Early Traveling

I was not the cool kid

nor a stalking child

just a thumb in the air

without a flower in my hair . . .

O just to get out and about

from Odessa to the Pacific

watching skies of suggestion

my travels were my wit . . .

Bridges without too much water

some nestling birds for safety

there and back, windmills in mind

I counted out steps between waterings.

I always knew my name.

Days of Sorrow

The bone-aches of age

are a reminder

that some of us are in cage.

I walk

I talk

I even strut some

but never locked by space . . .

I can run

under stars that are kinder

than a simple stage

of endless rage.