Moments
Each moment that passes by
is just like the moment yet to come,
that has already been and
is here with us again
until its time for it to go
and another arrives in
anticipation of yet one
more waiting its turn;
Though all moments
truth be told
are the same,
clones of clones of clones
camouflaged as “time”
so as not to appear
indifferent to our rather mundane desire
to see differences
appreciate variety;
After which we conclude
that all of it really is
just a waste of time.
Fugue
There are memories
which even our dreams
can’t unlock,
and there are dreams
we’ve yet to have
that will fill our waking hours
with dread,
what of those dreams
that still evade us,
those of which we
only have memories of
and which we dare not
unlock from within
our dreams.
What,
if,
what if,
“if”
became
“when” ;
Then
we’d no
longer
be looking
at the map
but be
on our way ;
Then
when
“if”
becomes
“when”
we’d no longer
be on the train
but arriving
at our destination ;
if and when
“if”
becomes
“when”
then
all the
unanswerable
questions
would
be understood,
and all
weariness
of journeying
finally
cease ;
when,
if.
A Final Tale From The Nursery
In the Valley of the Idiots
where the half-wit is still King,
the proclamation was issued
that with immediate effect
the wearing of coal scuttles
was no longer mandatory;
Nobody had ever worn coal scuttles
until ordered by the half-wit to do so,
and after a while the Idiots
were allowed to discard them
and then were told to put them back on
and now,
they are cautioned not to
speak too loudly
nor sing with vigour,
for in freeing them from one restraint
the Half-Wit has in mind
something much bigger
Author’s Note
This hopefully draws to a close my triptych Jeremiad on Covid restrictions that includes-
“A Tale From The Nursery” & “Another Tale From The Nursery”. Their precursor “The Ban on Straw” might also interest the reader.
Mirth & Laughter
Shallow shadows
demarcate
the steeper deeper
decline
of the fading falling
tears of years
dripping dropping
like gasoline
onto the pyres
of our own making;
Over there,
the dancing fools
and their pipers
whilst waiting to be paid
sold their souls for salt
in the impossible dark,
in the unreckoned nights,
consumed by their own
shallow shadows..
Ennui
Silent as graveyards
the mornings pass by
in spectral rows
shunning the Sun
and shrouding the hours
with their indifference;
Corpulent time
weighed down by its
feasting on sloth,
its casual air of neglect
suffused what joy
might otherwise
have preened its feathers
and stirred our imagination,
the one floundering
in chains of disquiet
Urban Noir
When the cold,cold knife of night
meets the warm,warm blood of day,
and the light is extinguished
at the tunnel’s end,
All we’d done wrong
turns out right
all that was right
is now wrong;
As the solitary Raven
pecks madly at
your window pane,
and clouds lose their silver lining
who then will be left
to tell us what words
need to be
in our song?
They threw his body onto the sidewalk,
sped off toward the Interstate;
he was still breathing
as they gathered,
he felt his pain
as they closed in;
an old man took the Rolex,
two winoes came to blows
a shoe apiece and managed to rip the pants,
the Hugo Boss jacket was too bloodied
for anyone to covet,
though small jealous hands ledgerdemained
an all too heavy wallet;
he was still breathing
as Cops came and drew chalk outlines,
taped off the street
ushered everyone away,
he was still breathing
when a Coroner’s ambulance came,
he heard strange distant voices confirm that
he was still breathing;
over at O’Malley’s Bar
the grifters and working stiffs
had something to talk about
before watching the game’s final quarter,
as the deaf bartender served them
some more “Boilermakers” he wondered if
he was still breathing.
A Tiny Poem of Disquiet
What if the words that you’re reading
somehow are changed and rearranged
by the time you get around
to reading this poem again?
Have they not altered subtly
even since you began reading?
Poems are not novels
where you have to turn a page,
though they do that by themselves
deceiving their readers into believing
that they are reading it
and not as is true the novel reading them;
But a poem,
surely not?
then again
what if the words you’re reading
never change?
