I had a friend
who didn’t make
it to twenty.
Another never
reached forty.
One more was
gone before fifty.
Finally there was
the friend who
fell short of seventy.
I am closing fast
on my next landmark
of eighty years.
Lucky.
Sad.
Category: literature
Stayin’ alive
The older you
get the more
your focus shifts
from ambition
to survival
Dark stranger
Every New Year’s
Eve, we say to
ourselves – “Well
I hope next year
is better than this
year”. But, as every
New Year’s Day
rolls through the door,
we realise it was
probably
a forlorn hope
Thinking
There is, apparently
no brain, however
large, well adjusted,
fast thinking, packed
full of data, seemingly
logical, that it can’t
be turned into mush
by the acquisition of
an imaginary friend
I breathe, therefore I am
I am
breathing in,
breathing out,
like all the other
living creatures
sharing this planet
and this air.
But more,
that air has been
shared by all the creatures
who ever lived,
been refreshed by
all the plants
that ever grew,
since the beginning
of Earth time.
Each new breath
combines all the
old breaths of creatures,
and people, long gone.
Each breath is a kind
of immortality,
existing long after
each of us has
taken our last breath,
passed on to each of
us taking our
first breath
Life time
Approaching 74
and every ache,
every niggle, every
unexplained twitch
in the night,
presages doom and
a twinkle in an
undertaker’s eye.
Half way through 73
and sour memories
bubble up like methane
in Lake Baikal, erupt
randomly like black
mud in Rotorua, old
regrets seem once
again possible triumphs,
old grievances can
once again cut the psyche
like a knife.
Getting close to
my seventy third Xmas
and counting again
all the gifts I have
been given over
this amazingly long
time. Love, and
friendship, and
life itself.
Losing their marbles
Heaven save me from
celebrities who seem
quite sane and
rational when young
but who in old age
become religious and
move hard right
politically and seem to
be mulling over joining
the Flat Earth Society
Seasons in the Sun
Impossible to
decide which season
would be best to die in:
Summer with its heat
and blue skies;
Autumn with
hints of frost and snow;
Winter with the warmth
of hearth and home:
Spring with flowers
and promise of flowers.
But whichever I choose
I would be desolate not to
see the following one.
Hand on head instead?
What is it with
Americans putting
their hand on their
heart at solemn
occasions like the
funeral of an
ex-president?
They do know,
I suppose, that the
heart is just a lump
of muscle that
circulates blood?
I mean, we have known
for five hundred years
that the heart has
nothing to do with
emotions, so why
put your hand over it?
By any other name
Sometimes
a house is
just a house.
Sometimes it
is a home.
