Tag: Poetry

you are old now.
this is how
it happens, right?
all those years of working
just leading up to a couch
and a blaring television.
you hold long wisps of white hair
and eyes that look but don’t see.
your mind goes out like the tide,
it drifts off somewhere.
in that place of pause,
that place of stillness,
you ask how i was feeling.
in two decades, you haven’t.
for twenty years, you’ve looked at me
but have never seen me.
now, with your fragility
and mortality watching you,
in a small room
with a loud television,
you ask how I am feeling.
but I think you see a younger
version of yourself
tucked somewhere in me.
“how are you?”
it is in that moment of lucidity,
in the stillness where
the delicate place where alzheimer’s
has lost its grip,
where I am just a mirror.
“how are you?”
but it isn’t a question for me.
you are asking,
‘did i live? or
just exist.’
but the tide goes out,
a stillness returns,
and you resume existing.

the

the driiiiiping snowmelt

snow –

melt 

with a bird singing…… it says

something –

always some thing something 

some

thing

i waaaant to

speak the laaaaangue

of birds.

it’s 3°f outside.
the house seems
to be moaning;
it’s releasing these
sounds i have never heard.
“i understand,”
i say aloud,
consoling the empty space.
it’s brutally cold outside.
i was thinking
that maybe
i should build a fire.
i should do
a lot of things –
a lot of things.
but instead
i just sit and drink coffee.
it is tepid;
black,
and strong.
from the couch,
under my blanket,
sipping coffee strong enough
to strip paint,
i look at the fireplace
and think about the things
i should do.
but doing
often takes saying
and saying often takes talking;
i mistrust my words
and the things
that will fall
out of my mouth
when i open it.
so i sit and
i sip my coffee.
and listen to the house,
as the frigid day
takes its toll on her.

the raspberry tasted of youth.
‘how truly simple
this is’,
i thought, as i waited for
the coffee to brew.
it is raining today,
a cold rain,
a december rain.
it is only a few weeks away
from the solstice.
the days move so swiftly,
chasing something with such haste.
as i stood watching the rain
and eating the raspberries
that tasted of youth,
i tried to understand
this movement of time;
this day that runs ferociously
to some unseen end.
it was never like this
in my youth;
time moved with a gentleness.
i’d stand amongst the raspberries,
free from care,
only being mindful of their tiny thorns,
and eat, and eat, and eat.
i began to understand,
breaking myself away from reverie
and pouring my coffee,
that the raspberry patch was
my kingdom,
i felt safe there
tucked amongst the tangled bramble
and the thorns.
the world outside
was one of turmoil;
it held a man of such fierceness
that a few scratches
from the inside of my kingdom,
my sanctuary,
paled in comparison
to his anger.

i had words that were pretty.
oh, i think i wanted
to dress this up,
to make my thoughts
rich and potent.
but this isn’t a topic
that needs it,
though it enters my mind often.
now it is midday
and a nap is calling.
my eyes
are watering with tiredness,
the gentle bobbing
of my head tells me
that i should rest.
but i am here
wondering about age
about time
and the our experiences since we
last met;
about the gray hairs
you have now
and my baldness.
i wonder about wrinkles;
mine from life, from
living hard,
the trials found within.
and yours from living
just living – boring living –
age without knowledge.
you see,
your corner office
has emptied you.
the shell was there
but the existence emptied you.
the love you proclaimed
was not love,
it did not nourish you
as love would.
the hands that would’ve
held yours through every trial
are rough from age,
and now they are holding
those of another.
soon i will rest.
these thoughts come often;
usually before my naps,
when my mind and heart
are tired and
begin to wonder about age,
time, and about a life
that i once desired to embraced with you.

where is my destination?
is this path
the path?
i watch the sun
pass along the wall.
it is a fall sun
moving with haste,
and i have not
yet found my shadow
within its weak autumn rays.

a shadow,
there on its own.
questions of how and
of why
remain quiet and still.
i am sure
that breath expelled in day
and sighs released at night
will be out of curiosity
or longing.
perhaps just fleeting thoughts
in quiet moments,
then moments that become hours
and then days,
will nag.
the figure of flesh and bones,
now just a shadow.

i have seen your eyes.
i remember them
as they spoke,
as they replied without words
telling me of your pleasure.
now, what do your wrinkles say?
what do your tired eyes say?
lines can speak,
but i am not sure anymore,
they are different.
i want age.
i want old age;
its beauty even in worn skin,
in wrinkles around eyes
that tell of everything
words will not.
but your eyes?
i don’t speak their language.
and your wrinkles?
they speak of the arrival
of old age;
not of beauty,
of loneliness.