Funny Day Today (after Wordsworth)

A funny day — though calm and still,
The morning light on windowpane
Fell just the same; the kettle’s trill
Rose, silver-sweet, as if no chain
Had loosed me from that ordered will
That bound my life to labour’s gain.

Yet I, though severed from the throng,
Still take my seat, my post, my place,
And bid the idle hours prolong
Their mimicry of work’s embrace.
The same old screen, the same old song —
But softer now, with gentler grace.

The machines hum on — a friendly sound,
Though none are masters now but me.
No VPN, no coded bound,
No clock to chase eternally.
The freedom feels both vast, profound,
And edged with frail uncertainty.

Eight years have passed since last I stood
Upon this brink of loss and change;
Then burned the will to do, and good,
And rage against the life made strange.
Now older grown, I find I would
Let life drift wide, not rearrange.

For near at hand, the twilight gleams —
Five years till rest, till Pru shall pay;
And what is left? but quieter dreams,
And laughter at the world’s array.
The wind is kind, the sunlight streams —
A funny, peaceful day today.

(variation 2)

Funny Day Today

Funny day today —
the air feels half-empty, half-free.
No boss's ping, no Monday dread,
but still I rise, still I make tea.

Strange, this freedom
with its quiet edge of fear —
liberation's a bird that flies
but circles back once bills appear.

I sit where I always sat,
log in, tap keys, pretend —
though now the screens I reach
belong to me, not to "the firm" or "the trend."

No VPN hums its secret tune,
no Teams call breaks the calm.
Just me, my Pi, a cloud or two,
and silence soft as balm.

Eight years ago, this hit like fire,
a burn of panic, drive, and need —
today it's embers, low desire,
a shrug where once was speed.

Five years till pension — a blink, a breath,
and maybe that's the gift today:
to care a little less for loss,
and laugh at what won't stay.

Funny day today —
to lose, and somehow gain.
Between the work that's gone and done,
and all that still remains.

The Good Day Parade

Today was a good day, a good day indeed,
A day full of joy and of things that succeed!
I woke with a bounce and a bright, sunny grin,
The kind where you know that you'll win, win, win, win!

To the doctor I went, for a test with some flair,
A PSA thing—yes, they poked and they stared.
"All fine!" said the doc with a smile and a wink,
"Keep cycling, stay fit, and please don't overthink!"

So I pedaled my worries right out of my head,
Past the clouds of anxiety, onward I sped.
For what else can you do at the end of the day,
But ride on and let all your cares drift away?

Then came a wheel—oh, a wonderful wheel!
A shiny new spare, what a comforting feel.
So now I won't fret on the motorway wide,
With my trusty new spare, and a jack by it side

Some old friends wrote words that made my heart swell,
References glowing—oh boy, I felt well!
New jobs may be brewing, new doors open wide,
With confidence bubbling somewhere inside.

And then came the code, that tricky old duck,
It quacked and it puzzled and left me quite stuck!
But I cracked it! I did! What a glorious show!
When your ducks line up neatly and all in a row.

So here's to the good days, both big ones and small,
To health, to the road, and to coding and all!
When life gives you riddles, just smile and then say—
"I'll Seuss it all out in my own silly way!"

Musings When the Clocks Go Back

The clocks retreat; the evening draws its breath,
And peace descends where once the daylight strained.
My nails, once frail, now whisper life to death—
A small, absurd proof something’s been regained.

The car sailed through its trial, sound and sure,
Postponed fatigue replaced by morning’s grace.
The cycle left undone, the heart more pure—
A quiet triumph time cannot erase.

Sweet Maggie shines—seventeen years in bloom;
We laugh through Star Wars’ ancient rebel fight.
Those newer tales? I leave them to their gloom—
We’ll keep the ones that still ignite the night.

The logbook of my days now keeps its course,
Each line a tether drawn to what is real.
My phone now hums with steady, modern force,
Yet still I seek the hush that faith can heal.

The years weigh soft, yet whisper in the mind:
Have I outlived the work I’m meant to do?
But rest, for Providence is still not blind—
The crown of peace is forged in trust anew.

Christ reigns, Christ rules, through ebb and tide and track,
When clocks move on—and sometimes, gently back.

The Night of Shadows and Reckoning - EAP

 

The Night of Shadows and Reckoning

(in the style of Edgar Allan Poe)

Wow — what a night! The phantoms tore and screamed,
Their whispers clung like frost upon my soul.
Through corridors of fear I ran — it seemed
Each step betrayed the promise of control.

The demons knew my name; they called it slow,
Their teeth upon my heels, their breath like sin.
They mocked the years — four decades’ ebb and flow —
And laughed to see my failing from within.

"Washed up," they hissed, "your commerce turned to dust,
Your bargains spent, your kingdom’s coin unmade.
Accept the offer, yield — betray your trust,
Or haunt the courts where all the lost are laid."

Awoke! My pulse — a hammer in my chest —
The dawn, a pallid witness at the door.
My daughter’s voice — so calm, so sweetly blessed —
Pulled me from thought’s unending civil war.

“Just breathe,” she said, “the next day is enough.”
And lo, her kindness broke the dream’s command.
Her faith — a lantern through the tempest rough —
Led me once more to tread the waking land.

I drove through ghostly streets to morning’s end,
The legal hour struck cold upon the clock.
Then time reversed — my grandchild, joy’s true friend,
Unbound my heart and stilled its aching shock.

That smile — that echo from a gentler year —
Dissolved the demons whispering their creed.
At dusk I drank, though shadows lingered near,
And dreamt of peace my weary soul might need.

Now calm — medicated, frail, yet free —
I drift through waves of dread and brief elation.
O night, be kind — take not thy gaze from me —
And guard this heart from further desolation.

---

The Night of Shadows and Reckoning 2

(in the style of Edgar Allan Poe)

Wow — what a night! The phantoms shrieked and swayed,
Their talons scraped along my mortal fears.
Through dream’s black corridors I wept, I prayed,
For dawn to wash away the ghost of years.

The demons laughed — “Thy commerce now is done!
Thy ledgers burn, thy bargains turned to stone.
Four decades’ toil beneath a dying sun —
And now, thou facest ruin all alone.”

“Accept,” they hissed, “the offer, weak and cold,
Or join the suit where reason meets its grave —
Where Jarndyce whispers, weary, gray, and old,
And hope is but the toy of fools and knaves.”

Awoke! The room still held that spectral chill;
The clock struck six — my breath a shallow hymn.
My daughter’s call, soft-voiced, restored my will —
Her light shone through the dream’s funereal dim.

“Just breathe,” she said, “the next day — nothing more.”
Her words unbound the knots that years had tied.
Her faith became the key, the open door,
Through which the haunted man stepped back inside.

Then came the law — that ancient, droning sea —
Its tides of parchment pulled me toward despair.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce echoed dreadfully,
A ghostly choir lamenting wasted care.

But later — ah! — my grandchild’s laughing eyes,
A mirror of the youth I left behind,
Dissolved the fog that veiled the ashen skies,
And soothed the fevered chambers of my mind.

At night, the Namaste — a candle’s glow,
Some beer, some cheer, though shadows lingered near.
Yet calm returned, as embers dying slow —
And silence sang the hymn I longed to hear.

Now fear recedes — the tempest’s course is run,
Its waves of dread and rapture gently fade.
O tranquil dark, thou keeper of the sun,
Guard well the peace my trembling soul hath made.

The Night of Reckoning

Wow, what a night — the terrors bit and burned,
Dark demons chased me through my weary dreams.
For forty years the wheel of trade has turned,
Now rusting still, its echo fading seams.

A choice awaits — the bargain poor yet fair,
Or drag through courts that bleed both soul and name;
I stand before the end with heavy air,
My ledger closed, though none will bear the blame.

My daughter called, her voice a gentle thread,
“Just breathe,” she said, “and face the next day’s light.”
Her words stitched calm through chaos in my head,
The storm gave way, and morning felt more right.

At dawn we drove — her laughter filled the car,
Then breakfast warmth, though sleep still pressed my eyes.
The lawyer’s hour came, its weight bizarre,
Yet peace arrived in grandchild’s small surprise.

That moment — pure — the years fell back in streams,
As if time’s hand reversed its grinding gears.
By night, with beer and friends, I sipped at dreams,
And found some ease, some balm to quiet fears.

Now medicated calm replaces fight,
This wave of dread and joy has passed its crest.
I close the day — and thank the gentle night —
That grants a worn-out soul a little rest.

Ripples in the Pond

Started on Monday, bright and keen,
Wrestling numbers, a puzzle unseen.
Redemption reports, figures to mend —
Then the phone rang, and that was the end.

The voice was calm, the message stark,
A sudden eclipse, a fading spark.
From steady ground to shifting sand,
Dreams dissolve like ink in hand.

A rock hurled hard into my day,
Splashing certainty away.
Ripples spread — first wild, then weak,
Each wave a feeling I cannot speak.

Grief, then anger, disbelief,
Fear, acceptance, strange relief.
Old memories stir — I’ve walked this shore,
Packed my desk, closed this door before.

Town-bound errands blur my sight,
Lost my phone — brief panic, fright.
Then my daughter, steady, kind,
Helps untangle the cluttered mind.

Letters answered, dust set free,
I find a version of myself in me.
And like the cheese that once was there,
I learn again to breathe new air.

The world still moves, and so must I,
Through rippled pond and open sky.
For every rock that breaks the calm,
Time returns with gentle balm.

see also:  https://github.com/cbucket/poems.git

The Silent Gift

Sound not thy praise before the crowd of men,
Lest hollow echoes mock thy fleeting worth;
For deeds that seek the eyes of earth are vain,
And lose the crown that blooms in heaven's light.

Give as the dawn bestows her golden fire—
She knows not whom she warms, nor seeks acclaim;
Her grace is silent, yet the world is fed,
And life is born anew from her still hand.

Let not thy left hand learn thy right's pure deed;
Let mercy move unseen, as starlight moves.
For he who gives in secret, God shall bless,
And plant within his heart a deathless peace.

The soul that shines but not for human gaze
Walks robed in radiance mortal eyes see not;
While they who trumpet gifts shall fade like mist,
And find no echo in the halls of dawn.

TAKE heed that you do not your justice before men, to be seen by them: otherwise you shall not have a reward of your Father who is in heaven.
Matthew 6:1 - Douay-Rheims Bible

The Ballad of the Box-Ticker

“And still they tick’d, and still they grew,
Though none could tell what they would do.”

---

In towers tall of glass and glare,
Where numbers hum through filtered air,
There reigns a brood both pale and sly—
Who measure stars, but never sky.
They tick their boxes, humbly proud,
Each whisper lost within the crowd;
And from their screens, like oracles dim,
They conjure worth from metrics grim.

---

The craftsman’s hand, the thinker’s art,
Are costed, logged, and torn apart;
The plumber scorned, the teacher scolded—
While spreadsheets bloom, in columns folded.
And still they rise, the clerks of mist,
Each data-cell a catechist;
Their creed: “To measure is to know—
Though knowing, none may profit so.”

---

The call-man’s toil, the worker’s hour,
Are priced and filed by unseen power;
Yet none shall mark, nor dare to name,
The counter who records the same.
They grow, these watchers of the deed,
Like ivy on a dying seed;
And what was once alive with use,
Now feeds the bureaucratic muse.

---

O Muse! Thou ghost of reason cold,
Whose gospel counts what hearts once told—
Thy priests are legioned, solemn, sure,
Their gospel neat, their faith obscure.
Each morning brings a chart, a graph,
To trace the firm’s declining laugh;
And still they smile, with earnest cheer—
“The numbers rise! All’s well this year!”

---

But lo! the city groans beneath,
A London choked by rent and wreath;
Where youth must sell both time and soul,
To reach an office, not a goal.
And still the lords of HR say,
“Tick twice before thou end the day!”
For rules must swell, and forms must flow,
That none may reap the seeds they sow.

---

Then spake the sage with glinting eye,
“The cure lies not in how, but why.”
Let labor breathe, let mind explore,
The worth uncounted, evermore.
For work’s not found in measured parts,
But in the grand design of hearts—
And if thou’dst save thy soul from loss,
Cast down thy box, and break thy cross.

---

Moral:

To optimize the part is vain,
The whole must sing, or none shall gain.

The Mariner’s curse is ours to bear—
We count the wind, but not the air.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mu54ERQZZIw&t=14s 

The Pope and the Ice

The Pope stood high with hat so white,
He blessed the crowd from left to right.
He raised his hand (so very nice),
And said out loud, “I now bless ice!”

“Oh bless the ice!” the people cried.
But what he meant—well, none could decide.
Did he mean cubes? So cold! So clear!
Or agents folks might slightly fear?

Reporters yelled, “The Pope loves ICE!”
“Enforcement work is holy, nice!”
While nuns said, “No, it’s water’s freeze!
He’s blessing drinks and snowy seas!”

Priests were puzzled, monks perplexed,
Theologians deeply vexed.
“Does ice have souls? Or legal fees?
Can cubes confess on bended knees?”

The kitchens buzzed with holy glee,
They blessed their trays religiously.
The freezers hummed, the cold air flowed,
The holy frost just softly glowed.

Then ICE (the group!) sent out a tweet:
“The Vatican thinks we’re rather neat!”
The Pope just sighed, “Oh mercy me,
That’s not the ice I meant, you see!”

“But maybe,” smiled the Pope with grace,
“A little warmth could bless this place.
If hearts can melt, and tempers cool—
Then bless all ice! That’s my one rule.”

So if you sip or serve or serve the law,
Remember what the crowd once saw:
A Pope, a pun, a crowd enticed—
Forever blessed the world with… ice. 

Peanut Butter Saturdays

There's a hum in the wall and a buzz in the sky,
And the Wi-Fi's whispering, "We're watching you, guy."
The toaster's a traitor, the lamp's got a plan,
And the fridge is in league with the government van.

The peanut butter's poisoned, the butter's a lie,
And even your toothbrush is spying—oh my!
The football is evil, the films are all fake,
And joy is a donut they'll never let you bake.

But once, on a Saturday, golden and free,
My brother and I made toast, just he and me.
We'd slather on butter (don't skip it, you clown!),
Then peanut butter thickly, all gooey and brown.

No allergies, warnings, or labels in red,
Just laughter and crumbs and the smell of warm bread.
The world didn't buzz with invisible fear,
And no one was tracking our breakfast that year.

Now screens flicker poison, and voices all shout,
And I just want one morning where joy isn't doubt.
So I curse at the world with its secrets and spies—
And dream of that toast, and my brother's small eyes.

Maybe the butter's still waiting, who knows?
For the kid with a knife and a nose full of toast.

Black Paintings

In the lugubrious hush of evening’s breath,
Where shadow gleams upon the plastered wall,
I wander through a gallery of death,
Whispers of madness in each sombre hall.

No gentle light dares trespass here or stay;
The pigments bleed with anguish—black, untrue,
As if the night itself had found its way
To sear the soul, unmask the tortured view.

Behold the Titan, ravenous with dread,
His limbs convulsed in Saturn’s fiendish maw—
He rends the flesh, devours the hope once bled,
And laughs through carnage what the fates foresaw.

There, crones lean over broth of silent fear,
Old eyes as hollow as a skull’s caved dome;
Their goblet holds the bitter cup of years,
No mercy flows in that deteriorate home.

Across the gloom, two figures fight with rods,
Each stroke a hymn to ruin, mud and shame;
Their forms half sunk in horrors, unknown gods
Smiling as they dance in fury’s name.

A swordless Judith, torch’s flicker dim,
Stands poised in shadows, both avenger and prey;
Her victim lies beyond our mortal rim,
His head dissolved in night’s eternal gray.

In corridors where fate’s Atropos treads,
She severs threads unseen, cuts doom at will;
No mortal hand may halt the loom she spreads,
Her shears in darkness sing upon the sill.

These walls were never meant for public gaze,
But born of suffering, of a mind undone;
An artist’s tomb, in pigment’s cruel haze,
Where hope expires beneath the absent sun.

So wander here, in silence, in this grief,
Let spectres peer and question what is true—
For in these Black Paintings, in this dark motif,
We glimpse the void, and all it says of you.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Paintings

Ode to the New Office

(or: A Rant in Nine Flights of Despair)

I climb these cursed stairs each day,
Three flights to start, hooray hooray—
A gym disguised as work, they said,
While I drag my bike half-dead.

The floorboards squeak like guilty mice,
Some call it trendy—I call it vice.
Each step a chorus, loud and shrill,
A soundtrack to my waning will.

I hunt for chairs like holy grails,
Each one broken, each one fails.
One rocks like a boat, one’s arms don’t move,
Ergonomics? Not their groove.

The coffee machine’s a needy pet,
Forever cleaning, dripping wet.
It sits not in the kitchen—why?
I trek with water, sigh by sigh.

My soap and clothes, my humble stash,
Have nowhere safe to make a splash.
No nook, no shelf, no private zone,
Just open space and moaning tone.

Open the window—ah, fresh air!
Buskers scream their lungs out there.
Drills, sirens, engines, life’s parade—
In this hip dystopia we’ve made.

The walls, all scraped, “industrial chic,”
But to my eyes? Just half-complete.
They call it “cool,” I call it “bare,”
Unfinished plaster everywhere.

No plug for phones, no charge in sight,
My battery dies—goodnight, goodnight.
The kitchen too could use a plug,
And milk that isn’t fit for slugs.

So here I sit, resigned and sore,
Dreaming of the old office floor.
At least back then, with one short climb,
I reached my desk—and felt sublime.

The Revolution Feeds

Beneath the blood-red, broken moon,
A whisper stirred — too late, too soon —
A promise made in fervent breath,
Now coiled around the throat of death.

The banners burned, their colors bled,
While ghosts of glory crowned the dead;
Each vow once sworn in righteous flame
Now murmurs low a traitor’s name.

The children of the cause, betrayed,
By hands their holy zeal had made —
They turn, they bite, they tear, they moan:
The revolution eats its own.

Through marble halls where tyrants fell,
Now stalks a darker, colder hell;
The martyr’s grin, the hangman’s jest,
Both wear the same immortal crest.

O cruel mirror, cracked and wide,
That shows the beast on every side!
No victor stands — no sinner known —
For all are fed, and all are thrown.

And still beneath that hollow moon,
It feasts, and feeds, and fades too soon;
While echoes hum, in ghastly tone:
The revolution eats its own.

I Know It’s Gonna Blow!

 

(A Dr. Seuss-ish Fable of the Gigawatt Glow)

I know it’s gonna blow!
Oh yes, I know, I know!
They’re building shiny data barns
That hum and buzz and glow!

They call it “smart investment,”
They call it “AI gold,”
But not a single nickel yet
Has jingled when it’s sold.

They spin their tales of power plants,
Of chips that crunch and chew,
But count the watts, not work they’ve done—
That’s what they brag to you!

“Oh, look!” they cry, “a billion watts!
Our grid will surely sing!”
But tell me, dear investor,
What useful thing they bring?

A watt’s not worth a widget,
A spark’s not worth a dime,
If all that juice is guzzled up
Before it learns to rhyme!

They’re burning cash like candles,
They’re stacking dreams like bricks,
They’re lighting up the PowerPoint slides
With billion-dollar tricks!

“EBITDA!” they shout aloud—
A word from dot-com lore,
“It’s profit minus what we owe—
Don’t ask us any more!”

But debts are not imaginary,
And taxes still must bite,
And when the lights go out one day,
They’ll vanish in the night.

For trees don’t grow to heaven’s door,
And wires can’t reach the moon,
And if you can’t afford the power,
Your servers hum a tune—

Of silence, dark and empty racks,
Of fans that spin no more,
Of suckers left with smoking stacks,
And bankers locking doors.

So listen close, my clever friend,
Before you join the show—
When hype outshines the kilowatt,
You know it’s gonna blow!

At Bethany Before the Passover

Six days before the feast, the evening came,
To Bethany, where death had loosed its claim;
Where Lazarus, once bound in grave's cold keep,
Now sat with Christ who woke him from his sleep.

The house was warm, with Martha's faithful care,
The scent of bread and oil perfumed the air.
Then Mary came — her alabaster broke,
And love, more rare than speech, in silence spoke.

She poured the nard upon his weary feet,
And wiped them with her hair, so pure, so sweet;
The fragrance filled the house — a holy flame,
That marked her worship more than wealth or name.

Then Judas spoke, with coin upon his mind,
"Why waste this cost? The poor are left behind."
Yet Christ, who knew the heart from false disguise,
Said softly, "Let her gift before me rise.

She keeps this for the day I'm laid in clay;
The poor you'll have, but I will pass away."
Thus love anointed life's approaching end —
And loss was crowned by grace none could defend.

based on: https://biblehub.com/kjv/john/12.htm