up the apples and pears

up the apples and pears,

to seek the lib’ry’s fares,

take a book to a nook,

a new land in your hand,

live and learn without a care.

As the grass grows

As the grass grows,

My body slows

And I can’t find the time to mow.

At ankle height,

I’ve lost the fight 

And I feel my head getting tight.

When it’s up to the knee,

I’m rooted as a tree

And I can watch but cannot flee.

As it reaches the waist

I should be in haste

For this is not the time to be chaste.

‘cause then it’s at the chest,

It’s time to confess

Why I long since left my best.

As it engulfs my shoulder,

I’m only getting older,

And I wish every day I had been bolder -

But it’s drowned my head.

And soon I’ll be dead.

Because of all the things I never said.

Beyond and I am gone

Wishing that I’d shone,

Raised my hand and spoken up, 

Opened my eyes, woken up.

The Forever Grid

The forever grid looms,

The forever grid dooms -

At this, it excels.

The forever grid weaves,

The forever grid thieves - 

Using your intel.

It stretches on eternally,

Blinds you, makes your head dizzy.

It stretches on infernally,

Grinds you, makes your mind fizzy;

Frothy, a pool of despair,

It mocks you, leaves you blue,

Potty, the fool of nowhere -

It mocks you, but what to do?

The forever grid takes,

The forever grid slakes -

On your brain’s bowl.

The forever grid rules,

We’re the forever grid’s tools - 

Just give in.

It has your soul.

file away and forget

file away and forget:

close the notebook,

it’s the wrong nook;

so move on.

file away and forget:

put your pen down,

erase that sad frown

and move on.

file away and forget:

it’s your catchphrase,

code for hatch raise;

to move on.

file away and forget:

write it big or little,

make it official -

you’ve moved on.

Proustian Bread

I don’t know that much about Proust,

But I know tastes bring home to roost

Memories that will sit and take root,

Transport you, give a nostalgic boost.

At the weekend I made my first loaf,

After months of yeast procrastination.

Eating slices opened up pictures

And scenes in my imagination -

Bread made by my mother 

With salad in summer, 

That bread still warm from the roast.

Soup filled up with croutons,

Morning breakfasts in Bruton,

At my Aunt’s - all kinds of toast.

Just a taste or two

And away my mind flew

To pastures of plenty and past.

Just a taste or two

And away my mind flew

To remembrances perfectly cast.

Of Marcel I don’t know a great tot,

But I know about hiding, of memory’s lot:

To wait until a trigger is wrought,

And mind novels are written in a shot.