Little old men ‘neath big black Bumbershoots
Meandering about in the soft Spring rain
Savoring the mornin’ air and mayhaps...
Recalling their youth once again
The very air seems a blanket
Woven in lace, imbued with a trace
Of morning mist that insists
On caressing one’s face
With the tender touch
Of a maiden fair
Seems the rain
That is wrapped In the air
That gives the old men pause
To peer all about
As if to see now…what once was
And now is without
Yet the rain stays the same
In it’s soothing refrain
And the old men with their brollies
Rheumy eyes and mem’ries
Remain meandering about…
…In the soft Springtime rain…
You take care now, Harold,
and don't slip on the ice
looking for a good bookstore
on the streets of Chicago.
Print is dead, Harold,
and it's being waked
in empty bookstores.
Soon all bookstores
will be dead, Harold,
and then you will have
no good reason
to go out on the ice.
At our age, Harold,
ice can be lethal
so take my advice
and do as I do:
Walk head down
even if there's no ice
so you can avoid
not only the ice
but also the women
disgruntled with men.
Believe me, Harold,
they're out there
armed with bumbershoots.
They prowl the streets now
more than when we were
young and dashing
and making them angry.
They haven't forgotten us.
So for God's sake, Harold,
go out for a walk but
bundle up and take your cane
and walk with your head down.
Do you believe in God, Harold?
I hope you do because
at our age, Harold, ice or a
woman could be the chariot
that takes us over the moon
faster than we'd like.
Donal Mahoney
Endless days of gray and drizzle
Bumbershoots constantly at the ready
Constantly we pull on our overshoes
And break out once again the slicker
Suddenly and brilliantly the sky appears blue
We peer with shaded and squinted eyes
Marveling at the sheer, elegant beauty
In Washington, spring has finally arrived
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