While Life Goes On All Around Me

It’s seven thirty, they’ve started early,
churn political expertise around in a rusty
cement mixer till it is smooth, creamy
and set into a new south faced existence.

Weary face in a timeworn van pulls up,
pours calcium into brittle bones of
daily life, his own rattled by plastic
progress; business is dead.

Lone jogger pads daily ritual to
crescendo, as a brisk breeze edges
its sharpness through the open window.

And here comes Boy Racer, dead on cue;
screeches to a tedious halt,
picks up his friend in the white shirt
with no tie.
They say he’s the clever one, Boy Racer,
can park his car on a postage stamp,

which makes me think about my life and
how, it seems, most of it fits onto a
stamp these days,
a small, watery blue one, second class,
lost in the post.

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Another Update – plus a poem!!

Hi everyone!

Here’s another update so that you all know I am still alive 🙂
I have had a difficult 6 weeks or so with an MS flare up affecting my vision. As a resultof this I had to have an updated brain MRI scan so I thought I would just share theexperience of this with you! My vision is improving slowly but it may take a while,. So together with that and the fact that the steroid injections in my hand don’t appear tohave worked I am still not going to be back here as often as before but I will post now and again. And please accept my apologies if I don’t comment quite so much on all your
great poetry; I am still reading it!:)

MRI Scan

She asks what music

I would like to listen to;

I suggest Vivaldi.

Confident nod of approval;

I can be accommodated.

Then she asks if I am okay.

I tell her I’m fine;

What else can I say?

Besides, does she really want

to know?

She has a list to get through.

The bed glides mournfully along,

reluctant coffin into the unknown.

I grip the panic button, but not

too tight so it bleeps;

they will bring me out and I will

have to go back in again.

I wasn’t aware that Vivaldi had

composed The 1812 Overture;

can’t hear it much anyway,

gruesome noises magnetically

resonate images of

inflammatory changes, playing

games with my brain.

I try to think of pleasant things

but draw a blank.

So I decide to smile instead;

it works.

The return journey begins,

slow but less mournful.

I haven’t been cremated after all

and amazingly, the sea-sick greeni

walls look exquisitely appealing.

I could never be a potholer.