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Getting To Old

I often hear,
“It’s tough getting old.”

I never hear
“It’s tougher not getting old”
because, I suppose,
those who might have spoken
from personal experience
are no longer with us.

I am becoming too familiar
with aches
pains
losses
loneliness
of ageing alone

All of which invite
my thought,
“It’s tough staying old”

And happy
healthy
unconditionally prosperous
elder wise
mindful
fully engaged
compassionately warm
win/win resilient

Anticipating this sufficient day
more than anxious
about tomorrow’s losses
pains
solitary encroaching disabilities,
dark nights.

That said,
staying old
feels much easier
and lighter
and brighter
and curiously mightier
than fighting
vying
trying to stay young.

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Night Muse

I hear a muse
who speaks
and sometimes sings
and dancing leaps
only through my dreams

Whether mine is lonely
or one of many
we share at night,
I wonder

Where dark certainties
and sometimes starlit celebrations
unfold
dim as remembered bright

I suppose S/He might respond
to this humane humbling question
asked while fading off to work
on Earth’s spinning days
plays of relentless unresolve
becoming morning’s clarity,
a puzzle solved

Just for me?
or for eternity

From all of us?
growing lunar waxing
knowing waning shifts

Waking to whom we long to be
together once again.

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Still-born Metamorphosis

If only you would not deny

when I tell you how sad I am

to hear you so hopelessly alone.

Could you be a bit scared?

Like the rest of us,

that just maybe this is it

and somehow I missed

while dreaming other strings

of theory about who we are,

you and I.

 

How do we deserve each other

in this life?

How do we dance incarnation’s

precision march through culture,

beliefs,

words,

norms,

language perhaps more sustainably waltzed,

and sung with full resonance,

to grow this tree of life,

spin dark Earth to reach dawn’s light,

to race winter’s season into warmer springs

of laughter, love,

and hearty hugs and memories,

worn rugs with stories gently

gracefully unraveling.

 

I understand it hurts to imagine

someone I love but cannot find

grounds for stable relationship,

leaving home on pilgrimage toward

a lifestyle of regenerative promise,

like turning my back on our potential

in search of a fool’s dream

to have only what I already have,

if I would only want you

just a bit harder,

longer,

more regeneratively.

 

Even so, your pilgrimage

already has my blessings

wherever, to whomever,

can bring you less loneliness

than I have,

and more love,

less fearful peace.

 

I don’t know how to love you

away from your cocoon,

and you’ve left no room for me inside

to metamorph together.

While I realize we made this mess together,

I see no way to clear it up

or live in it as is

other than embracing your cocoon,

by crawling up in mine.

 

If only I could not deny

when you tell me how sad you are

to hear me so hopelessly alone.

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