Time was
when we
wondered
if we
would be
together
tomorrow.
Now is
when we
wonder
that we
are still
together
today.
fifty-six years
is a long time
and no time
at all.
Not enough time
for those who fall
in love.
Tag Archives: aging
AGES OF LOVE
No one tells us love takes time to ferment,
like a yeast bread, or fine wine.
The heady fermenting scent unsettles us all the while;
and, we fearfully seek avenues of escape
from the changes in its composition.
Love’s growth challenges our position.
We stop and wonder how we got here;
even though we still do not know where we are.
Thus, such questions make us feel like fools.
Patience is a virtue because it is so rare.
Kindness and faith in one another is the only rule
to follow on the route which keeps love alive.
Blindly, we stumble past years of discontent.
Only after decades of loving do we realize
we carried one another’s hopes and dreams,
like a heavy sack upon our back until
we reached the destination where we could build
the life we were each destined to lead.
Hand in hand we stand and view the space
which has become our most sacred place;
the place we hesitantly share, breathing the same air,
remembering the same joys and sorrows,
hoping for just one more tomorrow
of loving communion and contented union
of two bodies now made one, finally.
We look around us with wonder.
We finally know how to love, over and under.
Love takes time, yours and mine.
Filed under POETRY
YOUNG AND OLD
The young ones seem to know
that our world is threatened
is ways we not fully know
but fear all the same.
With each sunrise
another un-nerving surprise
until we are afraid to awaken,
afraid to open our eyes.
Not so, the young
for whom time moves slow
and each change is noted
and each move forward
is celebrated, not feared.
But, we, the old
whose breath is slowed
while time speeds away
know life becomes shorter
day by day;
even if the earth
should pass away.
It will not be without us long.
We are growing weaker
as the young grow strong.
So, we must listen
to their protest and shouts.
They understand better
what each bully tactic is about.
We pretend it is only intimidation.
In reality, it is annihilation;
the end of freedoms seldom known
in ages past. As time has flown
we old ones forgot to pay attention.
Now, the young, whom we also ignored
beg for our attention.
We are never too old to mother the young.
We are never too old to stop what has begun.
We may not be able to march so far as they.
But we can shout from each of our front doors.
We can organize, assist and earnestly pray.
We can honk as we pass the marchers on parade.
We can give courage to those who are afraid.
We can write and call those in charge of our fate.
Time passes quickly for us, but it is not too late.
OLD CLASSMATE LUNCHEON
Time used to slip away.
Now it skips.
Soon, it will run.
From first grade through high school and beyond,
the bond with old classmates remains strong.
Their faces are still young, to me.
My heart carries the fraught memory
of times spent side-by-side,
as life pushed us away on its tide.
We carry their presence within us with pride.
The me no one ever knew resides in each of us openly now.
I marvel at the person we once hid inside.
Today, we rush ahead of reunion,
meeting for lunch and soulful communion.
Our thoughts and actions have become bolder
as each of us grew older,
except for those who sped ahead.
We honor the lives of those now dead.
We celebrate with impunity
those still part of our hearts’ community.
Filed under FAMILY STORIES, POETRY
THE RAINS CAME AND CAME AND CAME
We keep thinking
it cannot become any worse
this placid earth
awash in excess or in drought.
Hibiscus big as dinner pates
strung among drenched leaves,
hangs in drooping loops to the ground.
Sun makes its way warily
through clouds weighing the sky down,
new-born leaves water-logged and drowned.
The heavy weight of watered threats
is nearly too much to bear.
Too heavy to breathe, saturated, air
keeps me waiting inside,
Parched lips and dry-aged skin
too thin to accept such weight again,
hangs loose, losing all pride;
jealous of the hibiscus
which still stands tall
strong enough to resist it all.
I anxiously await a break in the clouds,
days of hope and rest in the sun.
Even the earth is in tears these days.
Like a child I hold my sign and sing aloud
“Rain, rain, go away. Come again
another day.” Or not. Never again
should we women and men
so misbehave and reduce our gardens to tears.
TIME FLIES
Time flies when you are having fun;
even faster when life is nearly done.
Aging compresses memories
weighted heavier day by day,
which one would expect
should slow time down.
Instead it speeds time up as we create
new memories to fill life up
before it, like we, pass on
before we accomplish all we seek.
Months now seem like a week;
years seem like a month at least,
and decades seem like a single year.
How can one compare the age of time?
How can one compare the time of age?
One simply turns life page by page
to finish the book so long ago begun.
Time flies when you are having fun.
Filed under POETRY
LAST DANCE
The young believe the aged
are forced to live isolated lives
because of aching bones
and wilting blood and sinew.
But, this is not totally true.
As time shortens our pace
and length of our dance
we choose our partners
more wisely, with more patience
and with more grace.
We make each moment count,
and leave less likeable partners out.
Filed under POETRY
AGELESS LOVE
Writing romance can only be done in the dark of night
while stars yet dance holding tight
to Orion’s belt, keeping apace in love’s delight,
swaying to the tune of memories so bright,
they light up the darkest and deepest insights,
recalling softly-murmured prose
that touched the heart and curled the toes,
lifted up bodies locked in embrace,
and kissed in rhythm keeping the pace.
Nights seem long to young lovers
but may I remind,
romance too easily fades over time.
The night too soon ends in the glare of the sun.
Oh, what lovers would give to stay young.
Filed under POETRY
SWEET LITTLE OLD LADIES
This is the face of white supremacy,
the sweet little old lady
who lives down the street from me.
She praises the Walz-Harris and
Sherrod brown signs in my yard.
She gleefully says they make her happy.
I offer the extra signs I have to put in her yard.
She gracefully declines, “my family
would make it hard on me.
“So, your family bullies you,” I reply.
Taken aback I watch her smile fade.
“Yes,” she says,” I suppose that’s true.”
“It is just that Black people are so…”
her hands in the air waving away thought…
“They want to take over the country, but ought not.”
“Do you hear what some white people shout,
about taking over government to have their way?
Do you fear them taking over the country?” I say.
A look of confusion crosses her face.
I ask if she thinks every white or Black person
is the same, and if blanket descriptions are really O.K.
This sweet little face now looks away.
Then turns with a frown and admits it’s unfair.
I have family who are MAGA, too, I explain.
If they do not like my signs I simply reply
that they should put out their own signs
and take responsibility for their incivility.
She tells me she is really afraid,
for once glad to be old with death on its way.
I remind her of all dangers she has faced.
I smile and encourage her to take her place
among our past heroes who gave voice to renew
the promise of America for me and for you.
I promise her she is stronger than even she knows,
that together we are strong enough to fight any foe.
I remind her everyone fears what the future portends
She nods and she smiles but her eyes tell a different story
She yearns for the time when being white
meant she could claim control and full glory.
I am an old white lady, but have never been sweet.
Being real is neither pretty nor neat.
I handle truth in its complexity,
dirtying my hands and feet
placing signs in my yard,
refusing to give in to hate and racism.
Ugly truth-teller is my only “ism”.
Silence is complicity.
Fear and hate do not deserve pity.
FUTURE WAITS
Future refuses to talk.
She holds her cards close.
No expression crosses her face.
Her fierce calm holds us in place.
We gamble our fortunes, our lives,
within her unfathomable space.
Withholding breath we wait
to discover our curious fate.
“Play the cards you have,”
she says,“before it is too late.”
The game here now will last until
each card has been played.
Holding onto cards
means new presents are delayed.
The young know this better
than their elders do.
The young play with greater abandon,
unconscious of the heavy stakes
that keep my eyes open all night through,
awake, until light from a new day
through the closed blinds seeps through.
A new day.
A new game.
Time to play.
Future cuts the cards.
No time to waste.
Vote!
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 