Ancient song of Eden, our nature,
as above – light to watch for –
my summer, withering,
her insect breeze vined
would come there and have
harmony – beautifully fresh
in prairie lake,
air vivid.
(Fridays are for Magnetic Poetry. Play along online.)
Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending
too early for my taste.
If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess
layers of this confinement
Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore
exuberance of noble youth?
Passion persists, intelligence
in tact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.
(Lillian is hosting dVerse poetics tonight with the prompt: shed. I am also linking up to Willow Poetry’s “What Do You See?” challenge: photo prompt; and Ragtag Community: angle; as well as Fandango’s: noble.)
Life! One day rushing to collect kids, stopping for the dry cleaning, and praying the slow cooker is indeed cooking; and the next strolling down uncluttered lanes, contemplating absence. How did we get here? How did we dream so big and land so humble? Gone are big homes and hefty mortgages. Hell, we’re down to one car. Sunday dinners with the family are memories and nowadays, my head spins to think of cooking for more than we two.
Now we speculate about time left. Ponder what distances will support us. Shall we travel, avoid the winter months, and if so, will our health cooperate? Will the children understand? Forgive my melancholy. The silence is echoing off the walls, and I am reflective today. Not in a good way. I’d best get myself outside for some fresh air.
Time slips through fingers
palms reaching outward, hopeful –
Fall’s hues distract woe.
(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 Word Thursday, and dVerse‘s open link night. Photo supplied by Deb Whittam)
Came across this post today, and felt the hand of synchronicity at play. Michele’s words reminded me that my experience is not unique. She speaks to the human condition of aging eloquently.
“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
Some of us fight aging. Some of us embrace it. Whichever approach is yours, though, aging beats the alternative. In the immortal words of someone.
People in my family die young. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to be old. Or maybe it’s because I’d hoped to be old and wise, to stop making the same foolish mistakes over and over again.
That hasn’t happened yet, but aging has made me lazier, meaning that I now have no energy at all to boss other people around about how to spend their days. It’s all I can do to manage my own days.
One of my…
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She dresses for company,
every day –
just in case.
Keeps a puzzle at her side –
a distraction for lonely times,
entertainment for guests.
Body failing,
eyes challenged,
but mind is sharp.
At ninety-one,
how she keeps going
remains a mystery to most.
(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight. The challenge is to write a poem in 44 words (quadrille) using the word puzzle. Thanks Mish!)
Immersed in the spiritual –
not yet fully present –
participating,
considering
new beginnings,
openings
so much easier
to go back to sleep
leave the living
to the younger
more energetic
generations
surpassing me
clued in to
technology,
modern nuances
yet, even they
slumber, lulled
by a confidence
I too once donned,
before immersing
myself in the spiritual.
Remember when lines meant challenge
and colouring was not confined to
parameters, but an invitation
to explore, and days spent
contemplating invited
song, and nothing
really mattered
except the
moment?
There is a place
balanced between
the bustle of doing and
the edge of non-existence
where fantasy beckons,
where aged minds, content
with past accomplishments
come to rest, to ponder –
who once again recognize
that lines hold no significance,
that colours know no limits,
that music uplifts the mind,
and that memories are places of
exploration, and the moment
is all we ever have.
Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances
Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination
They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.
The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days
when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.
(The Daily Post prompt is snippet. Hope you enjoyed.)
Depression desires a move –
maybe east, where the sun rises
and views are more picturesque
but espoused to Disability ensures
limitations – no multi-level dwelling
just a single story, easy access home
Surely, there is a place, where both
tales can co-exist, and Depression’s
suppressed flamboyance can soar
and Disability’s plentiful talent
can escape the darkened confines
of four dimly lit walls, be witnessed
She is actress and he is victim, and
a fresh start is required – ownership
that’s less costly – discovery a possibility
gorgeous, inebriating abundance –
a foundation of hope – no more
lowering themselves to circumstance
Yet, both are married to responsibility,
clutch it with terror, personal cravings
a menace – store their dreams in boxes
basement buried – the family home
a weighty treasure – ignore the niggling
call to downsize – prefer to embrace
their fateful fortunes with loyalty –
a wounded pair, reluctant to let go
fear an insurmountable barricade.
(Image: skydancingblog.com)
One Woman's Quest 