An insect
Brushed against my head.
I showed it respect,
For soon it will be dead
And an insect
Is fragile
As a girl’s smile.
A kiss.
Or the bliss
Of bed.
And the wind blew chill
And will
Do still,
When I am dead.
For now, I hear
Vehicles passing near
This place of bone
And stone,
And will spend a little time
In rhyme
Throw a stone into a brook
And look
As the water ripples.
Then, when the ripples are gone
You may
Ponder, on yonder
Setting sun, or turn away
For to think on
Days end
Can be painful, my friend.
A girl gave me daffodils today.
I said
“Thank you” (as I ought).
Some of them are, already, dead
50 soon.
The moon
Will wax and wane
As it must.
And the sun will rise and set
On my joy and regret.
Everything will remain
The same.
And the dust
Laughs at my lust
A train going somewhere
Or nowhere
Then back
Along this well-worn track.
Not knowing
Where I am going
On this train that
Travels forward, then back
Along the same old track.
I alight
At night
At this well known station
But I know
That I shall go
Forward and back
Traversing this well-worn track
And I wil,
Without trumpet or thrill
Reach my destination
Earlier today, a colleague who I haden’t seen for a couple of days sat next to me.
“Did you enjoy your leave?” I asked.
“I was working at home earlier in the week, then I was sitting at the other side of the office yesterday. We are like ships that pass in the night”, she replied laughing.
The phrase “ships that pass in the night” has always had a slight ring of melancholy beauty about it for me, and my colleague’s humorous remark caused me to go in search of poems on that theme. Below are 2 such poems, both of which are in the public domain:
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
—
Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing;
I look far out into the pregnant night,
Where I can hear a solemn booming gun
And catch the gleaming of a random light,
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing;
For I would hail and check that ship of ships.
I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,
My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips,
And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.
O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing,
O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!
Is there no hope for me? Is there no way
That I may sight and check that speeding bark
Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing
(Paul Lawrence Dunbar)
I see
The key
To my clock
On the bedside table,
As we …
I am unable
To block
The advance
Of time,
Although I can retrace
In rhyme
Many a dance
And half-remembered face.
The clock’s hands are still
Though mine move
And will,
Until
My inner clock
Receives a final shock
Me reading my poem ‘Tick Tock’.
As a child, I had a round Goldfish bowl.
The fish their whole
Lives spent
(I thought content)
Swimming in never ending circles in that plastic tank.
The frank
Man or woman may
Perhaps smile ruefully and say
“I have spent a day
Or more in that self-same way,
But at some future time I will
Be still”.
