Getting Old

Now that we're suddenly old and tired,
The mirrors are never as kind,
We venture out in a world that changed
As our youth slipped far behind;
We only walk at a snail's pace
And shiver in autumn rain,
Then stop to rest, as the evening light
Draws down on us, once again.

The young look on, but they never see
They'll be old one day, like us,
They think we live in some cobweb dream
And just fade away, and rust;
When I come in from the world outside
And shutter the outer door,
I see my lover still waits for me
As she's done so often before.

I tend to gaze at her longer now,
To capture her in my mind,
We're not too sure of the time we've got
So we tend to be more than kind,
I kiss her gently and watch the glow
Of stars, at the back of her eyes,
And she opens up like a flower in spring
At a touch, or a sweet surprise.

Then many an evening, after dark
When the wind howls up at the moon,
I gently unwrap my sweetest gift
And rest my face in the gloom,
She sighs and soughs like a gentle breeze,
Leans back like a sapling bent,
And touch is a pit at the end of the world
Where our last few days are spent.

David Lewis Paget

Obit.

Jennifer Absalom Maudlin-Mand
Passed away yesterday, by her own hand,
Scribbled a note to be found once she'd done it,
'Please put the strawberries back in the punnet!
I am so weary of life and the living,
Tell all my friends, it's all right! I forgive them!'

Jennifer penned all her poetry passé,
Lolled all her life on the lawn, on the grassé,
Painted her pictures from life in the nuddy,
Rolled in the puddles and made herself muddy,
Nothing survives of her art or her passion,
Only stained clothes that she rolled in the grass on.

'Wealth is a burden!' was one of her utters,
'Time is so tedious!' 'Love is for nutters!'
'I am so jaded with cell phones and gadgets,
Emails and sea sails, and that poet, Paget,
I have done everything, been there and spent it,
Now I look forward, I'm planning to end it.'

Jennifer Absalom Maudlin-Mand
Passed away yesterday, by her own hand,
Stuck her two fingers inside a light socket,
Flashed once and screamed, the delightful Miss Muppet,
If she had waited to pass on to heaven,
Today was her birthday, she would have been seven!

David Lewis Paget

The Angel of Mons

He called for me from his hospital bed,
He needed a priest, and soon,
The old man lay in his disarray
In the cool of the afternoon,
I started to read the Viaticum,
His face was turned to the wall,
But then he stirred, and muttered one word
From the depths of his troubled soul.

'Mons', he muttered, and I was still
While he raised his gaze to mine,
I saw the struggle he fought within
Then I noticed his eyes a-shine,
'I was an Old Contemptible,'
He said with a trembling voice,
'I've been to the shores of Hell, old son,
If you thought you could give me a choice.'

'Now, I've never spoken of this before,
War is a terrible thing,
The Devil rides in the enemies eyes
While the bullets just rattle and zing.
I've walked through rivers of blood,' he said,
'I've lain in acres of pain,
At Mons, outnumbered by three to one
In the mist and the cleansing rain.'

'I killed so many, I must confess,
A rifleman born and bred
Full fifteen rounds each minute I loosed
At the sight of a bobbing head
Their field grey uniforms swarmed across,
We cut them off at the feet,
But then their artillery started up
And we knew we'd have to retreat.'

'Death was having a field day, son,
Taking us, one by one,
I didn't believe I was going to live
No more than my mates had done,
They lay in pools on the muddy ground
Their eyes a-stare, amazed,
The bullets that took them arrived unsung,
To herald an early grave.'

I patted his hand to quieten him,
I saw that the end was near,
The war he spoke of was over and done
But for him it was crystal clear,
I tried absolving his early sin
I held his trembling hands,
'I need to tell you the rest,' he croaked,
'The awe-ful Angel of Mons.'

'The Germans had us, the end was nigh,
We turned to defend at the last,
When up above us a shape was formed
With wings that glowed like glass,
A glowing angel with luminous wings
And it turned to the enemy,
The guns were silenced, the air was still
And the Germans turned to flee.'

Sweat broke out on the old man's brow,
He shivered and let out a sigh,
He'd told no-one of the things he'd seen
At Mons, in that August sky,
The lights were suddenly dimmed in there
Like a shadow of former wrongs,
And graceful wings folded over his head
As he died; the Angel of Mons.

David Lewis Paget

You Were Only Talking

It's four o'clock in the morning,
No sleep for me this night,
I sit on the cold verandah,
And watch for a chink of light;
The wind howls round about me
The moon's not raised its head,
And you are out there walking,
Walking,
Walking,
And you are out there walking,
When you should have been in bed!

I'm shivering in the darkness,
It's colder than the crypt,
The rain that passed right over
Left puddles, where it dripped
My mind sets off to wonder
Why life should be so grim;
You said that you were talking,
Talking,
Talking,
That you were only talking
When I saw you there with him.

I questioned you on Monday,
I questioned you, and then,
You said that he was funny,
You'd talk with him again.
I said I didn't like it,
It wasn't right somehow,
But you just sat there sulking
Sulking
Sulking
You sat and faced me sulking
With a crease across your brow.

You left the house at seven,
You said: 'I won't be late!'
You had to do some shopping
And be with your sister, Kate;
But when I phoned your sister
She said there was no trace,
And now the dawn is breaking
Breaking
Breaking
And now the dawn is breaking
Across my tear-lined face.

A sudden light at the corner,
I see he's brought you back,
Then one last kiss of the morning
That turns my vision black,
For I am sat in the darkness
Like a statue, frozen, stone,
With a kitchen knife by the awning,
Awning
Awning,
And I think you'll still be yawning
When I drive the handle home.

David Lewis Paget

Shoes

'Get rid of those old shoes,' she said,
'Their time has come and gone.'
I looked down at my battered soles
And smiled, as she went on;
When women talk of 'romance', then
It must be dressed to kill,
But these old shoes saw more romance
Than she could ever tell.

I took these shoes to China,
They passed through Singapore,
They trod old Wenzhou's meaner streets
In silence, pride and awe;
They padded through fine Restaurants
And stood before my class,
While Chinese students bit their pens
Translating Poe, en masse.

These shoes took me to Shanghai,
To walk the Nanjing Road,
They stood while shoppers gaily passed
And chattered some sweet code,
These shoes have trod through old Beijing
The Square, Tian'anmen,
Where Marco Polo did his thing
My shoes had followed on.

They walked the Summer Palace
Where Emperors played their roles,
A thousand years of history
Was scuffed along their soles,
They slithered over Kunming Lake
Long frozen, on the ice,
They strolled the Bronze Pavilion
Like some ancient paradise.

Then on the heights at Ba-da-ling
They helped me climb 'The Wall',
They dragged my poor old bones aloft,
I thought that I would fall,
They paced beside the Terra Cotta
Warriors at Xian,
These shoes have seen more romance
Than a new pair ever can.

'Get rid of these old shoes, my dear,
I couldn't, I regret;
I bought them when I first met you,
When we were young, my pet;
They hold too many memories
Of how we were back when;
I'll keep them underneath our bed - '
The wife - she kissed me then!

David Lewis Paget

China Song - (Zhong guo ge qu)

Last night I heard a Chinese song
That conjured almond eyes,
It swelled and soared, and took the air
I sought to breathe, my friend,
That song poured out the sadness that
I'd seen behind your lies,
It soared and swelled, and slipped and dipped,
Heartbroken at the end.

But you just smiled and chattered,
Though your words were terse and bleak,
They hid some strange confusion, and
A hurt that would not mend,
I'd seen you cry before, with not
A tear on either cheek,
When Chinese tear-ducts dry, but cry -
It seems that you pretend.

Five thousand years of sorrow
Taught you Chinese not to weep,
To show no strong emotion, to
Accept the fate you're sent,
The pendulum that swings one way,
May cut you while you sleep,
But always swings the other way
Confucius say - my friend!

So all your love and laughter and
The sadness of your past,
Is built in to the music that your
Cultured songsters write,
And truly, when I listen
To that swelling sound at last,
Your tears well up, and overflow
From my eyes, every night.

David Lewis Paget