Many a life is undone
In the pursuit of fun.
We may turn and run
From the fact
Of an act
And the sun
Will continue to shine.
But, in the dark
The truth stark
Reveals that every fine
Day
Passes away
For delight
Must end in night.
“Hark the herald angels sing”
The Salvation Army band play
As I walk through Victoria station today.
The thing
Is that I want to believe.
The music half carries me away
And I grieve
That I can not pray
Other than in a formulistic way
Where words are heard by none but me.
Or (o distant hope
That helps men cope)
Perhaps by a being
(All seeing)
Who I can not understand
Let alone command.
There was a young lady named Simone
Who lived in a haunted house alone.
In the depths of the dark
She would sing like a lark
And the ghosts would sigh and moan!
There once was a snowwoman named Moriah
Who warmed herself by my fire.
She wore a coat of felt
And soon did melt.
O what a foolish desire for fire!
This snow
Fall
Will cover all.
But I know
That the click clack
Of heel
Will reveal
The black
Tarmac underneath.
And when the snow does cease
The path to my door
Shall be covered no more.
There was a young lady named Ruth
Who bought a place in Maynooth.
It was an historic hall
As I recall,
But alas it had no roof!
Can all this water
Cleanse my thought?
Is and ought.
The daughter
Of Eve
Will leave
Behind
A mind
(Mine)
Dwelling
On women and wine.
There is no telling
Where this will end.
As a boy
I took joy
In a pretend
Friend.
As an adult
The result
Is lies
And sighs.
Would that I could
Gaze with quietude
Into those eyes,
But no, I should not intrude
Bits of data
Fly.
Sooner or later
I shall die.
I
Wonder why
I
Should care
Where
My words will go
For I know
That the winter snow
Will cover all.
Perhaps a few may recall
A word I said
When I am dead.
But in my graveyard plot
I shall know it not.
Why this conceit
On my part
that others should repeat
Let alone understand what lay in my heart?
I would
Do good
But know
I have not always done so.
Sitting here in this winter weather
I see a feather
Float on high
Through indifferent sky.
The wind will sigh
When I am gone
But not for me,
Though I shall be free
As wind and sea.
You stayed for a while
And made me smile.
Then, when you where gone
I thought on
Guile
And those who choose
To lose
Their time
In rhyme.
And how verse can not feed
The poet’s every need
You wag your tail in sleep
And I see
In thee
Me.
Should I smile or weep?
