The old barn moans and groans
as bones creak on this coolish day.
Stepping outside into fields of corn
I watch the winds conspire with
the grass to tickle the setting sun.
From a dark cloud drifting above,
a lone snowflake floats down and
stings the tip of my cold red nose.
I express a tinge of sadness as
my summer dream drifts away.
Twilight time chases the day away
near the dead crab apple trees on
the old farm where I once roamed.
In between the river
And the dim distant past
I spent my solitary childhood
In the quaint and murderous valleys
Of this gently wooded townland
Of a long forgotten sub-king
Whose sole remains are earthworks
And ancient brittle thorns
Where I hid from moonlit figures
Silent soldiers of all ages
In the cool sweet mist that rises
Through the rowans and whin bushes
And which sings softly of
Condolences that assure me I am
Dreaming and my mind will shortly
Flutter like the damselflies
That dodge and swerve from bats
And birds and broken swinging branches
That fall between the newly
Planted birches that were
Put there by my father
To rejuvenate this land
More at http://www.dantindall.com.
There is a certain kind of ugly beauty
that relaxes the body and numbs the brain
the taste of smooth vermouth
a slow swallow that takes you to
the traditional place of escape
until that day when past becomes prologue
you’re stuck in reverse
history looks at you with a confrontational smirk
making you quiver
knocking you to the ground
turning you inside out
dragging you back
to the ugly truth
I was a 40 year old
kid with a dream
Then I was a 59 year
old kid with a nicer dream
Always been eager,
I guess you could say
Never quite feeling my age
I wanted to sing on the stage
but no one could stand my
voice, wanted to write nice words
No one wanted to read.
Just an 80 year old kid
with a jolly little dream.
I feel the calendar lies
Though I know
Its purpose
To record accurate time
Days and months
Footnoting special events
But it tells me
I am 72
Officially old
How I fight every day
Its certainty
That I should start
The process of crumble
Lending myself
More to the rocking chair
I will not demur
Taking the easy path
Conceding to frailty
And though
I know
I cannot win
The war is on