If space is infinite and time never-fleeting
All patterns must recur, old forms re-greeting.
Ten to the Ten to the Ten to the Twenty Seven
Unknowing years pass, ‘til our next 'first' meeting.
All things that ever-were, no plea can change
The boy who strays into the firing range
Whose foot will tred, or not, on a lost shell
Will always die, or not, and neither’s strange.
Our shoulder to the wheel we’re meant to set
And mourn each wasted second with regret
But, if we soberly worked every hour
Only to fail, we’d still have cause to fret.
Age like a cloak of snow, covers our frame
Beneath it agues, weak limbs, un-manned shame,
What can be worse than suffering such ills,
Why worse they will be gone, shame, ills, man, name.
The cue, draws back and after careful aim
It drives the white ball on to do the same
Can the red ball, that white ball striking, know,
The meaning and the purpose of the game?
From yocto unto yotta, though we measure
And set the universe to frame our pleasure
“That there is anything to know at all
And minds made fit to know it” ‘s the true treasure.
Set down religion, take up with the vine
For in my cups I’ve often found a sign:
A revelation I’ll impart to you
The stars are bubbles born in sparkling wine!
What brighter bloom is seen, upon the field,
Than where the blood of martyrs food did yield
To every questing root, bone-meal applied
So all our honours bloom upon the shield.
Sitting, at funerals, drinking on the stair
In memory of one, who wasn’t there
How much more I’d have drunk had I but seen
Tomorrow’s mourners for all those who where.
Everything good, woman or man makes new
Comes down to us from those who looked askew
As lens that show the heavens first arose,
From those who saw the bug beneath the dew.
Simon BJ. after Omar K.