So I find myself on the far side
Of a failed happily-ever-after—
What happened to all the joy?
Where’s all that guilt-free laughter?
And to all my ever-lovely ones
Who so luckily got quite away:
I wish them all an undying love
From the other who stayed the next day.
But my slice of Confederate heaven
Has grass that could be soon be green;
Once the lingering Summer falls aside
I’ll then look deep between
The choices to that youth resigned,
Incautious, and stupid languidly met—
Always took out the trash and paid the bills,
Dreaming of distant hills and beaches yet:
Words make sad toil to fully tell
Why are we here today?
Lucky, we’re still allowed
To have any part or say—
From A joyous Hard Day’s Night
To The mature Razor’s Edge:
A generation sees in full bright,
But lost is the line for our kedge.
Posted in Poem
Tags: A Hard Days' Night, age, callow, chance, choices, choose, dried up, error, escape, fresh, grass, happily-ever-after, hay, kedge, laughter, loss, love, missed opportunity, old, stupid youth, Summer, Summer heat, The Razor's Edge, time slipping away, toil, undying love, wrong choices
It was two glasses in
And the curling memory of brunette hair,
But she has erewhile gone
And Sonoma Merlot just doesn’t care.
The rhymes won’t come—
Here I am inside this couplet mess.
I guess it takes more than mere Love
To complete this synapsing poetic process.
Meld two roughs into one,
Balance the scan and mind the rhyme,
Maybe I’ll get some ‘Likes’;
I manage to do so from time to time.
Fear floods in;
I managed to lose my job.
Now with gray hairs and beard
Who now would care to hobnob.
Today next-door neighbor
Pleasantly responded to my hi and hello.
There’s no ‘there’ there
And it’s so past time for me to go.
Brother turned sixty—
Who knows about sixty-one.
Wish we were better friends;
A brother would be nice on this long end run.
We need a finishing couplet to release our tortured reader;
It’s all good, love from your poet, another forgotten bottom feeder.
Marching in a row
Have forgotten what they ought to know
Oldish and youngish—
Not sure wherefore is the right
Love comes in from the other way;
It’s gonna be a very long night
End stage eighty-somethings—
Head for their nursing home bed
Would rather be most anywhere else instead
Newborn steamy babies—
Shine with all their total love
Dead and buried 100-somethings—
Soar with the praeternatural deities above
Numbers adhere to the ages—
It pretty much adds up well
Who old are are you?
Won’t you tell?