inspired by a short story from the man from Snake River


<>


no alarm clocks heard expiring,
unrequired and unrequited,
we,
those, self-employed by the
nocturnal repetitive recounting
of sins of omission and worse,
those commissioned in
anger and haste, that breed only
more anger and lay further waste
from humans to 
humans,
awaken with an
irregular precision
and bad disorder,
demanding chances,
expiation, restitution, amendment,
but time erodes
possibilities for the
impossible,
foreign forgiveness

knock-you-down rushing currents
of water erodes Snake River boulders,
them oldsters just like the litany of our
malfeasances, indestructible in nature
geologic,
and in
human nature
illogic,
terms, such as time measurements,
irreverent and irredeemable,
for our sins
live far longer than
our owned memories,
in those harmed, who
cannot in the unlimited timeless quantity of
ever ever,
understand

your wry smile,
your why cries,
audibles you’ve
play called, go
unheard, unseen,
even and odd
Bach Orchestral Suites,
Beethoven Sonatas
more mock than soothe

trapped between industrial carpet
and flat unpainted Armstrong ceiling tiles,
you
in a hell of your own creation, forgot to include,
a Sabbath day extant, of rest for weary creators,
ever ever,

or planned in a world you’ve  designed,
so the best you
can do
is write
another and another
confession ever ever

watching and listening to
the alarm clock that neither
requires setting, for
it’s audible ticking is
alarm-ing curse
enough ever ever
that always never
rings

The Young resent us Oldsters, we Seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The Young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.

It was around abouts ten in the way back of when and the old town had closed for the night,
down in the back alleys where cats made their allies and sparrows lay dying, were oldsters still trying to capture their dreams,
screams and curses, drunken verses floated off in the moonless sky and sometime back then in the way of it when I was around abouts ten years of age,
a new page was written the night I was bitten by the spiders who lived in my brain.

Bats carried trains for the marriage, insane as it was to become and the Sun shed no tears until many years later.

A captain stood in uniform, gold braid, afraid to cast off and the quay came alive with the jostling of time and the ships of the line looked so Constable,
comfortable as it is to reminisce, I've got business to do with the crew who buy tin plate for China and carved opal from the fields of Coober Pedy.

A diner in town open up and for one half of a crown they serve mutton with ale, we go there to eat and then somewhere around abouts ten we sail.

Ten always looms in the memory rooms where I get trapped, but by and large for a very small man I can cope.
I have faith in the faith I can hope for a berth on a freighter that's bound for the Cape and the cape that I wear to keep the weather at bay is just another way that the spiders inside me keep dry and quite clearly on a moonless night
it's got to be the right thing to do.

Everyone is worried more and more
A  deadly virus is on the loose
It has invaded the USA from shore to shore
Millions of germ cells have been introduced

Social distancing is a new concept
We all have to embrace these days
People need time to process it
All the hand-washing really will pay

It seems that oldsters are the most in need
As they can't easily fight this virus dread
As well as the younger people indeed
It seems many hard days lay ahead

Schools are closing their doors earlier
Then they had ever planned to do
Also restaurants and department stores
Are shuttered up to stop this flu

It is hoped that we all can strive
To treat each other with care
In a few months, we all hope to arrive
At the end of this pandemic scare

Let's all lift our hands and hearts together
And pray that we soon will be free
And hope our economy will weather
This awful disaster from sea to sea

Let's join hands to help our brothers
The homeless and destitute in many lands
Refugees and kids without mothers
Living in tents on hot desert sands

The young resent us oldsters, we seniors, stooped and grey.
We Boomers hold the bulk of worldly goods, at least today.
The game is rigged against them- resentment rules the day.
The Young have debts they can’t discharge and likely cannot pay.
The Old likewise resent the Young their beauty, strength and speed.
We, whose days are growing short, look at their Youth with greed.
Stocks and bonds are wonderful; but their compensation wanes
When I am cold in summer’s heat and live in constant pain.
If only to be young again, with Ann, beneath the stars.
That Fifty Seven Chevy was more fun than modern cars.
The young seem to resent us and I find it passing strange-
I’d yield this wealth for youth and health. It’s a more than fair exchange.