DISCS OF MEMORY

I'm not so young now, but inside my head the old songs mean just the same as they always did...

When the wind peered

with its spirit eyeglass

through the window to my soul

I felt its chill,

icy on the outside

and warm and gentle in,

while the jukebox stored my lusts...

inside, the foaming pot was filled

and outside the snows drifted down,

phlox on the darkening night...

and the poet sang

a song to catch the wind,

the artist spread

his Degas on the sand,

and the sweet folk singer

with her fragrant hair

knew those were the days...

and as she knew it they had flown,

the days, that is, for clocks

had ticked their way to yesterday

and all the yesterdays that come

and go like grains of winter sand...

and where had they gone,

the flowers, every one?

And the young men warring,

every one?

And the girl from the north country

wandered off to silence

while her shadow

fuelled our lusts...

the colours of her hair in the morning...

But they've gone, now, the good old songs,

gone to the jukebox of the past

and the old man sits here, thinks them,

but the meaning is an old man's meaning

and they were the thoughts of the child.

Reviews

[Jennifer Shaw]

There's a lot of nostalgia expressed by the author in this. It's quite lovely! =)

[Peter Rogerson]

Most kind of you to read it, Jennifer.