Old age is a smarmy being
that pushes you from behind,
confusing you with multiple choices
and dithering doubts.
Cutting some strings,
and tightening others,
it challenges your daring of pain,
and wants your attention during sleep.
Ah, this life and its just desserts.
***
Art by Remedios Varo
Mister whiskers, curled up in dream. You, in the faded recliner, the motors of your snore like a cheetah’s purr. The TV on mute in blue aquarium light. Outside the window, a borealis of feathering snow. And I, in a sated sigh, put my feet up too. We go gently into that goodnight.
~Somewhere by a brook~
I say.
A Freudian slip.
You say What? What was that?
I say ~Nothing~
but can’t keep a leash on plodding thoughts
that say
~Plant a small bush~
~One that’s out-of-place~
~One that will thrive on leavings~
***
Image: Flickr.com
A walk, shortened,
in October bluster.
Black branches flailing
shake off leaves to the bonfire of fall.
Escape, they do, in a tumble dry dance.
Carpet the catwalks.
Stick to the shoes.
The future’s opaque.
Carrying, carrying things.
Stumbling towards rest.
Knuckles of anxiousness
push up, under the jawline.
Boxes,
unopened these years.
A pair of neglected sneakers,
remembrance of running,
regret now
they didn’t die a natural death.
This material mountain,
trove of trivialities,
hobbling our limp
to tomorrow.
***
Everything gets thin
Faulty ice on which we stand;
the shields of the heart.
Once,
within my hearing,
and thinking himself alone,
he said
I wish I were dead.
And I didn’t man up to that.
I god damn kept my hands in my pockets
and shied away from his tortured road.
And now, in my time of life,
I see to it that things are kept clean,
most especially those hard-to-reach places.
Angels are white-winged, I think,
and brook no negligence of care.
And I don’t know where he is now,
or if he can see my compulsion to shine things.
To bring them to bright.
Or if he knows his boy is just like him.
~Fifty said to Fifty~
Time is growing short, growing cold. Know that i will be with you, all the way to the next time. Be on guard, lest I drift into the lock of sleep. Charge through the night, that you may play in broad day. Put away the fearsome fear, until another year.
I live in the world
of whistle and hum…
those intimates
that clear the blank snow from pathways.
That conjure up demented dance,
and keep at bay the deathly trance.
Dreams, I’ve had,
and thoughts in broad day,
now,
of doors both shut and locked.
Of bridges,
burned or broken.
Vision’s through wrong-way binoculars,
cleverly cartooned.
A safe distance.
But listen…just…
The clown is talking.
May I do this with your arm,
you said.
Not ~Can I~,
but ~May I~.
And then, with your hands,
you pressed down hard
into the years,
prying up stones
that were cold and complacent.
The roots of moles and strawberries.
And “What?”, I thought.
What are you looking for?
This hurts, yes.
***
Aremyfeetofftheground 