A TV show, one of its topic being ‘afterlife’, is now long enough for me to write, and rework into rough rhymes, this poem, assisted by the temperatures outside, which have been so low of late that there is no way but for a warm wave to come in, and by the temperatures in the room, which vary between plus fifteen to plus seventeen degrees, and trace my way to getting mad at the central heating fees I am paying each month for not using the service.
Close-Fisted
My basics, saved from the uncertainty of chances,
restricted in the deprivations cold,
warmed up with all the dreams the world has,
are joining the crowds of the desperate and old
I’m leaving all the spaces earthly, splendid,
to the explorers of archieval lots
The fear huge that I will not be noticed
shrinks, even more, my heart into a knot
If I just burst with life compressed in basics,
if I just leave the crowds for new worlds,
the vacuum of my place will be trapping
the feelings of the sensible on earth
They’ll use my chances with imagination lavish
Their instincts will recall the fears of mankind
If I don’t leave behind a chance wooed, cherished
I won’t be called back, nor return and find
If only I would be the close-fisted
to hold the reins of the chances’ hives,
then I could steer myself into blissful
and open spaces of the layer ‘life’
Or if I used my own basics
to make somebody’s chance, somebody’s dream,
I might be that link keeping intact places
where time is shared, and history does leave
V.P.T. 19.02.2008
