Binge Drinking Cub In Pub Drubs Dreams Run Rare After Yeats When You Are Old, Itself After Ronsard Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

When you are young and blithe, brink full of fun,
binge drinking grub in pub rues dreams run rare.
Case quick disjointed joint. Soon rising sun
transforms both in and outright sight with glare.

Teetering down by overflowing bar,
murmur, sadly slurring, how Love fled.
Glass clinking clown mask crowd clouds twinkling stars
as unseen, from the gutter, as mountains overhead

Take a quick gander in mind's mirror too.
Shake out fair hair, where lusting hands would grope.
Make hay while sun shines, remember very few
shall beacon beckon, most unravelled rope
too soon unreel. Time's krieg-spiel lightning flash
strikes home as Charon charges one-way fee
for memories few hold. Bough breaks. Vows trash
consigned by brash newcomers seeking key.

In some sum total of recorded time
rhyhmed second servings swerve to third or fourth,
from sublime to ridiculous pantomime
thoughts surge urge merge, submerge, flow forth.

Carpe Diem! Grace swallowed by death's maws,
which hollow eyed leaves rich dreams wrinkle lined
behind bluff laughs, finds pilgrims with bed sores,
as wander, lust, and wonder all unwind.

Who'll care a tinker's curse in fifty years
or even ten, when mirror's glass distorts
the image one once shone, swift wan, with tears,
crow fingered cares will linger mid waste's warts.

Most love lies superficial, fancy phrase,
for starlets eclipsed before tomorrow's press,
stale story told, bold head lines lost. Pain, praise
vain, Janus mortal mask shred. Nonetheless
perhaps some karmic churn recycling dust
will recreate Eve, Adam, and Isolde
shall some fresh Tristan kiss, and vow 'We must
elope! ' Perhaps next incarnation, bolder,
may banish fears that Yeats and Ronsard shared
across arched centuries of mortal plight.
Could spruced up mutant download pre-prepared
software, shed books, good looks, spread wings for flight?

When you are old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.