The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

It’s strange on
days like this.
December 30th, 2024.
The temperature reached
60 degrees today.
An ice fisherman
died on the lake.

It’s strange on
days like this,
when winter plays
a charade.
I open the windows
and let the breeze in.
My cats run around the
house, and think it’s
spring.
They wag their
tails and watch the
squirrels hide nuts.

And on strange
days like this,
I look around my
room, at the pictures
on the wall.
Hemingway
Van Gogh
Picasso
and I wonder if
they ever thought that  
they would die someday.

I think about it.

It’s hard to envision.
I’m so alive when I
sit in the hot jacuzzi
and watch the bubbles
and steam.
I water the plants,
exercise, and take
vitamins.
I will be gone one day.
The rivers will still
flow and wind, and the clouds  
will
float slowly by, and
chocolate will still taste so
sweet.

I wonder if
Vincent, Pablo, or
Earnie ever thought about
the strange tricks the
seasons play on us.

I can't say anything
the truth is I don't know
to speak lies or half-truths
isn't the way to go-

I'll hear you all
some wisdom to acquire
patient and humble I'll be
to be a better person to aspire-

they say life is know-how
tools to sharpen the wit
I've endeavoured all my life
but never managed to hit it-

I'll not say anything
perhaps not to speak at all
while the masses rally
slogans to shout--I'll not join their call

Is like dancing in the rain
Letting go of a string of feelings,
Swinging on a rainbow of thoughts,
A soft whisper,
A cry of joy,
A beat of the heart.
And just as first rain drops kiss the earth,
The petrichor of words,
Hits the senses,
To pen beautiful poetry.
31/12/2024

Am I just
the summary
of my past?
What's the present me?

Am I just
a book fully-written
or with unfinished pages
what have I forgotten?

Am I the same smile
or has that turned to frown?
Am I still true and authentic
or have I let myself down?

Am I what you thought before
or am I not worthy to be remembered?
All I know is that I'm changeable
but every aspect of life I must celebrate

Without discipline, patience will not thrive

The years have slipped away
I've been too slow to recognise
now I feel age deeply
dim are my weary eyes-

my hair has turned more white
sharper wrinkles are written on my brow
my steps have lost their bounce
I'm easily weary now-

the village-kids have turned adults
they have left for the town
how I missed their laughter
and presence-- hardly a handful are around-

there will be a marriage tomorrow
he's Henry and  she's  Nancy
I taught them three decades ago
will they still remember me?