Another Word for Age

Maturing has some benefits . . .
we are not governed by clocks.

We watch the moon as it sets
sometimes seeming a sullen ox
aware of the sniffing of a smaller fox,
but mostly we have no true regret,

eyes closed listening to Bach . . .
Bach, not always our favorite . . .
damn, so what? we savor it!

Old Geese on a Pond

I float easy enough, but not always with a breathing tube above water, but what the hell . . . I have a nose and I can float, and with some direction. Oh, I may follow a stream for some way, but please do not expect me to stay too long . . . some of us plan ahead and then see somewhere else to go . . . I hope to keep travelin' without too much thought of mind . . . there are two of us, like old geese on a pond, we move. Do not always expect to keep us within your knowledge of us. What a fuss . .

Not meant to be a Boast

I'm loose on the coastal range
sometimes just too far offshore
tossing in waves I didn't remember
swimming toward shores as if I don't care . . .
I remain aware of the moon and stars
and the loose moon kissing the stairs
and shout out to see Jupiter and Uranus
before Mercury brightens the skies
with questions of propriety
that who the hell can answer . . .
It is not just apparent older age
nor youthfulness out of a cage
it is damn well beyond cancer
and fellows worried about privacy,
it is just a swim on the Oregon coast.

Hallelujahs on a Primary Chorus

I sing like a frog in a creek
just checking where I'm at
some notes sharp some flat
some things seem totally godsent
and then echoes remind me
I've read my biology front to zen
I realize the costs of buying and rent
and the joys of knowing how to bend
and guess that I'm just a bit of geology . . .
Keeper teach me the roads to heaven
all of my bread is toasted unleavened
and I sing the joys of just beginning
without considering the seismology
isn't someone else just as curious
and know that I am damn well serious
about where to go and where we've been?

Bits & Pieces

I have been a new recruit changed to soldier
and someone with a weep-upon shoulder
I have even been younger but never yet older
I do not remember the luxury of a stroller
but I know the smell and peace of a barstool
when some of them thought I was in school
but in sister's lounge waiting for my turn at pool
I never put a dime on the table, I am no fool
I know my worth and my thirsts
and know that I was never cursed

See you on the Trail

I am not as young as our moon
but with drink and medicine
I may be there very soon.
I ain't in any goddamn race
but with the power of my Edison
and if driving talents keep pace.
I always have thoughts of tomorrow
and may decide to scale Kilimanjaro.

Love and Crayolas

Don't get me wrong
I might could write your song
but it would be me glancing at you

Don't think me wise
I might see your daylight skies
without fathoming the blues of nights

We color and redraw
across pages of Mardi Gras
without noting the rains coming down

Horizons

Yes, I laughed at yesterday's tomorrow
and chuckled and joked at looking forward.

I always expected drier, lighter snow
and always saw the one-eyed poker card:

It was just support for pennies on the table
and the cloistered closing lines of our fable.

In Your (Our) Face

In your face.
I will remain in the race.
There is no disrespect
but just what you expect.
Sometimes we stumble
and sometimes we mumble
but we can twirl a star
at as distant and far
as we can imagine that far;
hold down the tent
it will rain and rumble
and many of us will disappear
into the clouds of despair
almost as quickly as frogs
from distant ditches and bogs.
The world translates us
differently and without fuss.
I still try to corner love
and fit into my working glove
but moments are moments
as burials are monuments.
Circles are sometimes smaller
than we need or call for;
we live in circumscribed
bottleneck dreams,
or so it often seems
though few of us feel bribed;
We know our tribe.

I am at Peace

if you need voices to assure you
that is cool as brown sugar & okay
but I will dance my twirls myself
and you can do what you do
I always have bunches more to say
but I'll set that on some high shelf
out of reach until we, she, or he needs it
meantime I will listen to doves coo
and the whistle of the morning pot
let me know what I forgot . . .