flies the wingless
Scatters seeds of men
Shakes marrows of old

When time draws close
Feathers on the quill sway
Feel of hair on the heads numb
and the bald heads run cold
Colored spots in eyes cloud

For wind flies the wingless
Shakes off hands of clocks
Skins crease to dry dates
You dither you wither
Then you realize
Those myths
are true stories, that grew weak

14th December 2023

in moonlight whispers love fills my heart
and glass with wine, and magnifies
my soul to tenderness.

the biting, scraping, lustful pining
for distant and abhorrent truth
is solace in place of reality.

a reality where we address the trauma
of unkind childhoods, bloodied knees,
and chipped teeth.

misunderstandings that follow the gap
in a shortness of breath before an apology.
that remind you that your thoughts
can only love if you do.

and years later you will have some drunken
outpour that darkens the moonlight
and comfort, but makes way
to some otherworldly dawn beyond
the you that reads this now.

Back then you were
Happy, thankful, content
A year later
Broken, wailing and spent
A month later
Hopeful, nervous and sad
A week later
It's the worst that you've ever had
A day later
You're healing and turning to friends
An hour later
Treading barefoot in the sand
A minute later
't was never so easy to love
A second later
Your heart's being taken apart...
What will happen,

we never know from the start.

Sitting by his bedside
Consulting with the Fates
Will this be his time to go?
To rattle Pearly Gates?

He seems to be so fragile
And yet the spirit’s there!
Disguised by sagging jowls
And age spots,  hiding in grey hair.

The afterlife has been discussed
He’s scoffed at it and said
What do I care? Burned or buried?
I’ll be dead!

I watch him in his frailty
Yet strong-willed as can be
He clings to life with stubbornness,  
Blessed mortality!

Neither of us ready
To speak of things to come
We focus on the monitors,
The air vents’ harmless hum.

The ordering of breakfast
And peeing in a cup,
The trolley and it’s offerings
Upon which we both sup.

The future is unknown now
So we resign to be
Contented in the moment and
Embrace the mystery.

The choice is not for us to make
whatever we believe
So quiet words of love are whispered
With our hearts on sleeve.

Waiting now is our new game,
Though we, the pawns and Kings
Pronounce that it ain’t over
‘Til that fat lady sings!

The system failed
I burnt my house
I seem so frail
As small as mouse
The ashes scatter
All around
It doesn't matter
I'm now unbound

They are mostly elderly, frail, ghostly pale, lying there in their beds, comatose. Drugged out of their heads on painkilling meds, rarely with their mouths closed, though many with their teeth close. Tubes in their nose or oxygen masks for those for whom breathing has become too much of a task, I suppose. Totally oblivious to all those of us who have chosen to visit, just to be close. Lost in a world of their own, fighting battles unknown to most of us.

This, the generation
Of the Trampling Bull,
The trodding of the Crop,
The headlong raging run,
With never any stop.

Having pulled the stakes,
Dragging tethers;
Pawing unchecked,
Throwing clods above his withers;

Fence posts falling,
The corners cave.

Town boys chase him
With sticks,
Unable to check or to drive
His rampant run,
O'er suffering fields.

Where are the men
Who'll come to force him,
Bellowing,
Back into civility?

Where are the men?