ageing – Page 3 – Aremyfeetofftheground

Quakers

I know why you couldn’t shave anymore
I used to think that you could
but needed to be touched
I think, now, that something told you
“What’s the use?”
and you agreed
and your hands and knees agreed
and next morning
your shrunken head
could think only of hard rivers of nerves.

That’s the spirit

There’s no one to adore it.
Too hard-shelled and prickly,
I guess.
Transgressions bought and paid for.
Still, there are soft surfaces of want.
In the shower,
(hotter, hotter),
there’s that brain stem shiver.
White-eyed,
photogenic as an actor’s orgasm.

Waste not, want not

For his end time,
we flocked together from our compass points,
and gathered by his bedside.
Like the fresh faces on Auntie Em’s farm
after Dorothy’s dream.

In his life, he must have dreamt us
into something that held him happy
until this day.

His plugs and wires and tubes
seemed connected to an underground cloud,
and what it fed to him was bitter.
Today was his day for the punching of tickets,
like Tom Hanks on the Polar Express.
But, inspirational? Not so much.

Each one showed our other face
just as we were looking at his,
and we wanted to plug our ears
as he spewed secrets
that we dismissed as drug-induced,
but knew to be true.

And what do you do with the Never Dids,
the filthy kids and the hiding hids?
The thrown cans of salmon
and the smashing plates.
Oh God, we were sorry,
and a group hug just wasn’t in the cards.

Winded

Third or fourth wind,
I think.
Pissed at the life sedimentary.
A change is as good as a rest.
Round and round the mulberry bush.
Hah. And I see that my old cat
knows he’s bony now.
He challenges the thin air,
and slingshots himself
into the five yard dash.
Then, saunters to his hairy bed.
All humdrum and glum.
I’m thinking we are partners
in the big sad,
and he knows he can’t take care of me
no more.

The tree

Lest I should do it wrongly,
help me.
Get a seed,
clean and viable.
In its fleshy pith,
the veins of memory.
Show me what should be
the depth,
the best earth,
the time of day,
whether sun or shade.
Give a benediction
so that, in years that I will not know,
the tree will be understood.

Signals

I do receive them still,
though more infrequently
and, I suspect,
from those who love company.
In days of yore,
some did the brazen dance of plumage,
seeking only to stir up mischief,
I think.
To think otherwise would be self serving,
do you know?
Though once, the bedside phone rang at 2 a.m.
and an invitation was extended and rejected.
I am an upstanding citizen,
do you know?

bed of lies

Bones.
Things that balloon
or are meaty.
Some swollen.
Sore sinews,
feeble signals.
The living pain.
Where is redress?
Where is forgive?
We hang
in the balance.

The slow burn

i am one with hands
hang they like meats today
grab one that’s numb
work it up and down
hold it by the thumb
gelatinous with bones
the slow burning of hope
has reached there at last
but its heat doesn’t warm
at all

Bohemian ballerina

She had a mouth like Groot.
(carry on, I said to myself)
Red catfish lips and smeared makeup.
(was she 60? 70?)
Rouged cheekbones,
bright bohemian garb,
and ballerina slippers.
A standout on the Walmart mile.
And her drunkard’s walk?
An impromptu dance to make me smile.

Ember month

Sundown at Nipissing’s shoreline,
and the big lake begins its freeze.
The soft fire of November’s embers
pleases the eye, but can’t warm us.
I stand in the cold cold sand
that waits for winter’s cover,
and think of unimportant things:
that there will be no more drifting things,
maybe until June.
And, where do all of those greedy gulls go
when the freezing squalls begin?
And, another question, for old Dad:
You sure liked your hot mashed potatoes
with that half stick of butter,
table cream,
salt & pepper.
Why can’t we eat what we like, Dad?
Without dying, I mean.
I just can’t…
no more.