May we not be sissies
when the contingencies
of old age strike us in our nineties
or eighties or seventies.
May we be tough old nuts
with a lot of guts
who arise off our butts
if we’ve had sufficient luck
to duck ambulating disabilities.
May 2018 offer us the possibility
to be touched by some poetry.
Across the Bay would seem too far away
for me to travel were I to row its waters.
But my eyes can cross its waves quite swiftly
though my imagination is required for me
to see the many details denied by distance.
I’d like to think that someday I will go
and set my feet upon the place I often see.
But being more cautious than I used to be
I shrink from even easy explorations.
Far simpler is to tell my fingertips
to travel where there are possibilities.
Or I might go as far as taking elevators
to claim a distance that I might enjoy.
I do not remember most of the Decembers
that traversed my mind with but a brief touch of time.
I yearn for those memories that have joined my lost histories.
I’ll never discover what I wish to recover
though I’m dazzled by this year’s celebrations
that I see everywhere.
Is this anyway to say MERRY CHRISTMAS, my friends?
But it’s what’s on my mind as I ponder some rhyme
and and am bedazzled by time.
It’s the truth! Another one!
I can’t believe it
and yet know it must be so.
More laughter than tears –
more courage than fears
to face the remaining years.
Memories are especially stirred
like piles of leaves when the wind blows.
Who knows when we’ll stop counting
as the years keep on mounting?
So many others could tell us how it is
when the numbers cease to increase.
Most of them will be silent about deep things
but we’ll be glad they’ll be there for us
to love us and perhaps to hug us
and wish us well.
Three giraffes stand tall against the sky
on the other side of the Bay –
their metal frames designed as cranes
to lift large loads from land
to boats quite able to hold
what man puts in their holds.
Their gift to my imagination
transcends their early purposes.
The engineering skills that placed them there
were unaware that I would come along
and play with them.
I’m grateful that I can look across of the Bay
and marvel at the necks
that impress me and more.
I think they’re growing longer.
I found a word I never spelled before
and never thought I’d wish to.
I feel I must be at least
I had some once upon a time
in those days I scarcely recall.
They were useful but cumbersome.
Now my dragnet for ancient matters
scans a word I can’t seem to forget.
GALOSHES! Did you ever own any?
Perhaps you have some now.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Very often, in newspapers and on TV
we read about “A Person of special interest”.
We know that he or she will likely be found and interrogated.
As much will be found ourTabout that person as possible.
The police know how do to their work.
Then there are times when doctors come across
“matters of special interest” and they begin
to get into what they need to do.
The special interests of the police and doctors
usually does not hold our interest very long –
that is unless we are personally involved.
Today I know and love a woman of special interest
who has been found to have needs that I cannot meet
and, in a sense, she is being turned over to medics.
Is it not interesting to be aware of the levels of interest
we all have as our days unfold ?
And when the interest is truly personal what a difference it makes!
I see the tree in front of me
most every day
as I mount my treadmill.
it’s as if I were on a hill —
on a hill and looking down.
I see it through a window –
four floors up am I
and looking through some glass
showing me a portion of the world
I’ll never travel on but dream about.
The tree looks like a mast –
straight and tall and limbless
with a modest show of leaves
upon its top.
I’d like to sail the boat
that holds this mast
and feel its strength against the wind.
But I will only look and wish a little.
The tree I see in front of me
plays with my meandering mind
often, as I step and step
and face familiar windows.
Some day the tree will yield to fate
but I suspect I won’t be there
upon the treadmill – watching.
There was a man named Dirty Bill
He lived on top of Garbage Hill.
He never took a bath – he never will.
Yuck-tooey, Dirty Bill!
There was a gal called Josephine
who washed herself in gasoline.
When she got near a little fire
she soon looked like a funeral pyre.
Once there was a man called Dan —
a man no man could understand.
The words he spoke were always slurred
so he was hardly ever heard.
He said to me:
“I don’t want to go first.
I don’t want her
to have to grieve”.
I can understand that.
I could not have understood it
some years ago.
It wouldn’t have crossed my mind.
But in the past few decades
I think differently
about a lot of things.
I keep company with many folks
\who have already dealt with things
I don’t want to think about
but can’t help that thinking.
So every day I move into its hours
and put it aside certain things as best I can.