I dream of travelling again by train,
to watch the countryside flow idly by
and change from day to night, from sun to rain:
expansive forests, rivers, changing sky
in slow procession past my window – I,
according to the mood and hour, to rest
or read a while, eat lunch, or watch the best
the landscape offers, and at length the sea
across a little distance; then at last
arrival … and reunion, you and me!
A dizain for dVerse.
I get older and older, and it looms
or seems to. And so I start to wonder,
when will the night descend? In the meantime,
how shall I go on, keep my good comfort
and the remaining pleasures of my days?
My niece in Castlemaine, son in Melbourne,
if asked, might want to house and care for me
(and I could pay them most of my pension).
In both cities, old friends … keep ageing too.
I choose (once more): here. The rivers, mountains …
Written for Poets and Storytellers United, at Friday Writings #200: To the Power of Ten. (I'm not expecting to pop off any time soon, but I'll turn 86 next month, so one does begin to think that the end must be coming a little closer.)
Any 10-line poem is called a decastitch. This specific version, unrhymed and with also 10 syllables per line, is known as the Ten-by-Ten. It's supposed to be one stanza only, but mine fell naturally into two, so I am calling it a Ten-by-Ten variant.
It’s the one that doubles you over,
takes you by surprise, the one
you didn’t see coming, the low blow
landing so hard it stops your breath.
Or is it the one you yourself deliver
out of the blue – too sudden
for advance warning, too swift
to restrain, too instant in rage?
We all know it, don’t we,
from both sides of the fist –
from when we were kids, still
(but never again) unaware.
‘Now you know how it feels,’
I was told, ‘You know
not to do it.’ Interesting
philosophy, quite common then.
We seem, collectively, to have lost
or abandoned that line of thought.
Retaliation becomes our chosen way.
We forget centuries of wisdom.
(’War begets war.’ ‘Two wrongs
don’t make a right.’ ‘Return
good for evil.’ ’Do as you would be
done by.’ ‘Stop and count to 10.’)
Pretty soon, the world delivers
so many gut punches, so fast,
most of us can barely stand.
They no longer amaze, just weaken.
Written for Friday Writings #199 at Poets and Storytellers United.
