Anchors away, hold on to the toupee!

With each & every breath
we are descending
the very stairs to death
when old: impending

Not owning a single day
our only bestowment
(while ever blooming cliche)
being each sole moment

So what? Anchors away!
Hold on to that toupee!

Are good-sounding words of fashion in their essence ashen?

In-fashion words travel in herds
rolling easily of lips
benign or like attacking birds
rarely distinct, mostly quips

Carefree they’re dragging anchor
removed from concern or anguish
spotless amidst mud of rancor
in willful ignorance languish

Years ago were we ever
this cool, smooth, or this clever?

Start getting used to it!

‘Age’ ain’t necessarily 3/4 of ‘sage’. Start getting used to it!

There was this fellow called Brian
who made it through six full decades
From now on no longer a lion
as his years ahead shall cascade

He’ll be peering out from under his visor
and wonder how come he’s gotten no wiser

Gladly left Sverige for such a Marriage

My wife Crabby & me Grumpy
our bodies frail, minds flabby
now on our Life’s home stretch bumpy
Recall gotten bit shabby …

… but never shall we let the Memory to pale
of our Wondrous Journey finding the Holy Grail

 

‘Star-struck’ i Kungsholmens dunkel

När min nyanlände immigrant (från USA till Sverige) son Matt såg Greta Thunberg med far å hund när han var ute å motionerade på Kungsholmen, Stockholm:

En amerikan some hette Matt
av sinnesnärvaro ägde skvatt

Fast kunde på svenska: ‘Vad heter hunden?’
när han såg Gretas blev hans tunga bunden

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