Poetry

Author: Various

1-3-05 was last itemposted for Haswelll entitled A Whistle in the Night

Items since include in order up to Shortcake:

Is spent --
I can't make time unwind.

The time since Noah left the Ark,
Is there, lost in pasts growing dark.
The time that goes back to the start,

When someone lit that tiny spark
That grew to be the Universe,
For better, or perhaps, for worse.
The other way, far up ahead,
When the Universe we know, is dead.
Then, can I guess, with awful crack,
The whole of time will snap right back.

If that's the case, then every when
Will be as if it had never been.
But will the bell time's ending rang,
Also set off another Bang?


There, I have prophesied and wrote,
And killed off time, the final mote.
But note, I also prophesy
Another time will start to fly.
All this, of course, has naught to do
With you and I, or I and you,

Clive

THE CHILL

The fall came late upon the land
That year,
But still, at last it came,
And almost instantly, it seemed,
Was gone.
And winter cold was here.
There came a snow
That closed up all the schools
In half the State,

And most of every other thing
That to occur
Must have an open road
To travel.
I heaped the snow against the house.

The snow
Though cold itself,
Is rather cheap and insulating.
But no!
It wouldn't stay,
There came the rain
And went away the snow.

But then there came the cold.
The wood
Great luck, I had aplenty,
Seemed to melt,
As had the snow,

For the thermometer
Said twenty nine below.
I carried wood
I stoked the fire,
But only ashes built up higher.

I knew that folk
Who had of fuel a lesser heap
Were going broke.
The price of propane gas,
I knew'd be going higher,
While I need only carry wood
And stoke the fi-er.

Twould pass, I knew,
This chill.
It always had.
But while twas here
I had to feel a little sad
For those who burned but gas.

Clive

MAUNDERINGS

Of a dozing poet on a frigid day in

January


I left the Microwave on High, the coffee
Got so hot I couldn't drink it.
So I sat beside the fire and tried to find
A thought, so I could think it.
It's past mid morn and all I've done
Is stoke the fire.

I can't wake up, nor doze enough,
To get the sleep that I require.
Old Farmer said we'd get
A cold spell in mid January.
We got it, now as far as I'm
Concerned, it need not tarry.

The spring, he says,
Will be quite late.
It may not really get here.
To grow sweet corn,
Will be quite tough,
Or that is what I now fear.
This doesn't make a lot of sense,

But still, I've got to write it.
It keeps on coming as I doze,
No use for me to fight it.
Somebody said he guessed that I
Must think in rhyme.
He may be right, I know that I
Dream in it half the time.

I need to get outside and walk
But I sit here by the fire
And cannot get it warm enough
To cause me to perspire.
I need someone to talk to ---
The cat does not approve.
When I start writing rubbish
She just gets up and moves.

My thoughts turn to the Yukon
And my old lead dog, Ranger.
The hair upon his back would rise
At approach of a stranger.
He differed from the others --
He was half wolf, hap three quarters.
Seemed sometimes he could almost talk.
I know he was much smarter.

I think it may start warming up,
The sun just poked his nose through
And stabbed a ray into my eye,
To show me what he could do.
The howling winds of winter
Haven't been around, this spell.
It just got cold and colder
And then got cold as --- well,
It has been colder here.
I recall twenty seven below
Once, since I've been living here.
It ne'er gets so bad it can't get worse,
Or so good that it can't get better,
So dry that it can't get drier,
Or so wet that it can't get wetter.
Oh well, the spring will come at last
And after that the summer
Which, if the Old Farmer has it right,
Will likely be a bummer.

The fire at last got warm enough
To start the perspire on my brow.
So, hap I'd best get moving,
Do a little something now.

Clive

HAVING FUN


I'd not been mad if I had died
At seventy and some,
Although I had a yen to see
The turning of the Century
And the millennium.


If it had chanced that I had went
At eighty and a span --
I could not wander any more,
Though I still walked
Along the shore
Of old Lake Michigan.

If I had died at eighty five,
I guess I would been dead
When eighty seven came and went
And eighty eight
I'd not been here to see
The turn of the Millennium
And of the Century.


If I had died at ninety,
Or somewhere thereabout,
I would have cluttered up
The world as long
As my Dad was about.


But I am nearing ninety two
And there are some
Things I can't do
And others I do not want to.

I've gone through things,
That would have killed
A less bone headed goon -
I saw the Doc the other day,
I guess I will not get away
At any time real soon.


I'll take things as they come, I guess,
Though sometimes I'm tired
Of the mess --
Of writing verse I am not done--
As long as I can walk a mile
I guess I'll hang around a while
And keep on having fun.
Clive


I WONDER

When winter's winds
Are in the east,
Round here, the weather's fit
For neither man nor beast.

But that stupid horse is out there,
With a snow drift on his back,
The while, fast as he makes them,
The snow fills up his tracks.

The barn cats are in the straw room,
With not a nose outside,
Unlike the horse, in a blizzard,
They seek a warm place to hide.

But the horse grew up on the prairie,
A beast of the open range,
Where he had to face the weather,
Don't reckon that he can change.

The house cat sits on the window sill,
Looking out at the swirling storm.
Does she give thanks, in a catty way,
That she's inside, safe and warm?

I sit here warm, by the woodstove
And dream away the day.
I think of my lead dog, Ranger,
And the Yukon far away.

I think of a day on the trail,
In weather much worse than this,
And wonder why, now snug and warm,
It's those tough old days that I miss?

Clive



CAT ON MY FEET


I wake up in the night,
With need for changing my position.
I am really only half awake
And not doing what I'm wishing


My feet seem to be anchored
And I know that something's wrong,
But since I cannot seem to move,
I am wide awake ere long.


The cat is sleeping on my feet!
Oh! Why do I abide her?
When that little cat lies on my feet
She weighs more than a tiger.


I tell her to remove herself,
In no uncertain tone.
She doesn't hear a thing I say,
Sleeps as if she's made of stone.


My calves are starting in to cramp
But she keeps right on snoring.
At last I give a mighty kick
And send the poor beast soaring.


She lands halfway across the room
And starts in making tracks --
I hear her going up the stairs.
She swears she wont come back.


Come night, when I crawl into bed,
That cat cannot be found,
And at the dawn, when I arise,
She still is not around.


Still, she shows up for breakfast,
Sleeps on the bed all day,
But when it comes my bedtime,
That cat is somewhere far away.


But another day or two goes by
And she's back on my bed.
She is not sleeping on my feet,
But snuggled to my back instead.

But her memory is rather short,
And history will repeat.
Before the month is over,
I'll find her back upon my feet.


So, half a dozen times a year,
She gets kicked off my bed,
And swears each time she'll not
Come back until she knows I'm dead


So, she goes sailing through the air,
Much the same, time after time,
Though she well knows the consequence,
She repeats the same old crime.

Clive

SOMEWHERE


Out there somewhere
Beyond the air,
Beyond the sky.
Some other where,
I think I know the route.


And if I'm right --
I'm on my way
And when I get --
Well, anyway,
I'll not be hereabout.


So ship the oar,
Or set the sail,
Or grab a cougar
By the tail
And give the brute a clout.


We may never
Find a place.
All of life's
A silly race.
He turned and looked
Me in the face,
And said, "There is no doubt."


I don't know where
We went to,
But we had
A lot of fun.
When ever things
Got boring
We took it on the run..

Now I'm old and wind-broke
And too darn weak to shout
I cant go any farther
So I will have to stay,
I'd close the book tomorrow
But I cannot get away
I guess the tale is finished
And it's time to turn me out.


Clive



SORRY ABOUT THAT
Or Am I ?



I don't know where they come from
And I don't know where they'll go.
When one starts to hit the paper,
What will happen I don't know.


I keep a clipboard and a pen
Beside my coffee chair --
My cat thinks it's time for petting
Whene'er I sit down there.


When it's time to write, I have to,
Though sometimes I'd rather not,
Sometimes I drink cold coffee,
Though I much prefer it hot.


And that's where I wrote Somewhere,
Much to the cat's disgust,
She don't believe a word I say,
When I tell her write I must.


When the words begin to tumble
I don't know what they will say
But, though sometimes I disapprove,
I write them anyway.


Sometimes, just to be obnoxious,
I put one in the E Mail,
That I'm sure will bring objections,
And that very seldom fails.


But soon or late, as we all do,
I will leave this vale of tears.
In the meantime, I'll write poetry,
In what e'er form it appears.


Clive

Lesson

So, I took a lesson from
The Reader's Digest,
And I condensed it.
I got it down to half the size,
Two hundred fifty.

Then I looked at it some more
And really squeezed it,
And got it down
To about one fifty.

Then I dropped off,
The rather lengthy, introduction,
And I decided it could do
Without appendix A and B,
And so, at last, I got it down
To eighty eight short pages --



Then I went over it once more -
And threw it in the trash.
It did give me some iadees
For several poems.
I wrote just one,
And here it is.



I've wasted days and days
And boiled it down to this,
Which I suppose,
Took less than thirty minutes,
And I suspect
There is a lesson here,
If you can find it.

Clive

TIRED

I am tired of Doctors
And big Doctor bills,
Tired of Prescriptions
And hands-full of pills,

Of being sleepy all day
And not sleeping at night,
Tired of muddled up hearing
And slow going sight.

Tired of Charley Horses,
That's leg cramps, at dawn,
Tired of reading the obits
Of friends who are gone.

I like to split wood
But I get tired too soon,
Tired of planting a garden
For squash bug and coon.

Tired of being lonesome
For friends who are gone.
Tired of rising each morning
And just dragging along.

Tired of driving on roads
With potholes that wreck tires.
Tired, here in late April
With still keeping night fires.

Tired of pains in my neck
And pains in my back,
Tired of dishes to wash,
There is always a stack.

Tired of this weary world
Where I'm wondering why
Everyone else moves on,
But I'm too tired to die.

Clive


LIFE

When I was tiny
Life was easy,
Someone else
Did all the work.

That I would ever live to ninety
Was a thought that did not lurk.
The hardest work I had to do
Was in growing like a weed,

Gulp it down and pack it on.
To grow was my one need.
Then I tried to learn to walk
And life at once got rougher.

Skinned knees, stubbed toes and howling pain,
But I was getting tougher.
So life went on from day to day,
My only work was play.

I did not know what lay ahead,
But be that as it may.
Then one day, "Bring me some wood."
At first I thought it fun

But gradually the notion came,
My life of only play was done.
At first the work took little time,
But time I felt was waste,

To get it done and back to play
I worked in frantic haste.
One day they sent me off to school.
I took it on the run.

Here were other kids to join
In having lots more fun.
Some kids objected to the fact
That they had to go to school.

Was their highest ambition
To grow up to be a fool
They did not think of school as work,
For they did not get paid.

They did not think of it as play,
For to do it they were made.
Carrying wood or water,
Which they must do, I'm sure,

They didn't think of that as work.
That was just "doing chores".
That I thought doing 'rithmetic,
Was as much fun as playing ball,

Or enjoyed studying History,
They couldn't understand at all.
Somewhere in my growing up,
I found a need to wait,

To seek a patch of solitude
And sit and meditate.
While, the bigger that I got,
The more work there was to do

And that I could enjoy it
I began to find was true.
Sometimes play was quite hard work
And sometimes work was pain -

"we've got to get that hay inside,
before it starts to rain!"
as I grew older, it was plain
that man was meant to work,

and since work needed doing,
It made no sense to shirk.
I found it hard, quite often,
To find a joint twixt work and play,

For I worked hard at playing
And had fun at work all day.
Life is harsh and sometimes cruel,
I have smiled and I have sighed.

It grabs you by the throat and shakes you.
I have laughed and I have cried.
Life's been hard, I have been tested.
That's the way it needs to be.

Without tears, there'd be no laughter.
Never chained, you can't be free.
Now I near the final curtain.
No more time now for romance.

But someone's playing Beer Barrel Polka!
Come on girls, it's time to dance!

Clive
LIFE


When I was tiny
Life was easy,
Someone else
Did all the work.

That I would ever live to ninety
Was a thought that did not lurk.
The hardest work I had to do
Was in growing like a weed,

Gulp it down and pack it on.
To grow was my one need.
Then I tried to learn to walk
And life at once got rougher.

Skinned knees, stubbed toes and howling pain,
But I was getting tougher.
So life went on from day to day,
My only work was play.

I did not know what lay ahead,
But be that as it may.
Then one day, "Bring me some wood."
At first I thought it fun

But gradually the notion came,
My life of only play was done.
At first the work took little time,
But time I felt was waste,

To get it done and back to play
I worked in frantic haste.
One day they sent me off to school.
I took it on the run.

Here were other kids to join
In having lots more fun.
Some kids objected to the fact
That they had to go to school.

Was their highest ambition
To grow up to be a fool?
They did not think of school as work,
For they did not get paid.

They did not think of it as play,
For to do it they were made.
Carrying wood or water,
Which they must do, I'm sure,

They didn't think of that as work.
That was just "doing chores".
That I thought doing 'rithmetic,
Was as much fun as playing ball,

Or enjoyed studying History,
They couldn't understand at all.
Somewhere in my growing up,
I found a need to wait,

To seek a patch of solitude
And sit and meditate.
While, the bigger that I got,
The more work there was to do

And that I could enjoy it
I began to find was true.
Sometimes play was quite hard work
And sometimes work was pain -

"we've got to get that hay inside,
before it starts to rain!"
as I grew older, it was plain
that man was meant to work,

and since work needed doing,
It made no sense to shirk.
I found it hard, quite often,
To find a joint twixt work and play,

For I worked hard at playing
And had fun at work all day.
Life is harsh and sometimes cruel,
I have smiled and I have sighed.

It grabs you by the throat and shakes you.
I have laughed and I have cried.
Life's been hard, I have been tested.

That's the way it needs to be.
Without tears, there'd be no laughter.
Never chained, you can't be free.
Now I near the final curtain.
No more time now for romance.
But someone's playing Beer Barrel Polka!
Come on girls, it's time to dance!

Clive

ORDEAL

When spring came north
Again this year,
It caught me unawares.
Fate decided I'd got too smart
And kicked me down the stairs.
I landed in a rubbish heap.
I wish they'd left me there.

I've seen so many doctors
I can't recall their names.
Most of them saw me coming.
They were not playing games.
A zig-zag scar across my palm,
A different pair of specs --
The more they tried to do for me,
The worse things seemed to get.

I've been to the Emergency Room
Two or three times, or twenty.
The first time that I went there,
For me, would been a plenty.
They checked up on my poor insides
With X Rays and telescopes.
They examined body fluids
With mirrors and microscopes.

They got some cat to scan me,
My black cat does that often.
I suspected 'twas about time
To order up a coffin.
There were young and pretty nurses.
I never saw them, heaven knows,
But I used to go to movies
And they were in all the shows.

I do recall some nurses,
Maybe half as old as me.
They were competent and gentle
And they get high scores from me.
The doctors poked and prodded
Till, off down in my bladder,
They found a granite quarry,
Which only made them madder.

They moved in heavy equipment,
Rock crushers, mining stuff.
To clear out that rock quarry
I am sure they did enough.
I was not in good condition
When I reached Recovery Hall,
But I guess that I was lucky
To get that far at all.

I had started as Out Patient
But they wouldn't let me out --
If they had I'd not be writing this
I haven't any doubt.
What started out as one day
Got up to nearer seven.

But for those gentle nurses
I'd be in Hell, or Heaven.
Spring has waxed
And spring has waned
An I, in pain and sorrow,
Have pain and trouble and to spare,
If you should need to borrow.

I'll need to live for several years
To harvest all the good days
I've bought with pain and trouble --
It almost leaves me dazed.
But summer starts tomorrow,
The calendar just told me,
And, thank the Lord, I've lots of friends,
To love and coax and hold me.

ToR

Tired old Rover


Clive W Haswell

SKUNK


When I've lived to be a hundred
And died for quite a spell,
Then the tales that I forgot about
There will be no one to tell


There are a lot of stories
That I sometimes think about.
Some of them are tellable
Some I never would let out.


The time my horse disturbed a skunk.
It raised an awful smell.
It does look sort of funny now,
When the tale I start to tell.


The horse took off like a thunder-bolt,
It took a mile to slow him down.
I had to go back and clean up -
I never did get into town.


I finally got it off of me
And, at last, off of my clothes.
What it took to get that saddle clean
There aint no one else that knows.


The horse went to the pasture -
He got called a lot of things.
I didn't try to saddle him
Until the following spring.

Don't know what happened to the skunk.
I suppose he rambled free.
He'd ought to died a lingering death
After what he did to me!

Clive


TODAY

July 22, 2005


When I look back on today
And the work that I have done,
I see, perhaps, a future
Where life may still be fun.


I've done more real work today
Than since Munson turned me loose.
I have finally felt like doing,
Nor looked for an excuse.


The old man may be old,
So it took a little longer,
But day by day, at last,
I do get a little stronger.


I'll be back to splitting wood,
I hope Dan will fix the splitter.
I'd hate to go to sledge and wedge,
But I will not be a quitter.

Clive
TOO MANY BOOKS

I have just got a notion
That I've got too many books.
There's stacks and heaps and shelves
Most anywhere I looks.


There are at least five
With bookmarks where I'm reading.
There may be more on order,
Which I'm probably not needing.

My reading time has shrunk
And today, the way it turns,
I wasn't reading one of them,
I was reading Robert Burns.

Upstairs there's books on shelves
And in stacks upon the floor
I've been trying to sort them
But I keep buying more.

What's worse, I keep writing,
Which uses up the time
When I might be reading,
And produces silly rhyme.

I don't know where I'm headed,
At the age of ninety two.
I've maybe got a screw loose ---
Well, maybe you have, too!


After all, you just read that.



Clive


BACK AT START


The dishes wouldn't take a bath,
So I had to wash them up.
That's why I was a little late
In sitting down to sup.

I had eaten lunch for breakfast
And I didn't have a pup.
The cat would not co-operate
So I had to give that up.

The mailman came so early
That he got here after four.
I'd used up all his postage
So he hadn't any more.

Since I couldn't mail a letter,
I had to go by plane.
But the pilot said I'd have to walk
Because of heavy rain.

I had a bulky carry on,
Mostly beer and Epsom Salts.
There wasn't room to polka
And no one knew how to waltz.

We got there before breakfast,
Just about mid afternoon.
The mortician said to try again,
Twas the wrong phase of the moon.

So I got out of jail free,
Which was a heavy blow.
If I had it to do over
I don't think I would go.


Told you I had a screw loose.

Clive

RAIN CAME


The rain came down,
With thunder claps for warning.
The rain came down,
Quite early Sunday morning.


It had been so long
Since rain had touched the land,
What was this strange sound?
The cat could not understand.


From window sill to window sill
She rushed, in mad dismay.
What was this strange patter
That would not go away?


It rumbled off into the east
And died to silence deep.
The cat jumped up on the bed
And soon was fast asleep.


The questions of the moment,
Answered or answered not,
With a few passing minutes,
By cats, are soon forgot.


Wit us, it is much different.
Though it rained quite a bit,
We know it wont do much good
If more does not soon follow it.


Clive

WONDERLAND OCTOBER


is in Wonderland,
October does not come.
There's always golden autumn leaves.
Some time I'll bring you some.


Morning's always crisp and frosty,
The sky is always clear --
I think I've said October
Is the best month of the year.


In October, back in Michigan,
A howling wind may blow,
You may get freezing rain
Or, some years, a foot of snow.


But Wonderland's October,
The sky is always clear
And October's bright blue weather,
You know, is always here.


So, when October's nasty,
I just pack up and go
To Wonderland's October,
Where the maples almost glow.


You'll hear the honk of Wondergeese,
Who do not fly away,
The squirrels don't need to store nuts,
There'll be more every day.


It is Michigan's mid August,
But I may go tonight,
To Wonderland's October,
Where everything is bright.

Join me there? Clive

AUGUST 21,2005
Young Again Dreaming

I suppose it is unlikely
That I'll ever be young again,
But the young me is in there,
Fighting hard, and it's a strain.


I recall some things I did --
The trees I used to climb --
I couldn't do that any more,
Even if I had the time.


I seem to recall a summer
In the Far Lonesome some where --
I did a lot of dreaming,
Wasn't really going any where.


My equipment was a little salt
And a beat up frying pan.
I didn't care much where I was
And I didn't have a plan.


Down hill on skis in winter,
In an uncharted wood --
How easy to have broke my neck --
Seems now, perhaps I should.


The friendly little valley,
Off out there in the west --
Is it still there and unspoiled?
Not likely, I would guess.


I know it wasn't easy, must
Have been some aches and pain --
I sit here tonight, just dreaming,
A wild young fool again.

Clive
I got to bed late last night because of this, so I decided to inflict it on you. Clive


WASTELAND


I went into the Wasteland
And there I made my camp.
It was too rocky to be farmed
And some places were quite damp.


There are wild things out there
Which no man has ever seen,
Though some claim to have seen tracks,
And all have heard them scream.


They cannot be so very big,
No Dragons and no Dorks,
Whose bite could clip a man in half
Ere it swallowed the whole works.


I knew the wild things of the plain
And found them rather mild.
It was easy to get to know them,
They were not really very wild.


I did not think the Wasteland beasts
Would be much worse than these,
But locals scoffed at my beliefs
And buried them with ease.


I took along a sturdy tent
And what gear I could pack.
The locals said I might as well,
Just go, for I would not come back.


If I got through the first night,
Uneaten, they were sure,
I would never see a second night,
And I'd be heard from never more.


I wandered out into the Waste,
A couple of days or more.
Along the way I found, to eat,
Fruits and vegetables galore.



A plant that looked like a turnip,
But the root a foot across.
A bush with fruit like cherries,
Fist size. Big patches of soft moss.


I rolled my bed upon the moss,
Came night, and drifted off.
I never slept upon a bed
With a mattress half as soft.


A creature like a Jack Rabbit,
But without Jack Rabbit ears,
Who dined upon the turnip tops.
At first he looked quite queer.


I gave the creatures scary names,
Like Dragoncat and Growler.
And the noisy one we used to hear,
Of course I named it Howler.


He would have made a dandy pet
But with a voice like that --
When he cut loose at midnight,
Who would want a Howler Cat?


The Turnip Bun eats turnip tops,
The Dragoncat eats Bun,
The Growler lives on bugs and weeds
And everyone has fun.


The living here is easier far
Than on the plain back yonder --
Could this be part of Wonderland?
I'll have, to sit awhile and ponder.


There are mountains to the east
And mountains to the west
And, in between, the Wasteland,
Where my journey came to rest.


Back yonder, to the south,
The plain goes on and on.
I never went clear to the end,
So don't know what lies beyond.



To the north, the Wasteland goes,
And then goes on some more.
I may go north some day to look
But how far I can't be sure.


There are snow caps on the mountains.
Someone said that farther north,
Wasteland may turn to Iceland,
For whatever that is worth.

I don't think it is Wonderland.
That plain is too mundane.
You just walk into the Wasteland --
It is not Wonderland, that's plain.


Because I invented Wonderland,
Though of course, I stole the name.
So Wasteland's not a part of it,
Which sort of seems a shame.


There are some rocky outcrops.
In one of them I found a cave
And there I moved my campsite.
I am not really very brave.


There are sometimes hailstorms,
Some times delugial rains.
I know, because I've seen them
Slop over onto the plain.


I fixed that cave up real nice.
Well, I had a lot of time,
So I might as well get comfy
And, besides, it needs to rhyme.


A Dragoncat moved in with me,
He kept out squirrels and mice
And he could purr like crazy,
Which helped to make it nice.


I stayed there for a year or two
But one day I up and left.
The Dragoncat just tagged along,
Though of home he was bereft.




The Dragoncat was ill at ease,
Back here at Peterville,
So I took him to Wonderland
And there you'll find him still.


It all lasted but a few years --
I did it all last night
And had to cross out a few lines
Ere I got the thing just right.


AROUND THE BEND


When I think of all the hours and days,
And weeks and months and years
That I worked hard at getting old,
It almost brings me tears.


But my tired old eyes are dry
And I can't even start a sob.
The weeks and months and years
With me have sure played hob.


I split a little wood today,
Perhaps a cord or two --
Well, if I must be honest,
Will half that much suit you?


I've still to wash the dishes,
They've been piling up for days.
I used to wash them every day
But that was back a ways.


It's quite hard work, this getting old,
And gets harder, so it seems,
And the work that I do daytimes,
Oft continues in my dreams.


If I sit down with my coffee,
There I am apt to fall asleep,
The coffee didn't quite freeze up,
And my leg is still asleep.


I think about some others,
Who were on the aging crew,
But they've all gone off and left me,
Left me with it all to do.


But I'll keep on working at it,
Just as long as I'm allowed --
One thing, since I passed ninety,
I don't have to fight a crowd.


There used to be a saying,
That I heard passed around,
There's lots of room up at the top,
But there's no place to sit down.



But getting old is somewhat different,
Though it is hard work getting there,
I can sit down most anytime,
And the boss don't seem to care.


It is hard work getting old
And I have done more than most --
If I should get past one hundred,
Do you suppose they'll let me coast?


I like to bitch a little, now and then,
But pay me no never mind --
Not many men have danced in Church
I am sure that you will find.


It is hard work getting old,
And there's more still to be done.
Though it's been hard work getting here,
It has also been lots of fun.


Dancing every dance, from
Music start till Home Sweet Home --
Afraid I couldn't do that now,
But I can write it in a poem.


So, just hang in there with me
And we'll get there at the end,
Find the Trail That Runs Forever
Just around life's final bend.


Ya comin'? Clive

WHEN I LEAVE


When I leave this vale of tears
For the trail that runs for aye
And when I make my camp
At the closing of the day,


When the camp chores are over
And it's time to take our ease,
Can I lean back and sigh
And do what used to please?


Then, as the shadows deepen,
Can I fill my pipe of briar,
With some Old Salt tobacco,
As I dream beside the fire?


If I spend an evening at an Inn,
Can I have a shot of Scotch,
Highland Cream or Haig and Haig,
Straight, not on the rocks?


If I can't do the things I did,
In the days that I recall,
Then the trail that runs forever
Will be no fun at all!


I do not want a mansion,
With carpets on the floor,
I want to be out on the trail,
Where I can hear the blizzard roar!


Give me back old Ranger,
My lead dog, staunch and true,
Or let me have a partner,
Like the one that I once knew.


Clive

FRIENDLY WASTELAND



I started in exploring,
Soon as I made my camp secure.
I was not expecting trouble,
But I wanted to be sure.


I found a rather thorny bush
When I'd been about two weeks,
The nearest to inimical I saw,
No matter how I'd seek.

They were not very common,
Half a dozen all I ever found.
That wouldn't make a single bush
In ten square miles of ground.


I took some of the springy moss
To my cave, to make my bed.
I supposed that I had killed it,
But it would not stay dead.



It kept right on living
Though in the cave began to fade.
I think it would have been white
If long enough I'd stayed.


I wandered off to northward
And walked for many days.
I never found an Iceland,
Nor any vicious strays.


I came, at last, to wasteland end,
It turned to desert land,
One step from verdant plant-life
Onto the burning sand.


The mountain to the west,
I learned, were solid rock,
Without a seam or crack,
But just one huge red block.

Most days there'd be a cloud or two
But I learned, to my sorrow,
That clouding in at evening meant
Rain or hail upon the morrow.


Sometimes, on a clear night,
Music whispered on the breeze,
Melodies I almost remember --
Some would make your marrow freeze.


But most seemed somehow nostalgic,
From happy days of long ago --
The music of the Wasteland,
Whence it came I'll never know.


I don't know how I got there,
Much less how I got home.
Into some mysterious places
I have somehow chanced to roam.


How had I even reached the plain?
Was it some Magic Track?
I don't know how I got there,
But I wish I could go back!

I wonder if that Bed Moss
Would grow, if it was here?
The best bed that I ever had
In all my ninety years.


The Dragoncat came home with me
But he did not like it here.
The Wasteland had been home to him,
So this must have seemed queer.


The tallest things he'd known
Were scarce taller than I.
Here, the trees and even buildings,
Seemed to reach up to the sky.


So I took him to Wonderland,
Where I see him now and then,
When I find time to go there --
Right now! I think I'll go again!

Good night

Clive

SLEEPY


Why am I always so sleepy?
I get eight hours every night.
But to stay awake in the daytime
All day, every day, I must fight.


I go to Church on Sunday
And sit there trying to stay awake
All the while the Pastor is preaching
And while hymns make the rafters shake.


I go down to the Gather on Tuesday
Where everything is gay and bright
But if I am not dancing or writing,
To stay awake I must fight.


I eat my breakfast and I sit down
By the fire with a steaming cup.
The coffee gets cold, the fire goes out.
And that at last wakes me up.


I used to stay up past midnight
And be at work before six A M.
Now, I am heading to bed before ten
And sleep through until six A M.


Why am I so dog gone sleepy?
I go to sleep here at my desk.
For some reason I don't get sleepy driving
So out on the road I am not at risk.


Some morning I just wont wake up
And I'll never be sleepy no more,
For I'll sleep on forever and ever
And I probably wont even snore.

Sleepily Clive

THREE MONTHS TILL CHRISTMAS


Twas three months until Christmas
And what do you know?
All Santa's old reindeer
Were weary and slow.

Santa sat at his desk
And worried a spell,
"They'll not make it through this year,
It is easy to tell.

There are not enough young ones
To make up a team,
And this HoHoing business
Has become a bad dream.

Snowmobiles wont do,
For there's places I go,
Like it or lump it,
Where there wont be any snow.

A truck wouldn't do
For the cold snowy north.
The headache's too big,
For the job it's not worth.

Twould be too much investment
For what I would require ---
To heck with it all,
I think I'll retire!

The Elves are all old
And needing some rest,
Although they keep trying
And doing their best.

Let those Synthetic Santas
At the Stores and the Malls,
Take over the job.
They sure got lots of gall!"

So he sent the Elves home
At the end of the day,
Locked up the Office
And wandered away


So, all of the gifts
You, yourself, must arrange,
For most of you parents
That wont be a change.

Up on the housetop
No reindeer will prance,
The roof will last longer,
There's a very good chance.

And a right Merry Christmas,
I'll bet we'll all have,
Whether Santa be gone
To vacation or grave.


The real tale of Christmas,
If you care to look,
You will find in the pages
Of the old Holy Book!




MISSED THE SHORTCAKE


DING BUST THE DODGASTRICATE !
I said it loud and clear --
Then things got sort of fuzzy
And I couldn't see nor hear.


Then gradually things cleared
And I found I was some where.
Though it seemed to look familiar
I knew I was other where


It wasn't hard to figure out
Exactly what was wrong,
And though it was confusing,
It did not take me long.


I was still sitting at my desk
But things were all askew.
The letters on my manuscript
Looked strange, and then I knew.


Here I am left-handed,
The letters backside to.
How to get back where I belonged
I thought perhaps I knew.


I thought the word Dodgastricate
Must somehow hold the clue.
I'd try and spell it backward
And see what that might do.


So I wrote Etacirtsagdod
And pronounced it best I could.
The first time that I tried it,
It didn't do no good.


So I thought, perhaps it's the
Whole phrase I must reverse,
And that may take more doing
And be quite a little worse.


Lets think about the next word.
T H acts like one letter,
Eth and that had ought to do.
So things start looking better


B U S T, T S U B.
I've seen that T S somewhere -
I've got it! Tsar -
T W U B should get there.


In sign, the g is silent
It just makes the I sound long.
So, gnid is nide.
That shouldn't be far wrong.


Elacirtsagdod eth tsub nide.
That had ought to do the trick.
And if I can just pronounce it,
It had ought to work out slick.


It had taken a lot longer
Than it had seemed to me,
So when I popped back, right
Side to, no one was expecting me.


They all were eating shortcake
Underneath the maple tree
And, since I was not expected,
There was none left for me.


I may have dreamed the whole thing
And I have no way to show,
But, Ding bust the Dodgastricate,
I'll avoid, you ought to know.

Clive