A little verse in the middle of a snowstorm…

I came upon a ‘Gyptian Scribe

This ancient act of writing down
Makes cynics laugh and comics frown
Bemuse me, Lord, and let me sing
Like the bells of St. Mary’s
How they ring!
How they ring!

Back in days of hardened youth
When the glass was full
And all, uncouth

I came upon a ‘Gyptian Scribe
Who held to tablets, firm with pride
He sat cross-legged
and looked to me
“My friend,” he said,
“Just wait and see.”

To this cryptic utterance I did reply
“But who are you?
And what do you speak?”

The scribe smiled sweet
Through time’s round gate
And spoke to me
“It’s not too late.”

Perplexed beyond all measure fair,
I decided quick, to make this square
“Listen here, Scribe,” I said to he,
“If you be not a reverie
Tell me what this riddle makes!”

Alas, the Scribe turned to me
And sent these words
direct to deliveree.

And that is all I have to say
You decide–
true
or fake?

Copyright © Michael Clark, 2008. All rights reserved.

Old Age

SUCH a wizened creature,
    Sitting alone;
    Every kind of ugliness thrown
Into each feature.

‘I wasn’t always so,’
    Said the wizened
    One; ‘sweet motions unimprisoned
Were mine long ago.’

And again, ‘I shall be–
    At least something
    Out of this outside me, shall wing
Itself fair and free.’

E. Keary (1874)