Posts Tagged ‘Old’

My eyes are dry.

My lungs feel like wool sweaters

rolled and stuffed inside me.

Spine is slowly turning into the St. Louis Arch.

Bones stiff as flint.

Muscles like ink pens, exuding

pain from the inside, out.

I’m turning into cardboard.

I’ll be arthritic

before I’m twenty.

Once I cried from my powder blue room

my wails rising from my crib

like awful birds- beaks targeting ears

at which to peck.

 

Once I reached inside myself

and found the nerve to kick off the training wheels

and form my own path, unencumbered.

 

Once I found myself in a four square court

and the ball bounced between me

and people who introduced themselves

as they held that yellow rubber sphere.

 

Once I looked at the monochrome clock

that crouched, always in the same place,

on the mocha-brown walls of a building

that always smelled of new shoes and Lysol.

 

Once I found myself in a room-

painted a darker blue, the same

room where that doll-sized impression of myself

used its voice to rouse people from slumber.

Now I can use my voice to do the same,

but in spite of everything,

I take my own initiative

and set forth, out of the crib, onto the street, into the halls

on my own.

And Time scrolls on,

motioning not to its Underlings

(who heavily preoccupy themselves

with Trivial things).

Out

as a candle

dims and breathes its last

dark gray curl of smoke.

Out of the clutter,

the hands of loved ones

not to far off,

the bookshelves standing

like sentinels,

the bedroom walls boarding your body in,

but not your breath,

not your spirit.

You were not afraid.

Fear of death

is for the young people.

You lived long enough, well

enough. It was time

to say goodbye

to it all.

And so you did.

When you enter,

you step into yourself

and confront all the things

that you’ve kept buried.

Green-brown spires 

with their limbs- gnarled like weeds-

cast shadows, block

out the sunlight-you must search for it.

The brown path is not worn,

the ground is cold, 

and singing seems pointless here,

because the wizened trees of your mind

will suck the joy out of the tune

and reduce your voice to a stammer.

 

Know

that there are more people 

than solely you in this forest.

All paths intertwine,

and people are never alone.

But be careful what you say

as you stumble through the woods;

you never know what innocent children

will hear your curses

from the thicket on the other side.

Life, friends, is boring

only to those who make it so.

To complain of a friend’s plights

and gripes, and then complain

of being bored

marks a hypocrite

who has lost his inner child

who would see the great sea flash

and the blue sky and its cottons yearn

and dream

not of fantasy worlds,

but of the wonders here,

in his life.

-In response to Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

The New Year is but an hour away.

Minutes separate myself

from a new sun- that new jewel

set into its old, black, stone broach-

and my changing life.

 

I have yet to empty my lungs

of old breath.

Have yet to empty my mind

of new doubts,

the kind that are common this time of year.

I have yet to purge my body

of sins well aged, like fine wine

(they lingered even on Christmas Day).

 

And so the clock and calendar eye me

with regret. And I sigh,

slump into the sofa,

play with my old thumbs,

and smile in spit of the fact

that what’s to come

is as unknown to me

as the source of this burgeoning sense of hope.

Sweet lady,

you’ve shrunk to a corn husk,

your eyes bulge with water-weight,

you’re hunched over like a crescent moon.

Prattle on in Polish 

among the younger adults

who sip wine, that sour nectar.

 

I’m a ghost in the room.

I fade into the gray walls.

My disinterest fuels my observation,

and, if you’ll forgive me, my ignorance

towards announced recollection of days long gone 

(fond memories I’ll sneeze at in the future).

I notice the pot bellies– as one grays,

one grows out– the obsession with the menial,

and I realize I want glamour,

I want flashing lights and millions to know my name,

then I won’t be wide eyed, staring at a dog.

Then I’ll be able

to make conversation

with people who mutually want to,

to talk about things 

that actually have meaning.

With every fiber, I move,

shuffling feelings as an orchestra

moves through concert pieces;

each page is different,

danger is splashed in each note,

the words are red with risk.

You, however, stay rooted

playing the same tunes,

singing the same lyrics,

in different arrangements,

with different moods

because taking risks

puts you out of your comfort zone.

What kind of musician are you

if you find that even your own feet

grow tired of dancing

to the same- your same old tunes?