Page updated 11-01-03

(First published in "From Cynwyd Castle")

AUTUMNAL SOLITUDES  by  Richard I. Thorman.

 My walk around the farm perimeter

this rare blue-sky day in late autumn

is shrouded in melancholic musings.

Even the antics and bubbling enthusiasm

of Major engrossed in canine pursuits

of wispy trails of shadowy creatures

who have dared to trespass in his realm

fails to divert from deeper reflections.


Crisp leaves crackle and complain underfoot.

Hardened lumps of earth wobble the soles,

ankle musculature conjuring up past sprains.

Fragranceless, sanitized whiffs of cool air

tingle the nostrils and cheeks, reminding

that soon the grey faded greenery will be

snuggled under a plump duvet of white on white.


Wands of grey colourless golden rod

stand poised ready to strike when spring

signals the annual competition of rebirth.

Evergreens stand reassuringly like sentinels

reaffirming continuity, chromatic colour

mid the somber pigments of the fall canvas.


Sounds of a barking dog echo hauntingly

across the hills and stubbled fields

as if scolding a master who has deprived him

of summer diversions and friends.

Major freezes and listens.


All is dearly familiar

like cherished memorabilia,

family albums with fading images,

reruns of old movie favorites

and old recordings recalling

memories of love and romance.


After twenty-one years of symbiosis

twixt mortal being and living earth,

the last thread of substance

is waiting to be broken.


Tractors, machinery and sundries

which inhabited the now deserted

century buildings departed reluctantly

by auction on September 26,1992.


Ere long, this familiar path I trod

will pass to the hands of a stranger

by the simple act of signing a paper.

Time has a way of overtaking all.


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(First published in "From Cynwyd Castle")

THE BARD'S MALEDICTION by Richard I. Thorman

There are times the SVGA screen stares back

Like a chilled grey corpse in a morgue in a sack

When brain storms and stimuli usually here

Are as flat in the noggin as yesterday's beer


A writer must write every day so they say

Or face never making the damned career pay

Doubts and rejections swirl round in my head

As the bank balance stubbornly hovers at red


Non comforting are editors hopelessly blind

Unappreciative of genius and brilliance like mine

The exceptions of course are the limited few

Who purchase my works to them merci beaucoup


What's wrong with the doctors prescribing the pills

Who claim to know oodles about everyone's ills

Never acknowledging black funk which writers' minds block

It's not just imagined, don't hand us that schlock


Time to shut down computer and printer and screen

Before I go bonkers and getting obscene

Maybe a hot bath, a tumbler of scotch on the rocks

A toast to myself and to hell with the blocks

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