Bad To Worse.
Things just go from bad to worse;
this illness, like some awful curse,
has robbed me of the will to live.
My brain's as leaky as a sieve
despite the fish oil - recommended -
with the evening primrose blended
swallowed umpteen times a day.
(How do you keep the taste away?)
Pills and capsules by the score
make each meal a dreadful bore,
keep me ticking over, just,
help to stop encroaching rust.
Somehow though it hardly matters.
Long held dreams are all in tatters.
Hope, a cold unfaithful lover,
left me, naked 'neath the cover.
Far too old before my time,
all reason gone, though I still rhyme.
When that deserts me - well, what then?
Breathe a sigh and count to ten?
Shuffle through another day,
life is in such disarray.
What's the point of living such
endless days of nothing much?
Wait! What's this? A quick e-note.
A man in Dorset - with a boat -
wants to write and be my friend.
Wonder where this one will end.
Plus a former lover sent
an instant message, passion-bent.
Men arrive like buses do:
none at all or else there's two!
No, I will not meet with either
I'm not really in a fever.
Sadly I'll accept my fate.
It's just fun to contemplate.
© 2007
Life? What Life?
Things are getting even worse;
perhaps I'm under some sort of curse.
I find it increasingly hard to walk
and now I croak instead of talk.
My batteries are almost flat
and that is all there is to that.
Who will bring me a bit of cheer?
No-one, for there's no-one here.
I stumble and fumble like some old drunk,
my house is increasingly full of junk,
if something doesn't change round here
I'm simply going to disappear.
Constantly swooning, light in the head
even when lying in my bed!
It's a poor excuse for a life I suppose;
though some have worse ones, goodness knows.
When they handed out lives I must have misheard:
the thought of a wife would have seemed absurd
but now that's the very thing I need!
If they let me start over I'll pay more heed.
© 2010
A Study in Monochrome
Today my little patch of sky
is uniformly white. Dirty white
not starched and pressed;
no hint of colour cheers it.
Veiled by greying net and lace
which dips diagonally down
to a tangle of treetops
still dark in their winter garb
which, in turn, partly mask
the deep grey of
a building in silhouette
it presents a dreary view,
a study in monochrome.
© 2010
Always The Same
Today I woke as dawn broke,
the barely lightened sky appearing
grey through the window net
while, below, the other
now green network
allowed glimpses of
yellow lights, some still,
some moving,
even this early.
My window on the world,
always the same yet
always different.
© 2010
Another New Day
Another day, another view,
no flash of gold, no hint of blue.
The sky is low, a dirty white,
in no way an inspiring sight
yet nature triumphs once again
for, on my window, spots of rain
become as jewels, diamond bright,
as passing cars bestow their light.
Another Day, Another View
Today I slept for many hours and woke to a surprise:
my legs were looking normal - that is in terms of size.
Swollen for the longest time, with ankles well obscured,
I now see ankle bones again and feel quite reassured.
The muscles, which I knew I had, I now can see with ease;
it makes a change from lower legs like logs below the knees.
It seems I need more time in bed, a boring proposition;
without a man about the place it's quite an imposition!
However, all that blood that pooled below my knees of yore
should now enrich my brain again and get me thinking more.
I guess this is desirable, though I'll let you decide.
I'm not too sure, with things like this, I'm really qualified.
© 2010
A Little Luxury
Looking up at an azure sky
as the smallest of fluffy white clouds drift by
foam tipped wavelets lap lazily.
A cooling breeze wafts over me
as sounds of traffic assail my ears.
You might suppose an idyllic scene,
a beach perhaps, but no, not so;
the sky I watch is just as blue
seen through an open window
from whence comes the cooling breeze.
The wavelets I generate myself
as I wallow in my bath.
© 2010
A Life of Sorts
I wake, I sleep, I eat, I breath,
it's life - but only just.
Hope, as the morning mist, is gone;
dreams all turned to dust.
© 2010