I have decided that I have at last become the fourth wise monkey. It started with my eyes and having to wear glasses, ( See no evil), then with my speech when I lost my vocal cords, ( speak no evil), and now with my hearing in having to wear a hearing aid, ( Hear no evil).
And all this in one so young which is so terribly unfair, when you reach the eighties, plus a little bit. So poems are in order to mark this momentous event.
My eyes are the windows on my world,
they've seen so many things,
of fear and hatred, tyrants foiled,
and the joy that true love brings.
But slowly as the years progress,
those pictures slowly fade,
and glasses worn with great duress,
get thicker with each grade.
It's so unfair in one so young,
when a beautiful face is blurred,
and praises have to be unsung,
in case displeasure is incurred.
There's not much now, original,
with bits replaced with sighs,
and plaintively, I often call,
for those old blue twinkling eyes.
I would have to listen forever,
or so it would sadly seem.
My poor tongue could be of leather,
and to join in just a dream.
First head to left and then to right,
speechless, a 'Trappist Monk,'
being ignored is a terrible plight,
your spirits are quickly sunk.
Then the surgeonís hands they touched me.
A miracle he performed.
Not only did my spirit fly free,
but words, my silent lips formed,
Not only a life he gave me,
but of a quality oh so rare.
The joy of contact with others,
and poor poetry to share.
Ah! Pity love where-ever it grows,
see how in me it overflows,
though baggy-eyed and bulbous nose.
So strange a thing is seldom seen,
my age is dull, my sight not keen,
above I'm grey, but elsewhere green.
The poet who never grew up.