I was not a great man,
Though I held my own against everybody else.
I was not a rich man,
Though I kept my nose to the grind to save face.
I may have travelled little,
Though I went where I wanted to go,
Saw what I wanted to see,
Accomplished what was expected of me.
I didn’t fight in any wars,
I didn’t discover any laws,
Didn’t invent anything
That hadn’t already been invented.
I may not have saved a life,
Though I served many,
While leading such a meagre existence
Through my extra ordinary life.
Speed of Life
I’ve only thirty springs remaining,
While I look back over forty years
That appear to me a lifetime-
My childhood another life.
Back when the year began in autumn,
And ended in summer,
When winters passed with the pace of a year.
Now years pass with the pace of a season.
Is this why I feel I’ve lived an eternity,
While feeling the brevity of life?
Although the average years seem sufficient,
Individual days appear quite sparing.
A mere seventy summers leaves me pining for more,
An amount for autumn renders me ostensibly broke.
While this time I have is ultimately priceless,
Far more enriching in its meagre proportion.
You come to realise
during those neanic knee-jerk years
when hankering after yourself
that the world was not made for you
and you alone try to find someplace you belong
while striving to be individual as part of a group
before settling for who you are.
When boys try to act like men,
They end up looking like boys.
Their inflated egos let down
By girls hoping to be made women
By the men boys think they are.
Belittling themselves trying to be big,
Attempting to keep up with those who play it down,
Knowing all about what little they know.
Yes, when boys try to act like men,
They end up looking like boys.
He sits upon my lap,
This sable combed back sedge,
Humming with contentment
Having devoured his bowl of congealed offal,
Completely obliging of my petting him
While digging his claws deeper into my peripheral flesh,
That I catch myself wondering…
If he bore the measure of a panther
Would he be thus content with me?
Summer is the time of year most find relaxing.
But I find it tiring.
Too much buzzing and busying around,
Too many bodies sprawled across the ground.
While the heat’s too hot to warm to.
Pride is the peace of mind most of us hope for.
Yet I find it induces stubbornness.
Often deterring us from doing the right thing,
While persuading us to do what we wouldn’t normally do-
Leaving us bitter and opinionated.
Money is the reward most of us desire.
While I find it completely worthless.
Making us feel all the more poorer,
Our lives only enriched
By the accumulation of more.
Possessions are the things most of us want to own,
That I find end up owning us.
Preventing us from being at liberty
From wanting for nothing-
Keeping us imprisoned within our cells.
I suppose, in the end,
Everything in life is overrated-
Except life itself.
I no longer have moments like this
I have moments like that.
I live in memory of those moments,
As if they were happening this instant.
While I can’t wait to get over the present
I don’t want to get over the past.
The past’s better than it ever was-
I never want to leave it behind.
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including The Faircloth Review, The Pygmy Giant, Shot Glass Journal, Turbulence, Vox Poetica, The Bohemyth, Torrid Literature Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.