December 21, 2012

 

 

I was coping very well with early Advent,

until, at dusk, I went outside to add some

festive plants to the window box, and heard

the hauntingly melodic tones of ‘Silent Night’

coming from the nearby chapel, and I was gone!

Memories of you came flooding back, and the

agony of losing you, lives on!

 

 

 

 

 

The weightlessness of heaven,

as souls from bodies rise,

to take their place in alloted spots,

without effort or compromise.

 

 

 

December 15, 2012

 

 

Though none of us immortal be,

we long for serendipity.

And with our minds emotion free,

push the bounds of possibility.

 

 

 

 

 

Put on your combinations, love,

the weather is chilly outside.

Button up your liberty bodice dear,

tis not the season to worry about pride.

 

 

 

 

I wonder if she made it through,

that child of mine, that in me grew.

I wonder if she ever knew,

a better life, with skies of blue.

 

 

 

 

The first taste of freedom,

the umbilical cord cut.

The last taste of freedom,

the marital door shut.

 

 

 

 

She spoke in muddled metaphors,

and saw through conjunctive eyes.

But her message she managed to get across,

without effort or compromise.  

 

 

 

 

Men are always left wanting,

even when the best is waiting at home.

Women are always left wondering,

when out of sight, their men do roam.

 

 

 

 

 

Drunken Friday night revellers,

kids half crazy, about to puke.

Cackling, screaming wenches, that

in daytime sport a different look.

 

Guys not dissimilar to stray dogs,

peeing up against the wall.

A bust-up starting so suddenly,

out of a remark, too inane to recall.

 

Then in seconds the police van approaches,

with back-up, and flashing lights.

The bloody mess they encounter,

becoming the pattern for Friday nights.

 

 

 

 

 

I look at women with husbands one,

and wonder how they made it through.

For I got rid of husband two, after

discovering things, he didn’t know I knew.

I then went on to husband three,

who nearly was the death of me.

Then like a fool, as past before,

I stumbled onto number four.

The pattern was heading in the same old way,

until he dropped down dead,

on a wet May day.

Now I’m free to go out and jive, and have

decided there’ll be no number five.

 

   

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