Being Young, 21 Being young, 21, is everything For wisdom does not come with age Only tired bones and fade And maturity means accustomed to The crumbling of a once great temple, you Invisible now, featureless, faceless That’s the rub of the wrinkly skinned Who live in seaside towns, with mothballs twinned And all this whilst the beautiful people Run like gazelles, screw like rabbits, have such delicious fun God, it’s just not fair, though once I was there In the class of being young, 21 Being old, having a layer of mould, is disgusting Grandpa in the garden smiling, pottering With his ugly brood, screeching, hollering I’ll leave to poppets and dears with leaky bladders Who pee themselves and fall off ladders So, young man, please get blind drunk for me Do excess like there’s one day left, for advancing years Bring only scraps of happy, but no few tears Don’t listen to elders, sit at their slippered feet Run like gazelles, screw like rabbits, stretch out in the sun And I’ll cheer from afar, still a member at heart Of the class of being young, 21
I love my dog more than my dad I love my dog more than my dad By a distance, not a tad There I’ve said it, the cardinal sin Preference for a canine to my next of kin His big floppy ears, doughy eyes, cold wet nose Means more to me than my father’s bones That lay in a grave, I hope at peace My accidental parent, who came from the East And whilst my dog showers me with kisses I remember the drink, the rows, the Christmases He was never there, never told us he cared But still I loved this boy soldier, unrecovered man Though not as much as I love my dog Sorry dad, I hope you understand
From the UK, Mark Niedzwiedz is a professional composer and lyricist. So far, Mark’s poems have appeared in poetry journals such as Grey Sparrow, Oddville Press, Scritura, Wink, Rat’s Arse review, Sac, Literary Heist, Harbinger Asylum and elsewhere.
Grand Little Things 