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