Page:
The Last Waltz (till the 12th of Never)
A poem a day
till the Twelfth of May –
writing right up to the end!
A last dance in the Underground, anyone?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2eTW8qZBtk&pp=ygUOdGhlIGxhc3Qgd2FsdHo%3D
💃🕺
One for Deep Underground 😥
The house is growing old and looking sad.
Its roof is leaking, many slates have gone.
It's lost the cheerful look that once it had
when it was young and life inside went on.
Its hearth is cold, no fire is blazing there,
the paper peels, unrolling from the wall,
the windows blind, the battered floorboards bare,
now only echos echo in its hall.
The house remembers, though, a better time,
the better days when it was full of light,
the happy days when it was in its prime;
it pays no heed now to its sorry plight.
It's had a life with love in large amounts,
and when it's time to go that's all that counts.
🏚️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AE1ct5yEuVY&pp=ygURZ29pbmcgdW5kZXJncm91bmQ%3D
😥
Until the twelfth of Never
the memories to cling on
faded sepia colours soft as dew
wreaths of your presence warmth of you
I will hold you until the twelfth of never
love forged forever sincere
promises made not mere air
though the winds may howl
through time turned-wheel
let the rivers bend
your essence remain
my love without end
in dreams among the stars
the memories to cling on
faded sepia colours soft as dew
wreaths of your presence warmth of you
I will hold you until the twelfth of never
love forged forever sincere
promises made not mere air
though the winds may howl
through time turned-wheel
let the rivers bend
your essence remain
my love without end
in dreams among the stars
A Lament for Dug, the Worm of the Underground
Well, Dug, O Worm of Deepest Underground,
the hateful Twelfth of May, that date you fear,
that date when we must part, is drawing near,
when all will end, collapsing black around,
and from the Underground will come no sound.
Your well-loved faithful friends will all disperse
like arrows fired, to fall to bad or worse
somewhere upon a distant rocky shore –
then you will hear their singing rhymes no more.
The Twelfth of May approaches like your hearse.
⚰️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuObGsB0No&pp=ygUXbG92ZSB3aWxsIHRlYXIgdXMgYXBhcnQ%3D
💔
How do You whisper Silence
quietly stand I where shadows weave
heartache whispers sadly leave
once vibrant now laughter fades
now is just unforgiving dark shadows
there's more unsaid feelings in the air
ghostly sojourn of words once said
whispers unheard like a long prayer
meandering in rooms alone and sad
🌻
quietly stand I where shadows weave
heartache whispers sadly leave
once vibrant now laughter fades
now is just unforgiving dark shadows
there's more unsaid feelings in the air
ghostly sojourn of words once said
whispers unheard like a long prayer
meandering in rooms alone and sad
🌻
You Got That Wrong, TS, You Knobhead!
The cruelest month of all is really May,
not April, Mr Eliot. You were wrong.
In May, the birds will sing their sweetest song,
but on the Twelfth, that saddest, saddest, day,
we'll have no home in which to write and play!
We'll speak a final sorrowful goodbye
then from the Underground we all must fly
to wander in a Wasteland, bleak and bare,
to seek a new home for our verse – somewhere.
For on the Twelfth Deep Underground will die!
⚰️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jcDNsY9Qz4&pp=ygUNaG9tZWxlc3Mgc29uZw%3D%3D
☹️
