A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
Best described as lizard slime,
Larry was worst of all time.
His big rheumy nose
was red as a rose
And his eyes glowed green as lime!
He sits silent with the old man;
as intrigued watching his gnarled hands
whittle away at the pine twig,
as he is with tales about Gran,
and their life on the wild moorlands.
As he now and then takes a swig
from a large, chipped, dusty brown jug
the man’s rheumy blue-gray eyes glint
with mischief; “See that big fat pig?”
he says, taking another chug
“won him in a wager with Clint.”
“bet the fool I could make a tree,
whistle the song Yankee Doodle.”
“Well, he lost big time and sure paid.”
He stopped, put his knife on his knee,
winked at the boy and his poodle;
then gave him the flute he just made.
I Stare in the Mirror
I stare in the mirror and what do I see?
An old man with rheumy eyes looking at me.
Who is this old codger, this balding old shell,
Who cannot remember what it’s like to feel well?
Where is the vibrance, the get up and go?
Why are his movements so painful and slow?
Who stole his glowing skin, his dark flashing eyes,
His derring-do, courage, his sense of emprise?
What happened to big ideas? Future? Ambition?
Why do his joints fight a war of attrition?
Why can he see clearly adolescence long past,
When he cannot remember the thing he ate last?
It doesn’t make sense, I don’t recognise him,
With his belly and baldness and weakness of limb.
No! That mirror’s a liar, whatever I see.
Whoever that old man is, he can’t be me!
It’s too cold, so, I cannot go outside and play
Staring at a computer makes my eyes rheumy
My muse, apparently, has nothing to say
It’s too cold, so I cannot go outside and play,
I can hardly wait for another sunshiny day
I’m so tired of wintery days, dark and gloomy,
It’s too cold, so I cannot go outside and play
Staring at a computer makes my eyes rheumy.
Written December 8, 2022
The old soldier, rheumy eyed and cold
Sits at attention in his wheelchair
Bemedalled chest heaving gently
Thinks of comrades not there.
Now just bones in cemeteries
Some not even identified
anonymous bodies collected
From where they died
To be laid in the rows and lines
Of the parade square of the dead.
Names and faces and words
Scroll through his aching head
There is guilt in his memories
Still felt at being a alive,
Wonders what random factor
Selected him to survive.
The bugler sounds Last Post
The notes swirling round and gone
The annual tribute publicly paid
By those who survived to live on.
They toast him in the mess and for
A little while the present and past
Mix in a tableau
With a military cast.
The old soldier relaxes.
The young soldier wheels him away.
Another year lived and past
Since the last Remembrance Day.
Bemedalled chest heaving gently
The old soldier, rheumy eyed and cold
Waits to be returned and refiled
In his home for the near forgotten old
A man’s apartment is airily roomy
But wears he a face real gloomy …
Soon, I find out his eyes are rheumy
And he thinks he got them through me!
Lousy Guy! My eyes for long not rheumy;
Two years now they to overseas flew me …
And with rheumy eyes in a shelter roomy
One should a reason find to be not gloomy,
Unless issues too has about one’s tummy
Or bemoaning a perception as Dummy.
Might we all have an expiration date,
A notation reading “best if used by?”
Spoiled if not given proper handling
A critical concern now up for debate.
I’ve noticed lately my skin is wrinkling
My eyes are becoming rheumy, I fear,
I’m clearly not as good as I used to be
The milk in my refrigerator is blinking.
Past my prime, still I’m good for awhile
I don’t see a date stamped on me either
And I don’t feel I’m all used up quite yet,
If for nothing else, I’m good for a smile!
Written February 28, 2022
She lifts her head and blinks
seeing no one she remembers.
We are visiting,
straining lumps of silence through encouraging smiles.
Clouds revolve behind rheumy eyes.
Workers glide through the retirement home
tending to the restless,
the thoughts of dream-talkers are swept and dusted.
She struggles to peer over us.
The window behind our chairs
is milky with un-wiped memories.
“They’ve built new shops over there,”
she says waving toward nowhere in particular.
“Buses pass right by here now.”
The sparrows no longer interest her
and there are no nearby shops.
“They turn the lights on too early,”
she grumbles.
An aged cat meanders into the room.
I lift it up,
its stiff legs paddling weakly in the air.
She looks at us,
a cataract of perception creaks open.
"They call it smoky," she says
"but it don't smoke."
We all laugh, relieved
to see her back again -
for a while.
Mind is brimming with gloom and fears
Waiting to be "heard" or "seen" through tears
The burden of which rheumy eyes couldn't bear
When cruel judgments reach the empty ears
Coming from the mouth of impassive peers
resulting in crushing poor souls for years
By putting a leash on ever-ready tears
We manage to hide and cherish our fears
A fake smile is what the mouth often wears,
all set to utter ceaseless "CHEERS"
Framed blemish.
Heavy as a tumor.
Solid as surrender.
Dig into epidermis.
Uproot the moment.
Unclean kernel.
Hard, cold reflection.
Show me pretty.
Clogged pores.
Yellow teeth.
Rheumy eyes.
Ugly is as ugly does.
Smile at the mirror.
Try to forget.
This is you.
Forever unlovely.
Look at what you did.
Children are so cruel.
Rose scented perfume.
Disguise the stench.
Excrete from every orifice.
Sweat soaked lace.
Urine stained ribbons.
Paint and purify the meat.
Shave the head.
Smear on foundation.
Sever the lips.
Dust with powder.
Extract the teeth.
Cauterize with lipstick.
Amputate the feet.
Brush on eye shadow.
Saw through hip joints.
Smudge on blush.
Open up the abdomen.
Suture with mascara.
Remade.
Smiling through distortion.
Deny the trauma.
Repair the shell.
Convincingly Beautiful.
Improbably clean.
HOBO CHRISTMAS PAST
(Hannibal, Ill., 1960)
Old toothless queen with rheumy eyes,
I'm seeing you again, across a smoky fire–
near an underpass, hillside grey with weather.
You hold forth over a can of hot soup,
stopping to guzzle wine, mutter in your whiskers,
something about peace and love
– a wink at the words–
wind cries in the pines overhead,
snowflakes are dancing, falling on the siding,
a December afternoon turning bitter cold.
his sweet scent of mere love still lives on
I walk, hark nature's moving sounds
carried softly through forest paths
nostalgic scent of rheumy dew grounds.
fleeting dappled somber fingers
unclosing against vast horizon, cause
without orb so nimble lingers.
braids of pain stifle mine madness
loves unavoidable perpetual wink; mine
pate bowed with cherishing sadness
3/17/2021
The Crucible Of Fire
We call it ash,
although more like desiccated granular bone coral.
Whether ash or coral, I will be.
I am afraid, as I see
through unseeing eyes,
as I feel, even though I cannot feel,
the flickering flames that feed through the doors ahead
waiting for what was me.
Young once.
Not special but a beginning, a promise.
No hill too tall to climb, no challenge too great;
no laughter too big to embrace.
Dreams.
and then desire shredded,
sent aloft with the winds,
Vanished to some other world.
Hands grown spotted with time.
Eyes gone dim and rheumy,
sour old man breath of despair, and yes,
magic, either forgotten or tossed toward the fire ahead.
David Holmes
My mind radiates,
A thousand thoughts
Of yearning, of love,
And some uncalled.
My only thought,
Thou shall see yonder,
In an elysium
Or in an orb.
O proper stuff!
Rheumy thoughts of thou,
Shall live.
In odd-even,
On a reasonable shore.
-Prithvi Gulati
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