a word to the wise

 a word to the wise

to lighten the darkness

                                                           just a little 

is our lot

what else is there

as the night enfolds

the very words that were lost

come home like the prodigal son

you show me your words

i’ll show you mine

it’s the globe george

 it’s the globe george 

it’s the globe george 

 said uncle ben 

long old lanky flat cap

his mind frail after something 

my dad on the chair

changing the bulb

that went out on uncle ben 

long ago

ann of a thousand travails

ann of a thousand travails 

reading the cockup’s travails

nothing about the future seems sunny

and yet tomorrow that seemed so dark

will soon be the stuff of yesterday’s tale

and how you’ll laugh and laugh

as you relate that tale

to all who’s runes fall misplaced

and urge that smile that seems

so far away 

THE DEAD?

 THE DEAD?

cast them adrift upon the cold seas

where their sinking will be slow

their degeneration piecemeal

our memories contingent 

upon the continents of our imagination

their destinations stranded 

upon the islands of our predilections 

i sink therefore i was

what a joke

of the sea under a leaden sky

 of the sea under a leaden sky

of the impending crash

it would seem to me     that

no two waves are ever the same

not one thought flies away  but every prayer

is carried as spray upon the heavy sky 

turn to me    turn to me

can you not see

it’s coming soon

soon

it will speak the truth

the tides go in and out

in

    and 

out

it all depends on the artist

it’s not funny

it’s not funny

it’s funny this taste

this thin flavour  of nothing 

how can emptying taste of anything at all

even the taste of thinness is surprising

how  at life’s end

the memories are infinite

yet minuscule 

foresightedness misty

tasteless in the turning over

everything substantial becoming a meringue  

where only the frozen bubbles are to taste 

funny how it’s not funny to lose one’s taste 

when anything at all would be better than nothing

but nothing is the only menu at the last supper

tastelessness in extremis mortis

it’s not at all funny

 

a frozen memory

 a frozen memory

i remember a slippery slope

in the freezing year of ‘62

i was taking a photo 

for me and you 

a frozen stream

i could not stop

with a long scream

and at a gallop

i hit the bottom 

and a great big boulder

i know i should have been bolder

easy to say now that i am older 

but i still remember 

that slippery slope in ‘62