Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘cancer’

Sonnet 17 – The Crop From Wild Oats

The prodigal may set a course away
From what his raising guided him to be;
Yet, in the end, he finds to his dismay
A path embarked may bark, bite fatally.

What smoker now knows not the fatal chance?
What drinker had not seen the stagg’ring drunk?
What addict did not know how addicts dance
To tune of drugs; have to mere puppets sunk?

We pay for foolish habits soon or late,
And though those cunning pleasures ply their wares,
It’s best to have good sense, anticipate:
We’ll pay Old Billy for our youthful tares.

Those in the world who choose to sow wild oats
Must face the fact they’re followed by wild goats.

——————————————————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
The streets, both night and day;
Disturbed by demons, not by tasks,
That wouldn’t go away.

He never leaned upon a stick
Like some men do to rest.
He never slowed, as if pursued,
And by a past possessed.

The only stops I saw him make,
To light a stick to smoke,
Were stops that fin’lly stopped him cold,
When cancer killed the bloke.

His treatment was both stick and shock,
The needle and the zap;
As if they knew not where to go,
As if they’d lost the map.

He told me often of his past;
The doctors made it stick
By talking, talking of his woes,
As if that’d do the trick.

My idea was much different,
To place a stick before,
A future stake, a goal to reach,
And past be nevermore.

But like the 45’s we had,
And all the 33’s,
The records scratched, they jerk and stick,
Repeating in a freeze.

He haunted haunts, since haunted by
A past that came to stay.
He walked, a stick, both lean and tall,
The streets, both night and day.

——————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

Read Full Post »