Thursday, July 26, 2007


I’m getting old. My friends are settling down;
they’re less messy when they go these days,
no bent Ducatis at the edge of town,
nothing left on streets to hose away.

They go in bed now, which I suppose
anyone would wish, given a choice,
propped on clean pillows, the family close,
framing their last thoughts in their last voice.

Better, surely. But if the funerals of youth
mourn lost potential as much as fact,
elders’ eulogists must grapple with truth;
with life behind us, we must hope for tact.

Though I don’t suppose it matters after all
what the living say, or if indeed
they even notice; whether we hit the wall
or wither, the same end is guaranteed.

Things will happen, birds contrive to sing,
trees, forests, fall; the sound will live
in other ears, the beat of drum and wing
part of someone else’s narrative.

All that matters, all we have, is now:
the past is gone, futurity’s a parlor trick.
This candle flame is everything we know,
the light and heat we make of wax and wick.


pundy said...

Pleasantly melancholic. Made me smile too.

God, these poems are good. Time to start thinking about a POD Collection perhaps?

Minx said...

Oh Goddess, I was going to invite you over to the bed party on my blog but if you're going to pop your clogs.....

John said...

What, you haven't got enough dead people over there?

Minx said...

Oh, no, don't get me wrong, I like dead people. They are often more amenable than live ones.

And look, there's Pundy. Nice to see that he's still this side of the stone.

Absolute Vanilla (and Atyllah) said...

Death's part of the contract, isn't it. It's just what happens - one way or t'other.

Wanderlust Scarlett said...

Another incredible piece of work... and art... and perspective.

Very good.

Now is quite a lot, isn't it. I'm glad I spent this now here with your words.


Scarlett & Viaggiatore