Good Old Grandpa
My grandpa,
is as round shouldered as a question mark
and he is led about all day
by his wobbly walking stick,
with teeth that aren’t real,
hidden behind a moustache that is
while his memories simmer warmly
inside his crinkled paper bag of a face.
My grandpa,
old and worn on the outside
but sparky and fresh on the in.
For he often,
shakes my hand with fifty pence pieces,
makes sweets pop out from behind his ears
then smokes all like a train
and laughs like one as well.
My grandpa,
Plays jokes on my mother
to freshen her face with a smile
then tells me stories which electrify my brain.
But best of all,
when my dad loses his temper,
Gandpa just tells him
to sit down and behave himself.
Good old grandpa!
For the last time I surrender,
To the throne of excruciating pains,
Promising not to complain,
All like an icicle it seemed, cold and illy.
For the last time I give up,
And a tear like silver is glistening in the corner of my eye,
Yet, my voice like mournful bells crying in the wind,
Suddenly, it's hushed as the grave.
For the last time I succumb,
To principalities and powers,
It's so hard to escape and it hurts fiercely,
Like a blast from the suddenly opened door of a furnace.
For the last time I've existed, fallen and will disappear,
Like apparitions seen and gone,
Mentally round-shouldered and decrepit,
Mute as an iceberg, I'm tired of dying to live,
But I'm still alive on my death bed.
Round-shouldered and stooped in the dark
We will sit some more, I suppose,
We will admit that we're not those
Who we seem and how bright we spark.
The room, where we two used to sleep,
Furniture, junk [What can you do?]
We'll get it all out from the deep,
Behind our backs, divide in two.
Each of us would have a tight clot
In his backpack. Clot tight and dry.
In what language do they [or not?],
How do they say it - their goodbye?
The volume that used to be small,
Jolly, not home-like and discreet
If it connected us [we fall],
With it [yes it!] we should proceed.
Yes sir, we were once so close, chief,
To the extent that bright light dimmed
Right after unbearable grief -
There will be a train up indeed.
Oh my goodness,
what humans are willing to bare
to attract...
Beyond, the mock and mocking bareness
lies the convoluted angst of man,
pleasure seeking, in a self gratifying
wallow of excretions.
The need to roll…down the road…in the hay
to move like corpuscles down
the multitudinous arties of man.
Some draped in fuchsia, an orchid’s blush
with legs so long they make an ass of themselves.
Others tricked out in comfy cotton boostieas
breasts jiggling like jello, mounds of molded eye candy
firm, run-ready calves, taunt and on point
strut
ready to rut
on stiletto heels
still primed for and pandering to
the sought after alpha male.
The androgyny of the 21st century male-dom
making marking the target frustratingly
diff I cult
these drooping, wilted, round shouldered
bow-legged, net walkers seem unlikely sperm donors
for the next generation beyond the pale.
And as their lives settle in to settle down
in the whirlwinds of climate change
oil shortages, constant alpha stripping
further neuters the human potential
as the haves, feed the have nots
into the furnaces of endless war
the heard is culled………
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