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// Myself //

The Old Guy who Wrote these Poems



That Old Guy in the Mirror




James Bredin


That old guy who still stalks me; I should complain,

He stalks me everywhere in sunshine or rain,

He glances at me from mall mirrors now and then,

On the escalator I see he's at it again.


It can't be me because I'm not as old as him,

Though I'm older than I used to be -- eyes growing dim,

Why can't I strut my stuff and be noticed by those dames?

Those two over there, strutting their stuff at silly games.


But if I did, I might be considered stupid,

An old duffer trying to act like cupid,

It's sad in a sense, since time has passed me by,

My crowd replaced by others who are not shy.


They don't appreciate that time is moving fast,

And their youth and good looks will soon fade in the past,

I just wish that old guy would stop following me about,

Glancing at me from mirrors as if he had some doubt.


Saturday, January 10, 2004




Marion Auld




James Bredin


Marion Auld is my big tall wife

I hope she stays for the rest of my life

And I hope our life is long with laughter

Before we go gently into the hereafter


I know she's bossy but she needs to be

To tolerate or disagree with this asshole me

But she is smart I'll give her that

Loves me, two dogs and that stupid cat


I love her too and I always will

Though I sometimes lack the romantic skill

To tell her really what's on my mind

I'm thinking of ways to be gentle and kind


She remembers things that I forget

Pay the phone bill, cat to the vet

The names of the flowers I planted last year

Perennials that come back and persevere.


Marion Auld is my second wife

Before her I knew lots of strife

That's why I appreciate her all the more

Because of what happened in my life before


Marion Auld she giggles quite a lot

That's a good sign for our romantic plot

Maybe there should be a marriage rule

That giggling is needed just to endure




My Burial Plot




James Bredin



Now that I bought my burial plot, I can't move away,

No way I can join the white flight so I'll just have to wait and stay,

If I join them, they'll have to bring me back to bury me dead,

Not an easy task if it's a heavy coffin lined with lead.


I'll be buried between the dead Chinese and the dead Greeks,

Over by the dead Portuguese -- we'll be a group of dead geeks,

Old Otto from Odessa is already there -- just over the wall,

We'll continue that conversation -- twenty years ago last fall.


And Don Sargent is there too, just further along the path,

Maybe we could visit during that long quite aftermath,

My gravestone will have one tiny e-mail keyboard of course,

In case you read this poetry and want to have a discourse.


I'm hoping it takes a few years yet though before I go,

Maybe twenty or thirty or even forty -- I'll take it slow,

But eventually I'll get there I haven't got a doubt.

'Cause time flies when youre having fun but time tends to run out.


Saturday, December 27, 2003



Another Place and Another time 



The Drumcliffe Cemetery




James Bredin


The names of the people I knew are now written on the stones,

In the Drumcliffe cemetery and on boxes holding bones,

They lived in Ennis when I was a boy though the place was poor,

But no one knew then they were poor and they just had to endure.



It was a time when horses and carts still lingered on the street,

And dogs roamed free sometimes in packs  -- not quite so discreet,

But only priests (who also walked on water) and doctors drove cars,

While the Sunday sound of singing often came through from shuttered bars.



Their Irish names and faces still imprinted in my memory,

Their whispers still haunt me hallucinatory mortuary,

Though it's more than fifty years ago I left it all behind,

Their voices are still gentle and kind in the recesses of my mind.


January 12, 2004




Death, Burial, War and Peace




James Bredin


I'm writing this for those who are still around after I'm dead,

Difficult to time warp to then, which I hope is far ahead,

I'd much prefer if my time here stood absolutely still,

As my time is growing shorter, I'm not keen about the drill.


But you good guys and girls when you're standing around my grave,

Forget the platitudes of the preacher and give a slight wave,

As they slowly lower my coffin into that deep dark hole,

Not very warm in here but I have to play the role.


Unfortunately I believe that when I'm dead, I'm dead,

There is no soft landing here; no way to avoid this dread,

Sorry I can't abide much with any of what that preacher says,

'Cause this is reality; my game is gone in a hundred ways.


And as you know, I'm not one for giving much advice but I'll try,

If a politician says something's worth your life, it's a lie,

Peace may not be as exciting as war but it's much more fun,

So stay close to home with your kids until you too are done.


Thursday, January 22, 2004