Everyone called him Great
The Kind soaked with pride
He blew his own trumpet
Was he the God’s own child!
His subjects lived in misery
He did not bother for their plight
‘Can’t drink water, drink wine’
He shunted misery out of sight
Darkness never mattered for him
Beautiful women lighted his nights
No opponents to challenge him
He took delight at his might
‘Who is the wisest of you all?’
He made the wise men fight
Rewarded the chosen ones
The rest fled out of sight
The king strode over a desert once
The Sandstorms put him in a bind
Thirst overcomes him, no water at sight
His soldiers flee, left him behind
No drop of water around
The king went wild
Like an oasis, he saw a lone old man
Walking afar, nothing to hide
The Kind appealed to show the way
Promised to give back anything in kind
The old man asked for his kingdom
The angry King made him blind
The old man laughed at him
Ego made the King blind
Rains lashed over his dead body
The soul was back in humankind
Vibrant flowers bloom
Across the old mango tree
Teaches a lesson
That youth blossoms from the old
Yet the old are the sweetest
You can’t teach old dogs new tricks
why would someone say this to ------------------YOU
it would be nice if it worked but it ----------------CAN’T
old people are too set for to ----------------------TEACH
advice from the young does not sit well with the OLD
they think they are going to the ------------------DOGS
they don’t feel comfortable with anything --------NEW
Especially that which can equate to --------------TRICKS
© Feb 24 2010 Charles Henderson
Through the dark of panting woods the old man comes
Troubled with anxiety ... afraid the axeman had come first
And each shudder of light there, his frail footsteps numbs
For each missing tree for him make expectations worst.
What if I knock at a friends door, and silence comes back
All droopy headed and sad, I'd regret forever this old track!
Each is more than a probable house, it is a living heart
Where Deborah Guzzi, Charma Chircop, Karen O'Leary
Jimmy Goff, Carolyn Devonshire, James Peranteau heart
Held communion with mine, so did Higgins, my country
Man, and Brian Strand, Carol Brown, Raul Moreno all these
I cringe for each time I feel the rusty reap of rapid breeze.
So here I am in worship of what is better than us all, since
Grace and giver must be the same, here I bring prayers
Out of faith that fathom all dept and hold my love convinced
That we are nobler than nameless gatherers and scatterers
Before us again, or equal to some, who shared this dream
Hedged by the certainty that life is more than what it seem
The scents I remember like hand rolled cigars
Wine cask lined cellars in musty cool basements
Chocolate miniatures nestled in bright candy dishes
Tea leaves and mint steeping in dainty china cups.
Baked goods cooling on the kitchen counter
Roast with potatoes in a rich onion broth
Lilacs and roses lined on back yard fences
Channel #5 clings to grandmother’s sweater
Scents I remember from childhood spent
Fondly reminiscing with a wistful smile
In this sterile world I live in now
What will my grandchildren remember?
No leaves burnt on a cold autumn night
No carcinogens cooked over red hot coals
No second hand smoke that will cling to your clothes
No hairspray, no tea roses, no creams or colognes
No Sundays exploring my old Aunt Ruth’s farm
No chickens or guineas; no old dusty barns
No fresh moved hay or cinnamon apple pies
Just germicide, purified, Ionic fresh air.
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles, the young man
swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and golden opportunities.
The young man longs for sexual expression!
Companions, self-possessed, growing
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.
31.01.2008
The theory of Plato
Even old Plato said
There will be us forever
-
Two halves that make an apple,
Two ropes tied in a knot.
Even old Plato said
We’re meant to be together
-
Two stars from the sky – falling,
Souls always bound by love.
Even old Plato may
Be wrong once in a while,
For even philosophers
Do sometimes make mistakes
But we are still so young,
So let’s believe old Plato
And somewhere deep inside
Let’s hope it’s not the case…
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles, the young man
swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and golden opportunities.
The young man yearns for sexual expression.
Companions, self-possessed, growing
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles,
the young man swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and proven opportunities.
The young man yearns for sexual expression.
Companions, self-possessed, grow
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.
When do the dreams of young boys
Turn to the memories of old men
When does time moving so slow
Turn to time moving so fast
When does anticipation
Turn to just regrets
When does the sweet smile of youth
Turn to the face of senility
When does the innocence of firsts
Turn to the acceptance of lasts
When do the loves and desires of boys
Turn to the wants and hopes of men
When does growing up
Turn to growing old
When do the memories of old men
Turn to the dreams of young boys
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