“ Cantankerous ” ~ more or less ~

A patterned advance

Of an ornery heart,

Be nothing short

Of cantankerous art,

In gained techniques

Tetchy years provide,

With every landing

Of well placed darts…


Now covetable level

Of querulous repute,

Will strike with agility

Of marksman astute,

And substantial ability…


Tho tolerated surplus,

He’s sure to attain

Enviable peer status,

As he lashes at will

Irascible gems,

Of sluttish repartee

To biting opprobrious,

Bestowed more than less

Upon unwary victims,

A cantankerous redress!

“ Of Memory ” ~ a test of time ~


Remember when

Memory was friend,

Not long ago

In child’s hood,

When he’d no need

Of adult understood,

The while did find

Be rid of time

For aberrant ways,

Tho soon to reach

Stage memory fails,

Said so to fashion

Less worthy tales,

Those tests of time

When memory ails!


“ The Art Of Aging ” ~ man’s eschatology ~


Age has you feel 

The consequence

Of life’s brush 

Upon your person,

And so instils

To lay shades vital

Of wisdom’s colour,

Upon the canvas

Of your soul,

And equally so

Holds give repair

To shadowy greys

Of life’s excesses,

That shape in part

The art of aging,

To alas include

Less than artful lines,

Carved thus by time,

Tho rather worthy

Said so unkind,

While age emerges

The living tableaux,               

Meant to reflect

Man’s eschatology!


“ Failure ” ~ a venture into hell ~


If I have failed,

That you not hear,

My less than lucid

Words unclear,

Think me not stupid,

Lacking thus


Once robust,

As time now holds

I am to suffer

Tastes of failure…


Thus I ought tell

As I so venture

In this nadir,

What I want share

That you need hear

Now more often

Strangles there,

Between my mind

And memory’s lair,

Silenced sadly

In senescent hell!


“ The Face ” ~ he’d known ~

I see the face,

A crowded place

That tells of life,

Would indicate

A past so filled,

Yet but depicts

A slightest trace

Of puerile days,

To hoary layers

Of crinkly grace,

Time so risks take

What’s left to hold

That offers hope

For man so bold,

To skirt a while

His resting place,

And he not find

The face he’d known

Now buried neath

A senescent waste!


“ On The Run ” ~ to find a stead ~


On the run

From place

To place,

I search ahead

For space

Might be akin,

To the images

That populate

My spent head,

With a life spin

Of purpose clear,

For I’ve but left

A meagre stay,

And far too near

Be Reaper Grim

To dog my way,

Hence I hold run

To find a stead

Of lesser haste,

Afore fate ends

This journey’s race!


“ Sandboxes ” ~ and rainbows ~


Time played us so

Like carefree pueriles,

As though forever

Made live the while

In dreamy rainbows,

When of a sudden

It cast adrift

Our childhood days

To find our way

Far from our sandbox…


Now adult visions

Edge to fashion

Unknown choices,

That once found

Too soon wore thin,

And held best toss

As remote whims

Of wearisome sins…


Yet a period plagues

With insipid wishes

And oneirism’s ease,

Of undying rainbows

In sandbox dwellings!


“ On The Shelf ” ~ a place of rest ~


I feel a book

Less than a tome,

Where I abide

Held be my home,                                                               

There on a shelf

I am to dwell,


In a near hell,

Tucked in a space

For easy trace,

If one’s to find

My aging face,

That I myself

Find hard to place,

As time has stolen

Most recall,

I must rely

On passers-by

To so point out,

‘Tis I so perched

Now on the shelf,

Held thus too soon

Suffer a place of rest!