A lot of modern poetry is too hard to understand,
it has become too complicated for the uninitiated or casual reader.
These poems are by an ordinary bloke, for ordinary folk. © Chris Daws
Monday, 31 December 2012
Why am I here?
Why am I here, what have I come here for?
No question philosophical is this.
My mind went blank as I came in the door
as age makes neurons fire and often miss.
And why can't I remember yesterday
or find my glasses when I've put them down
or understand what younger people say,
I'm sure that if I knew then I would frown.
Though Altzheimer's, dementia or just age
makes me a fool in other younger eyes,
I've had my time to strut upon this stage,
and flown my thoughts like kites in sunny skies.
Though past is passed and past is oft forgot
for some of us the past is all we've got.