Wicked Windows

I review my past through wicked windows framed in silver
and hung in toughened glass, upon my face, around and over.
Now and then: memories of men who loved me.
No stolen kiss - could match their march on hot coals for me.

I have walked a line both faint and narrow, hard to follow.
Caught up in circumstance. Harsh truth for history to mellow.
Through my eyes: loyalties and obligation
magnified. Obedience: the better fellow.

Better not remember me. Don't miss my passing.
Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Still waiting: bad blood running in close families.
I laughed like any child - although you might find that strange
and Christmas was my favorite holiday.

Christmas was my favorite holiday.

I am not alone in seeing the world through wicked windows
while others hide likewise behind this vulnerable squinting.
It's in the stare: it's in the silent scrutinizing.
Strip you bare: I offer you no more disguising.

Better not remember me. Don't miss my passing.
Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Same bad blood running in new families.

***

We Used To Know

Whenever I get to feel this way,
try to find new words to say,
I think about the bad old days
we used to know.

Nights of winter turn me cold --
fears of dying, getting old.
We ran the race and the race was won
by running slowly.

Could be soon we'll cease to sound,
slowly upstairs, faster down.
Then to revisit stony grounds,
we used to know.

Remembering mornings, shillings spent,
made no sense to leave the bed.
The bad old days they came and went
giving way to fruitful years.

Saving up the birds in hand
while in the bush the others land.
Take what we can before the man
says it's time to go.

Each to his own way I'll go mine.
Best of luck in what you find.
But for your own sake remember times
we used to know.