Senex

Oh, would I could  subdue the flesh.
Which sadly troubles me.
And then perhaps could view the flesh, as though I never knew the flesh, and merry misery.

poem from a friend

                                                                         

The child I was, I'm told I was, has faded now from view. With innocence and make believe and childhood friends I knew.

Teenage days (if they were) seemed not to long to last,

for such memories are cloudy in a distant, distant past.

A young man I'm sure I was for logic says its so.

But only through photographs and music do I know.

There was an age before this..............

nom-nom-nom

                                        A white cotton tablecloth, a silver tea spoon,
                                        a waitress in a uniform, a summer afternoon.
                                        From fruity Fat Rascals to moist sponge cakes,
                                        Cru Ganache chocolate and sweet Apple Bakes.
                                        Fondant fancies, Yorkshire curd tart, they're all
                                        on the menu I know it off by heart.
                                        Here in Betties it's never to late, for afternoon
                                        tea in old Harrogate.
                                     
                                     
                                       

Two wrongs don't make a right. But three rights make a left.

            A smile painted on a plaster face
            is sad as sad can be,
            she hides it well but I can tell
            she's doing it for me.

            The hurt inside can't be denied
             but no-one wants to see,
             the upset, the sadden look,
             the painted smile is on for me.

             The colourful smile only last awhile
             we see beneath the paint.
             It's not the same but who's can blame
             there is no plaster saint.

I just feel older than yesterday.

There is a cave in Kashmir ( Amarnath cave) the most sacred spot on earth to a worshipper of the Hindu god Siva. The pilgrims who journey there are old;

sometimes sick too. Many of them die on the high passes, their tiny tents swept away by the sudden rainstorms. Their relatives do not weep.

To them this does not matter, even the arrival- which must always be on a night of full moon is not more vital than the journey. 

Many know they will never arrive. It is the journey that is holy, and so it is to Existentialists; Life is more important than death.

What ever they do, men are too anxious to get to the end.

The sex act, eating a fine meal, playing golf, there is a temptation to rush, gobble or run.

That is foolish, for one should move at a relaxed pace through life doing the work one enjoys instead of chasing ambition helter-skelter, pursuing one's ultimate death.

Fake or Fortune? (I think it's a Constable)

                                  The art of growing a moustache has not been wasted on me.

                                   I've had a chevron or handlebar since I was twenty three.

                                  'staches are named after people,  Franz Joseph, Magnum, Dali,

                                   my wish is to be so famous that one would be named after me

                                  To be six foot tall and handsome, broad shouldered and narrow

                                   at the hip, and a little bit of hair that if shaped with care,

                                   works wonders above your top lip. 

                                   Somethings in life are not needed, gold rings satin and lace.

                                   But a moustache (oh, a moustache ) is vital to a manly face.

                                  

                                                 

                                   
                     
 
 

                                          

To dance beneath a diamond sky with one hand waving free

                                            Sitting on the beach in the gloaming,
                                            watching as the sea takes in the sun,
                                            thinking of the times and how l love you,
                                            knowing that you're the only one.
                       
                                            Bringing back a sense of happy childhood,
                                            something that is lost but not forgot,
                                            l saw you in my dreams before l knew you,
                                            love in mind and time is never lost.
                                           

We'll always have Paris

                       

  Paris, where businessmen
  become poet, poets become
  alcoholics, alcoholics become
  philosophers and philosophers
  realise it's better to be a
  businessman.

"diminished expectations"

        A Moment In Time

All those moments have passed.
Gone, lost in time.
A snap shot but no photograph.
Just an image in my mind.
Muted colours of what once was,
but is no more.