Comfort is undersold.
Passion, unlike us,
never gets old.
When age exceeds
the body’s needs
comfort remains
as we enfold
hearts and souls
amidst limbs entwined
whispering I am yours,
and you are mine.
Tag Archives: aging
DANCE TO THE MUSIC
The music calls
across the walls
that separate
the hopes and fears
each of us hold in thrall.
Music is our common language,
the heartbeat which unites
and could, if we allowed,
enlighten and enrich us all.
Our feet tap tentatively,
lest in shame, we fail or fall.
We must learn to walk before we dance;
and before we walk, to crawl.
Crawl, then walk, my pride demands.
Then dance a sacred dance with all.
Dance, while still, the music calls.
Filed under POETRY
DOORWAY TO RECOVERY
I never saw a door I did not long to walk through,
always wondering what new thing I could discover.
Some doors are never meant to open.
Other doors creak on rusty hinges long unused.
Doors hung on oiled hinges and left wide open
beckon all and sundry to enter at will;
crowd out all meaning, and lessen the thrill.
The best doors are heavily carved with hidden meaning,
closed to all but those with strength and curiosity
sufficient to push them wide enough to pass through.
But every door is warning as well as a promise.
While rest and recovery makes me weak
I know most doors must remain shut and waiting
for my strength and health to return enough
to push open every door I see wide,
and discover what has remained hidden inside.
I cannot be patient. I have no pride.
I push to walk to doors, then push some more;
only to discover what doctors tell me.
I cannot open doors just now, but later.
Tell me what you see on the other side.
My body must rest, but my mind continues to explore.
Surely, you hear me knock-knock-knocking at your door.
Filed under POETRY
WALKING WOUNDED
Walking wounded has become a way of life.
Aging does that with its strife.
One cannot complain of shoulders strained
from lifting sleeping children to their beds.
Nor, of knocking knees collapsing from the strain
of running the race to prove one can keep the pace
set by others’ expectations and lack of consideration.
A back bent into permanent library position
after years of reading, writing and speechifying
lacks the strength to stretch, so de-conditioned
it too often can no longer bend as love requires.
Arthritis has found a home in the space between each bone.
Then, the accidents begin to appear as bodies flail and fall.
Gnarled hands no longer grasp knives and water’s glass,
making messes everywhere one can no longer reach.
Nothing and no one can be held tight, nor safely handled.
No more pulling weeds, making unsightly lives lovely
as the body and the garden go to seed.
“Enough is enough” becomes a distraught creed
for those in constant pain who cry out in need;
“No.No.No… Not again !” when the trash can upends
as carted to the street; instead, landing on one’s feet
and smashing toes until they bleed,
filling shoes and minds with blood as one succeeds
in filling tasks no longer easy to attend, as bodies break and mend.
We all know how this ends. Too soon. No need to pretend.
Or, perhaps, too soon not to ignore the aches and pains
of a full life lived courageously and well.
Each day a new life begins. Life continues and never ends.
Now, that, I can gladly pretend.
A body on the mend may not look pretty.
But, this old body lives life gratefully, and gritty.
KNEE REPLACEMENT SURGERY
Knee replacement seems an affront to me.
An insult to my body’s integrity.
taking out the knee
which served me so faithfully,
to be replaced by utter falsity.
It will work as a joint should, assuredly.
But, it really means my new knee
is no longer the real me.
The me who knocked together,
whenever I was afraid, with the other.
The knee who knelt in the pew to pray
within the family group every Sunday.
The knee which moved the feet
when I practiced my ballet,
and danced across the stage
on tap shoes, then all the rage.
The knee that touched yours
when we danced close,
hearts beating down to our toes.
The knee where every baby bounced
while we played horsey and laughed in glee.
The knee that pushed me to my feet
to object to opposing counsel in court;
or at a hearing to enact
what I considered an unjust act.
The knee that bent down to sow
seeds in a garden bed cleared of weeds.
The knee that pushed away
an unwelcome hand or worse.
The knee that I slapped in glee
when I heard a funny verse.
I love that knee.
I hate to see it go.
Part of me goes with it, I know.
Piece by piece each surgery,
has diminished the real me.
My reaction is a form of PTSD
recalling all the times I was told
I was too much, or not enough.
Did my body listen to such guff?
Did I push my knee too hard,
dismantle its soft protective layer,
to satisfy too many others?
It is only a knee, you say.
Not to me. Not today.
Filed under POETRY
LOOK TO THE YOUNG
To see the future look to the young people.
They are not yet bound by convention,
nor blinded by the past,
as we old people are,
weighed down and eyes downcast
because we must watch the path
we no longer walk easily.
Such history serves a purpose.
It offers cautionary tales
learned from days gone by.
But, it predicts nothing,
moves too slowly to catch up
with the speed of a future
unfolding before our eyes.
We can hardly understand
what we see in broken spans
as we catch pieces of the changes
meant to help us survive.
Look to the young people
racing on by, sharing nods of heads
while busily taking it all in stride,
smiling all the while,
letting us hold fast to our past
knowing we think them fools;
but they know they are simply cool.
And they are so, so, so cool.
They carry our hopes with their own,
and the hopes of ages past grown old
into a world we cannot conceive.
They never break a sweat;
learning more than we can forget.
I want to live long enough to see
this new world they create, strong and free.
I lift my eyes up to them respectfully,
gladly, lovingly and hopefully.
RIGHTS OF PASSAGE
We wanderers have a right to be
on any path we choose;
known, or unknown in mystery.
Our passage may take many turns.
It may too often lead us astray
from the things for which we yearn.
One foot in front of the other is best,
taking time to consider our choices
while our minds and bodies rest.
Technology speeds us way too fast
telling us hurriedness marks success.
I choose a different pace to proceed,
unconcerned at the costs which occur
as I stroll, ignoring all inclination for greed.
Rights of passage are helpful guides
to push our plodding struggles
to the side, and save our pride.
I may not know when I will get to the place
I am truly meant to be.
I may not know when I will find a space
where I can do what I am meant to do.
I slowly mark my passage on this earth
one moment at a time, and look around.
I am surprised how far I have come since birth.
My right of passage soon may end.
I know not the how, nor when.
And then? And then?
I believe it will begin again.
Filed under POETRY
BAD KNEES GARDENER
Packets of seeds are starting to arrive,
which may never grow,
in the mail from companies
with greater gardening skills than I.
Buying seeds is a hopeful sign
that my pained leg might soon be fine.
Perhaps one day my knee can bend again
to plant my treasured seeds in fertile soil
and I can return to lovingly toil
among plants that are my dearest friends.
For now, they sit untended on my kitchen counter.
They sit and they wait, then wait some more
for longer, warmer days filled with sunlight;
and, for a leg which can stretch and move
painlessly and endlessly to plant more seeds
than this world may ever need
to make peace and beauty thrive,
among earthlings happy to be alive.
The seeds sit and wait for better days.
As do I. As do I. As do I.
ELECTIONS
The tree must come down.
It’s stump must be ground.
Know this,though.
Its roots continue to grow.
The lines we rely upon
To stay safe and strong
Will remain under threat
If we rejoice and forget
The threat those roots make
If we do not stay awake.
The tree may be gone.
But the threat still goes on.
We can take down the tree.
But, stay by me.
We must stay alert and fight,
the tree’s shadows alight.
It takes time for roots to die.
It takes time for truth to replace a lie.
PERFECT TIMING
Only the young believe they have time
to wait for the perfect time
to make a difference over time.
Older persons have too little time
to wait for perfection lost over time.
Neither can afford the time
it takes to find the perfect time.
Neither must let the perfect
get in the way of the possible
None of us has that much time.
