Monthly Archives: June 2019

Older or Younger?

It’s hard to respond to the

insouciant rudeness of the young,

but then I was once so

certain of my rectitude,

wrote paeans to pain,

love-lyrics to unattainable and

frankly unsuitable lovers,

belittled a warm home and

bewildered parents, blamed

bosses and politicians and even

implicated the innocent

Moon in my moanings.

 

Am I better in old age?

Don’t I still rage at the

nightly news, bristle at some

shallow social shibboleth?

Do I not fall in love, or

lust, at the drop of a hat?

Am I not still prone to

enthusiasms, losing people,

making their eyes glaze?

Is the Moon not still

sullied by my

perpetual poetic probings?

 

So I ask you, am I

better older or

should I give in to the rude

insouciant adolescent

hidden within me?

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Perfect?

Who can ever write the

perfect love poem, half

heartache, half

heartbreak, completely

lost and almost found,

cast up on some

alien shore watching

buoys and gulls all

adrift on the same

choppy sea?

Little Women Making Loud Noises

Fridayam's Blog

I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had

this in mind but I love

loud women in my life,

singing their songs full-throated,

spearing their words through

vain assumptions,

shaking pulpit and

parliament and shouting

“harder, faster” into my

receptive ear.

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Wild Flowers

Thank God nobody is perfect for
love would have no
grip for its wind-blown seeds to find
cracks and crannies in
seemingly solid surfaces to
sprout and spread its
sharp tendrils to
cover what would have been a
bare wall with
wild flowers.

Opening Properly

The house grows old with us, and it’s

open to question which of us

creaks and complains more as the

stairs are climbed.

 

That tap takes two or three

turns to get going and the

flow is not

what it was.

 

That light in the kitchen

flickers and fails, but a

rap or two makes its

heart beat again.

 

That radiator never seems

hot until the key

lets out a

delicate brown fart.

 

That window never opens

that window

never opens

properly.

Days

Fridayam's Blog

Days aren’t of themselves onerous: there are

hard moments but it’s mostly

boredom, a big old

empty building in which

shafts of sunlight

pierce through holes in

dusty brickwork and you

hope to find yourself

illuminated once in a while.

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UnLoved

Fridayam's Blog

She was unloved abruptly, as though

unFriended on Facebook where all the

family photos, the inane comments, the

frapes, the smileys, all those

terrible moments of happiness

hung nakedly in front of the

whole world, the laundry she

put out clean now

dirty again.

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Dark Pearls

Fridayam's Blog

The storms rolled down the valley like

dark pearls gathering

sun and sticky heat and

gumming them together into

fat envelopes for

posting elsewhere.

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