Leaden Lids, and Lazy Limbs
by Ray Fowler, MD
Copyright Jan 1, 1988

(Time in Space Home)

leaden lids, and lazy limbs
astride a weakening torso,
roam to room, a doom a room,
life’s surging ebbs and more, so

now, lest I be thought too quickly
reaching pen to paper,
listing lines less useful, least
appropriate, like vapor,

might these so somber wanderings
find home in your sweet heartland,
soul arriving, striving, diving
home, to never part. and,

let this so detached and scattered
concentration focus;
away the clouds! get out you fog!
no more this hocus pocus

or these demons gnawing hungrily
upon a stooped old mind,
whose will would wax and wane
with wandering thoughts that twist and wind.

get back distracting deep despair
lest I call you right out,
to poison late night’s solitude
and my fragile sense to rout!

ah, no, sweet lady, I thee know
too well to risk a blunder,
too well to trip a flip or dip
a quip too quick or blunder.

no, no, a gentle song would soothe
thine own ruffled ridges quickly,
pat down thy frizz, put off thy frown,
and make thy heart less prickly.

yet, music’s art escapes me now
as deep the lines upon my brow,
may labor to inform my how,
before my ship sinks by its bow.

no tune plays lightly through anew
my churning, boiling sadness,
no notes, no melody arises
high above my madness.

should not love’s harmony explode,
a volcano erupting?
or is this mind deceived by tales
of ancient live, corrupting

simple thoughts and easy feelings
off their natural manner?
perhaps, but lo’ this mind
had never had a year so banner,

or seen a meaner fold enfold
among its members tightly,
wrapped up all minds in bliss so sweet
of music’s sharper bite. we

haste too close to those we love
the ugliness and dreary.
perhaps, we muse, our hearts’ delights
would soon become much weary

in dealing daily dabblings amid
the middle pealing,
from soul’s bells clamoring so loud,
confused songs soundly dealing.

or maybe not. your heart seems strong,
and slow to creep boredom,
and resolutely sifts through all
my trials, my strife, and more. whom

else might I so honestly
and truthfully confront?
whom else, indeed? we share so much,
indeed! who’d bear the brunt

of these pale lines? of all my crazy
fruitless, everlasting,
stressing, maddening, soul confusing
searching; e’er out casting

to hook a meaning, snare an answer,
mark a frame complete:
just you, and who, my present roil
dost make the mark so sweet.