Colin F. Jones

SOMETIMES I FEEL OLD

~ 1 ~

Excuses I seldom make, but sometimes I feel old,
Helpless and remote; severed from the fold,
And elevated to perfection by those who think me not.
I wonder why I do not care, if I am loved or shot.
What is it that folk lack, that I can clearly see?
Certainly not perfection, but a knowledge deep in me
That understands reaction, and the man behind the gun,
Who when he pulls the trigger, thinks that he has won.
What a strange elation they wallow in, while I
In puzzlement still notice that they have no idea why.
They leap about like insects on the summer breeze
Would I burst the bubbles, of people such as these?
So I must walk away lest I replace them as their foe,
For none do ever learn what they think they already know.

~ 2 ~

Offer one a ladle and he will stir his own pot,
Creating false images and ranting a lot;
Responding like a child, fanaticising in the dark,
Creating a fin, then becoming fearful of the shark;
Undecided at the crossroads running down every track,
An octopus with tentacles that does not have a map.
So the breeze becomes a tempest, a pebble becomes a rock,
That soon such folk resemble the images they must mock.
So they return to the ladle, “Hell this ladle isn’t mine”
Failing to see the instrument is of their own poor design…
Thus they look with ill manner to the appointed foe
Who is soon under fire due to what they do not know.
And yes sometimes I’m saddened because I feel old,
‘Tis time perhaps for blankets against the bitter cold.