Happy Birthday To Me

Happy Birthday (to me)

The sun that shone and opened up today

reminds me of cold fate’s unceasing shore.

I see her many suns have had their sway

as now my skin sags low at eighty-four.

My birthday card now comes from stranger’s hands

as day revolves to night and time still thrives;

as those who loved me flown from life’s demands

now seek to make my candles eighty-five.

Still, happiness is candles flickering 

the sun that peeps through blinds in early morn

and all the bright lights on my cake I proudly sing

before the dark of eighty-five is born.

Oh, happy to survive our human fate

than travel through strange worlds andcropped-colorado-19731-e1444166494509darker gate.

(photo: me about 1970, Colorado Springs, Colorado.  I place the same poem here, as last year.  I must only change the lines and rhymes where my age changes.)

A Letter To William!

Dear William, metaphor is gone from view.
Your sonnet is with snickers lately sent.
The Moderns now make mince-meat out of you.
Word nerds say your ‘summer’s day’ a vent.

Oh, William , where must mindful poet step?
The Moderns have no heart for thoughts of love
They know not of pentameter, (those shleps)
or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.

Now, rhyme, they say must be a gambler’s chance.
And all the words, wired, juxtaposed through air.
The line is not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, each poet shares.

“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each bard copies other like a hawk.Vulture