This Old Chap

 
This Old Chap 

This Old Chap

The weariness from lack of sleep,
The weariness from age,
And all the buffets borne before
Combine to blur the page.

And though he writes his verses still
And so avoids despair,
It seems his vision falters, fogs
And fades beyond repair.

And so the time has come, perhaps,
To take a quiet nap.
And then he might have strength for more—
This old, persistent chap.

And see—he dozes in his chair
And jerks from time to time.
And when he wakes, he’ll fix again
The meter, sound and rhyme.

2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------

    

Why Think Ahead?

Why Think Ahead?
    
Now Sunday ends.  From mostly sleeping through it,
I find that nothing I had planned is done.
So I could stay up late and try to do it,
Or I could sleep.  Now which would be more fun?

If only I had made my life’s decisions
On this criterion, I might happier be.
But other things, like duty, diligence
Had interfered – as I can finally see.

And so, with insight, I will now retire
And try to sleep.  My lids are drooping low.
And if I can’t?  Well then, I’ll lie awake.
Why think ahead?  For soon enough, I’ll know.

If only I had lived my life this way,
Not thinking of the morrow, till tomorrow,
My life and that of others might have had
Some more of joy – and less, perhaps, of sorrow.
   
2014 January 20th, Mon., 12:56 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York   
   

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

Autumn

                     
Autumn
           
It's autumn and the yellowed leaves
Are dying, one by one.
The city's streets are littered
With their corpses, myriad.

The polar winds are blowing through
The city and we hear
The voices of the dead, as they
Are rustled down the streets.

******
  
A sickled moon is hanging
In the darkening autumn sky.
A sickened moon is waning and
It seems about to die.

And near that dying moon, there shines
A red and baleful star.
We shudder, as we see it, at
The horrors, dread, of war.

******
   
It's autumn and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It looks upon the city and
It seizes up its prey.

It breathes upon the city and
Its breath is dank and chill.
That winter will be coming and
Its will, we shall obey.

******
   
It's autumn, and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It's autumn, and the summer, it
Is lingering on the sea.

And winter will be coming, with
Its darkness and its chill.
Then summer, long departed, will
Have seemed to never be.

2013 November 7th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn