The only difference between death
is that death doesn’t get worse
every time Congress meets
we’re not getting all
the government we’re paying for
For years a secret shame destroyed my peace–
I’d not read Eliot, Auden or MacNiece.
But now I think a thought that brings me hope:
Neither had Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope.
— Justin Richardson.
When I was younger,
I could remember anything,
whether it had happened
but my faculties are decaying
now and soon I shall be so
I cannot remember any
that never happened.
It is sad to go to pieces
but we all have to do it.
Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.
looking back is sweet
but the price of nostalgia
all too often turns bitter
they have been friends of mine these many years
often they came from somewhere deep inside
welling up as water released like tears
rivulets of thought o’er blank sheets they’d slide
much as if they played with their own beauty
we cannot live without words nor want to
a sword to use against our enemy
people are learning yet all this is new
often borrowing words from Cervantes
allows me to tell of this wondrous place
knowing words is not always knowing thoughts
most happy while held in their warm embrace
worn by elusive words I would master
if I sleep tomorrow will come faster
While our curate made his speech
the disguised woman stood as one half asleep
now beholding the one now the other
without once moving her lip or saying a word
just like a rustical clown
when rare and unseen things to him before
are unexpectedly presented to his view
our jaded squire spent
not his time so vainly
having his stomach well stuffed
and that not with succory water
he carried smoothly away
that whole night in one sleep
if his master had not called him up
neither sunbeams which struck on his visage
nor melody of birds
which were many and did cheerfully
welcome the approach of a new day
could have been able to awake him
molino is a Spanish word for windmill
they have been known to appear as giants
it would be most ignominious to assault one
stationary tho they be helpless they are not
such folly as befell that noble of la Mancha
waits beneath those wildly flailing arms
remembrance rules my early morning ritual
as I pour yet another cup of Viejo Molino
There was first a game of blind man’s buff.
Of course there was.
I no more believe Topper was really blind
than I believe he had eyes in his boots.
My opinion is, that it was a done thing
between him and Scrooge’s nephew
and that Ghost
Christmas Present knew it.
The way he went after that plump sister
in the lace tucker, was an outrage
on the credulity of human nature.