I've been sneezing for the last few minutes,
my eyes watering,
my nose running,
I think I've developed allergies
to my impending age,
there's so much more behind me
than
in front of me,
fewer ducks in a row.

At times things seem so convoluted
that my mind has wound the circuit
twice, before it's even entered
through the thought's front door

and words pour out in raging passion
all denying form or fashion
over paper pencil flashing
inspiration madly scores

Then sitting back, the write to mull on
mind now blank, the ideas all gone
poor formed symbols, woebegone
I understand one word in four

First two little real stories:-

A wise professor was asked:
What is the meaning of life?

He put his hand into his inner pocket
and pulled out a little piece of mirror
and told
that since he was little
this piece of mirror had followed him
wherever he went,
he often took it out
and tried to shine light into the dark corners;

this he felt he was doing for other people,
but that he was only a medium.

He then declared that this was his meaning of life.

Floating across the surface,
a human speck admist
flotsam and jetsam,
I drift away from you,
into the sunset where
I'd rather be.

The wind huffs again
in a little cough
urged by my pestering prayer.

Away, away I go,
with that cold bread
damp with sea-salt
and clenched by
a determined fist.

I watch the rays of sunlight
set to a redish hell
of playful lights,
dancing like water nymphs
across my face.

Apple trees in the back
bearing lip red fruit
sweeter than any sugar cane

A pear tree
in the front
small grass green fruit
growing off of it
its fruit often used
for batting practice

In the middle
a tree of peaches grows
with a small anti squirrel cone
around its middle
and the juicy ripe fruit
making these rodents’ mouths water

The small wooden arbor
of grapevines with their
bunches and bunches
of purple sour grapes
hanging there
too sour to be eaten

The sun burn down into the resting arms of night
lights off; are now on
settling scene Scorsese, De Niro joint
eye of storm is over
restless youth appear from nowhere
baby vampires snipping dead eyes

save aged stories
to be told, written scripts a new Capote
how wise to let the vines ripen
as the Sabbath evening unfurl its wings

Your hands amaze me.
Strong yet tender
as the lightest touch from them
sends goosebumps trailing across my arms.
So soft and smooth
as you run your thumb across my cheek
-almost as an afterthought
before you turn away
and leave me standing here.
Breathless.

On an afternoon of rain and wind
thoughts go where they shouldn't stray
and wander forward to the end.
Who shall leave and who shall stay?

I don't think I could bear to see
my life's love lying cold and still.
So selfish as the wish might be
let me be first to top that hill.

But, should I be the one bereft
wait just beyond the crest for me.
I know my heart will soon be cleft
and I'll catch up to you shortly.

Affirmed

the now departed
turned into then
yesterday ticks into
a distant when

once so fresh
now obsolete
ideas of mine
I shan't delete

I thought them through
as I have stated
I refuse to see them
with death now slated

for by whose rule
was it debated
that good ideas
devolve to dated

I tried to write a sonnet, like The Bard,
to apt describe my feelings for you, love,
but it's not easy - rather, it is hard -
the words seem trite when push comes down to shove.

Comparison to bright-lit summer day,
too hot for gold complexion to adore;
rough winds, thus startling darling buds of May -
one finds that it has all been said before.