Growing Old

Growing old gracefully isn’t a pirouette

or an elegant jeté displayed across the stages

of life, nor a double axel, a salchow, or a lutz

on a frozen theater, no oohing and aahing,

no applause; it is, rather, the beauty of one foot

in front of the other, a pause to bend down,

groaning, perhaps, to pick up a penny

or a soft rose petal, fallen, the air still fresh,

or pungent even, nature’s decay fertilizing

and returning darkness back to light and life,

the sunshine warm on our faces or the cool mist

of rain, an ocean breeze blowing, a salt spray’s spritzing,

the sound of the surf pounding, a gull squawking overhead,

a songbird singing unseen, a trill, a peeping, a greeting;

growing old gracefully is walking by a mirror,

and, smiling, recognizing ourselves reflected.

The Gig

The last note sounded, a long tone sustained, descrescendo’d,

and the dance ends, the dancers leaving and the band packing

up our stands and lights, mutes and music and horns, and I begin

my own long ride north to home in silence and darkness,

the dance tunes lingering in my head fading away to quietude.

And on my radio now, a classical station, Bach and Vivaldi,

something Baroque, Handel or Telemann, an unknown composer

from another era, an orchestra, a soloist from today, driving out

the pulse of a jazz drummer pushing and the upper register of brass,

loud above the staff, reduced to strings and bows, eloquent,

calming, multi-speaker stereo taking me in, enclosing me in music.

 

The city lights and traffic rushing by are left behind, and the road

advances into the darkness, lit only by my high beams, interrupted

by the sleepy little towns asleep now, unaware of my passing through,

and a rare car approaching, overtaking me, here in the concert hall

of my car, auto pilot, cruise control, carrying me north, carrying me home.

Six Short Poems in November

1.) Perhaps, 

he does live here,

this one called god,

this place called here,

as good as any other.

 **********

2.) Zoo Animals 

After darkness descends,

zoo animals roam

behind our eyelids,

closed and fluttering,

grazing on our dreams.

 **********

3.) On a breeze, 

Leaves

      stumbling

            across

                  my yard.

 **********

4.) Insomnia 

Sleep won’t come

nor the words repeated

to put into rhyme

and lull me to sleep.

 **********

5). Lay vs. Lie

- a love poem – 

Lay your body down

     and, lying there,

          remember falling

               in love.

 **********

6.) Card Shark 

The digital sound of cards shuffling and laid out

does not beat the feel of cards fluttering against your fingers,

a slight breeze stirring, and the tapping of cards back together,

the tap-tap of the deck against the table, nor the slap of cards dealt out,

thrown out from the deck, a quick deal around the table, nor the satisfaction

of cards strewn about in the frustration of losing, raining down across the room.

One Earth, One World

The fox and now 2 deer, squirrels, still,

and the unseen wildlife roam this space

we share, call home, in the early dark

descending in autumn’s changing time;

 

we hear each other, see traces, glowing

eyes, a yip, a grunt, the rustle of leaves

and brush, the bark of my own dogs,

too domestic to give chase, alerting me

and them, no warning, just acknowledgment,

we are here, bound together, readying

ourselves, all of us, thriving, surviving,

facing the winter ahead, the cold and snow,

the dark and lean times, clear skies

and the smell of humanity near us,

hazy smoke and the roar of engines;

 

slow progress advancing, finding our way,

making our way to an unknown distant

future, as one, man and beast, one earth,

one world, nurtured, sustained, enduring.

Jasmine (from "The Princess Series")

She is but a nameless, character-less player,

a mere prop called “the princess,” the Sultan’s

daughter, like her mother, we assume, awaiting

a prince, per the custom of the day, sold to the highest

bidder, 40 basins of jewels, 80 slaves, black and white,

a conjuring by a genie in a lamp, stolen by trickery

and used to win her hand, an idle boy unworthy of her

made worthy in this story of Aladdin, a Chinese tale

told, 1001 Nights: boy gets girls, boy loses girl (and lamp),

boy gets girl (and lamp) back, and they live happily

and in peace, a replacement for the Sultan in succession.

 

Hardly the Disney tale of an Arabian night in Agrabah,

the fable told of Jasmine, princess wanting more than custom,

a stronger character, a stronger woman wanting a life

of her own, breaking tradition, century old customs,

the right to choose whom she will love, whom she

will marry, prince or street-rat, to choose the life she wants

to live, a whole new world of choices to be made,

a magic carpet to take her away, she, Jasmine,

to a dazzling place she never knew, soaring, tumbling,

freewheeling through an endless diamond sky,

happily-ever-after!

 

And the genie? Very little to do with it,

in this the story of Jasmine.