A man who wrote with strokes so bold’ of the
Struggle of humanity.. Long may his excerpts
Be told’ he helped write the American constitution, all his writes are original; and Often Concerned with restitution.. Yet too much
To satan I see he gave, with that line on ruling
A error (most grave!) though he was only human as
Anne Lise put on shaky…Yet effects are far reaching, through many a century..’ As I will
Here put this man’s work on the whole was good’ yet I’d not give a whit to the devil..’ if
I do? Then condemn me, that things may be
That be well understood.’ Consider Joseph in
The Egypt of old, who gathered the grain and
Kept it as gold, slowly he took all the people did
Hold, then put them in usury.. Was God really
Glad? It says much of the world that he”s a
Hero at all. Do we have inbuilt moral decrepitude? What say ye all.?
The palace
decrepit
once
a symbol of splendor
the guest rooms
the dance halls
the ceiling paintings
what once seemed eternal
now gradually
falling apart
unable to escape
a child remains
witnessing the end
even in haste
the palace cannot be rebuilt
seated in a chair
gazing up at the ceiling
the decrepitude of the palace
is the palace's concern
the child
smiles
Once I was young,
now I'm an oldie;
Once I was shiny,
now I'm all moldy.
Mausoleum and graves extremely old
They have not withstood test of endless time
Human love and tragedy long grown cold
Lay under protection of pure divine.
Weathered decades obliterated names
So many graves in decrepitude lay
Impetuous nature has claimed domain
Humanities spirit ever holds sway.
Listen carefully restless spirits sigh
Mournful whispers in ancient cedar tree
Seems they are reluctant to say goodbye
Bright future awaits they cannot foresee.
Spirits one day will arise and move on
Gentle Shephard takes charge his flock has gone.
Pixabay image by: MrsBrown
He left this world as he entered, helpless
On the edge of darkness gasping for air
While I soundly slept unimagined in my bed
Got the call in the dark dead of night
Reasoning to myself it was a relief
Except reason rules the head, not the heart
And I was sorrowed he had passed
That in his final moments he was alone
This song of praise, this burial hymn
Heralds the end of decrepitude and pain
October came and went and you were gone
Under a grey and misty mournful sky
And so you have earned your peaceful rest
Reunited with Jackie - your one true love
To sleep in the hope of the resurrection
Written: March 2015
*This was my father’s favourite hymn.
Rest In Peace, Arthur Lionel Trestrail.
1921 ~ 2014
*Photo above is of Art and
a dear friend, Katy: 1981
See that the merciless spear of time wounds the senses
it's the molecules inside you that stagger dizzily
the ancestral oracle didn't need to warn you
that this distressing moment would one day come
now that it is sublime to be touched by the sunset
eyes look totally happy to disobey you
I had to face it with amazement disguised as tranquility
the sad diminution of the damn sound perception
that gradually transformed my favorite songs
in these whispers that seem like ghostly sighs
see that the emblematic spear of time wounds the senses
it is the flame of life that shone brightly and now dies.
A sinkhole, deep as 20 feet,
Collapsed without a warning,
Around the corner from my street
Quite early in the morning.
Repair crews came but no one knows
What caused the sudden sinking.
Decrepitude, some folks suppose,
But not what we were thinking.
Ineptitude’s what we would blame,
For workers have been toiling
On that same block where they became
The source of tempers roiling.
They somehow cannot seem to fix
What underground befuddles,
So residents have had a mix
Of flames, closed streets and puddles.
Our car was parked right down the block
Where that huge hole descended.
It would have come as quite a shock
If that’s how my life ended.
A victim of the streets
She's one of the homeless,
A victim of society
She left the broken home,
Try as they may there was no fixing it,
Her parents deciding, to go their own ways,
She turned to drugs and drink
And lost control,
They said was nothing they could do, now she was in that hole,
She was lost they said both in heart and soul
And so be came a destitute,
In a world of decrepitude,
Open to being abused,
This now was the life for her
And it wasn't even her fault,
This is where she had been brought,
Down on her knees and she baulked,
In the face of responsibility,
She longed just to be free of this life
And this isn't right,
That this became her plight,
And there was no one there for her
And no support or care,
Welcome to the underworld,
She was now a junkie girl,
Turning tricks and getting burned,
Within a society that turns a blind eye,
That covers up its ears
And that ignored all of her tears
That she cries alone at night.
OLD FOLKS
Gone those elder-respecting days -
An ancient could well topple over
As uncouth youth speeds around him
The Walmart express departs
My God!
Look what’s been left behind –
A multitude of invisibility
A moss grown obsolete
Decrepitude on slow parade
Antediluvian yes
But stored with lost value
And sense of a valued protocol
What is thought of as 20s showmanship
Has for most these gaffers and hags
genuine sweetness
And selfless humble humanity
What is lost?
Lost is that hopeful neighborhood
Of togetherness –
The virgin feel of flesh
Only sensed in imagination
Those first daring touches
And a certain joy of discovery
Ingrained through early years of
Experiment and experience
Yes all this lost in wrinkles of course
But the spirit might be reviewed
If only now could take a look
Dave Austin – age 87
Spare me ill-considered thoughts
and tales of the enlightened sage
whose very basis of belief
arose in palpable assemblage
one late summer evening
while listening to his ringing ears,
as he lay soaking naked in a tub.
And holy writ of nether world—
its commands and promises
now in language thrice removed—
misunderstood when first uttered
in scarce remembered ancient tongue,
yet presumptive literal masters
hasten to opine.
Absurdities compound,
interstices of mind—
vacuformed and stolid—
deny calm reason’s abstract,
and flee truth’s sanctum,
dogma in their fond embrace,
awash in its decrepitude.
Humanity thus
in thrall of Mesmer’s haunt
sustains a tortured cadence
of greed, dishonesty and graft,
which now in tawdry bloat ascends,
as if arms of gods on the empyrean sphere
would open wide to greet.
Consider well and ponder such severely,
who would transcend the veil,
for wisdom gained and love prolonged
will surely ease the transit.
And those who favored having over being?
Their cherished worth is fled.
Their hubris now dismissed.
"...though nothing can bring back
the time of splendor in the grass
of glory in the flower..."
---Wm. Wordsworth
"...in sickness and in health/
'til death do us part..."
Your mortal flesh decays
while mental failings mount
and I, powerless, mourn
your losses, in silent grief --
no slowing of the ravages
and time's neglect --
little chance, now, to correct
the many errors of the past.
I guard your fitful sleep,
remark upon your wrinkled brow
and sparse remaining hair,
hear hesitant, labored breath,
and determine to bear
(for how much longer?)
willful, spiteful actions,
bitter barbs, prompted by
what you really -- really! --
know -- by what we both
cannot accept and
refuse to voice aloud.
It Sits There
It sits there,
like the old Chevy in the driveway,
empty, but for memories
of better days.
Days of running hot
on roads of steaming passion,
squealing tires speeding
the road to fulfillment,
time’s road markers
flashing past
in the dancing headlights
fading into lover’s dust.
It sits there,
just as big, as heavy,
as empty as the Chevy,
this worn out heart
seized by the decrepitude of age
drained of joy’s presence
mired in the melancholy
of the mind’s meanderings.
It sits there
blocking the driveway
of his life.
11/22/2015
submitted to Romantic Poem – poetry contest
sponsor SKAT A
It was as if constrictive vigilance
And tactical resplendent barbarism
Could transform monumental avarice
And endemic ruthless kindness
Into something wholesome, glorious
But this was clearly not to be
Neither capricious nobility
Nor veiled brutish fondness
Or kindred perverse piety
Could assuage sweet betrayal
Or hide the melodious wailing
Of the victims of amiable cruelty
Those scenes of obscene righteousness
Exaltation of attractive mischief
That immersion into irreverent bliss
Supplanted murderous heroism
With derelict wholeness
Honour no longer a covenant
Ignoble modesty courted cordial vulgarity
Pitting youthful decrepitude
And such evil delight as then reigned
Against perceived intellectual torment
Erecting a pseudo-mystic reef barrier
To counter intellectual penetration!
I love my rusty dusty car,
the most entrusted car, by far;
a sort of hey! Come out and play,
both here at home and far away,
a last hurrah, a real star,
my mighty, flighty, motor car.
I’ve had it now for quite a time,
I bought it new and in its prime.
It rumbles, crumbles, trundles on,
through life’s eternal marathon.
It is my friend, the best by far.
Just me - and my old motor car.
~
For Suzanne's 'Synathroesmic Cat' Competition.
Broken bleeding heart
Tattered torn soul
Mind in shreds blowing in the wind
Like so many scraps of muddied linen
Blank eyes hiding an eternity of sorrow
Clenched fists with bitten nails
Restraining a life-long anguish
Milky flesh bearing the scars of self disgust
As if scratched by the venomous nails of Decrepitude
But really just the victim of a desperate mind
A defensive defenseless creature all in all
Sitting hunched in a blackened room
An opaque wall of shattered confidence
Fences her off from life and love
How she would love to tear down that wall
With her crumpled talons
To shake off her shroud of self hatred
To pretend to beauty and confidence
But there is no point in defying or denying
She can never be part of the world
For the world wants no part of her
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