Sur Le Tard Sequences
PART ONE
Consummation
After Montaigne
Your granny should have told you
age may be sugar-coated,
but its nutrient value
is how it’s negotiated.
The protein is protean,
embodying digestion.
Ingredients are unknown.
Though open to suggestion.
Take it to be life’s puree
with mortal subtractions
from dried juice and the jury
of medical infractions.
Ruminating will not whet
the appetite. What’s to come’s
menu is just what you get.
Forget the consumption,
and leave it to the last breath
which you won’t know that it is.
Inspire for a happy death.
The expiring you won’t miss.
Knowing Me
My essential self is a shack
that I hide in. Door at the back.
But it’s bolted without a key.
So, it’s hard to get to know me.
The front is plastered, forbidding.
But it is a façade. At a squeeze
the loose fittings will let you in.
My roof has a skylight. Easier
to fly out than drop in. That’s for
me to rise up and take my leave.
Once gone, you can search the attic
for mementoes of a being
not house-trained. The only relic
is a dust trail. I don’t come clean.
Birthday Poem
I am too old for my own good
And so, I count the years backward
No one believes me, though they should
as how you feel is one’s best card
with days numbered. I’m a good age.
So should pass muster as a sage
in obituaries. Mill to the grist,
but not enough for a death wish.
Living on in the minds of others
is uncertain. People forget
even the fond words of mothers.
I won’t be posterity’s pet
So, living on, I’ll have my say.
Every dogged poet has his day.
Nasty
I’m a paragon of vice.
And most people find me nice
They wouldn’t, if what I think
was known. I’d end in the clink.
That’s if they reported me.
But fear – scandal, legal fee -
will save my skin. They say naught
and feel Christian. I’m not caught.
Nevertheless, my secret
by osmotic means can let
others in. But telepathy’s
transference could turn nasty.
For if looks could kill I’d pass
with side glances as a mass
murderer, but eye to eye
it’s I’m more likely to die
Still second thoughts save me with
others. I’m a hypocrite
who keeps my hands clean (they’re gloved).
But I wouldn’t say that I’m loved.
Nice
All my life I was a close-shaver
in getting away with bad behavior.
In a better world I’ll stop the sinning,
redeemed by being a life-saver.
and so, everything will go swimming.
I’ll demonstrate on a beginner.
Throwing him in, then fishing him out.
Near drownings will find I’m a winner
with my backslapping and mouth to mouth.
I’m salvation and in at a shout.
Still if the victim doesn’t come live
I’ll be a hero for just trying,
not as a martyr to the dying
but as a saver who can survive.
In Camera
In the waiting room of death’s door
I ask am I like the others?
Mirrors I look in no more.
Unreal images make me shudder.
I could see myself in their eyes,
but in the twilight, they’re half closed,
and my reflection in them dies.
I let my look in peace repose.
Bad Day
In the league of things
where now do I stand?
Not being kith or kin,
or part of the band
of friends for nights out,
my status is in doubt.
I’ve been relegated
to an after-thought.
My feelings are rated
‘granted’ or as ‘ought
to be expected’ with
an out-of-date halfwit.
To be fair I squat in
my guest life with the blind
pulled down, an alien
in my own mind.
I cannot face the light.
And choose to say good night.