(Poem) "62"

I’ve never been much for celebration;

Preferring the view from the sideline.

It’s not so much out of conceit,

But rather quite the opposite

….A fan sitting in the audience.

On this occasion, of turning “62,”

I’m befuddled to grant it a distinction,

By commemorating in festive reverie,

Rather than in anticipated introspection

….A mountain peak shrouded by clouds

This birthday hints of being groundbreaking;

And I’m embroiled in uncharted emotion.

The timeline of my life is set on a fulcrum,

Teetering toward a final count

….The earth comes into view upon a moon rotation

 We all encounter challenges and rewards:

Landmarks, to score the journey of our lives;

Memories that enriches us with dignity.

For all of these, I have learned to be grateful

….A Rosary bead reckons each chanted prayer

 Hope, from every smiling acquaintance;

Strength, from those that have loved me,

Life has been my celebration.

My only wish: to reciprocate the pleasure
….Gleam of gold is light in reflection

(Poem) Not on the schedule

 

 The heavy rains had stopped,

And the wind was diminished;

But still roused, the surf surged onto the beach.

It was at the tail-end of a storm.

As dusk darkened the intracoastal,

The clouds gradually began to scatter,

And a full moon became sporadically revealed.

I sat in a hot tub, on the Florida shore.

 Steam rose from the jetted water,

And warmed my shoulders below the surface;

But the chill against my face reminded me

The clouds were headed up the Atlantic coast.

A “Monster” storm the forecaster had warned.

Best I anticipate a snowy trek back to work;

And if ever human nature could be predicted,

The full moon foreshadowed a maddening reception.

My lungs expanded into a full breath,

And I sunk my face deep into the water.

Suddenly, I stood up through the surface,

Smugly I recalled, “I’m no longer on the schedule”

(Poem) Rite of Passage

Rite of Passage

The holy water in the font at the entrance
Felt cool at the touch, as was the day outside.
I deflected an impulse to make the sign of the cross,
And instead grasped a colorful Sunday Program.

Prayerful hymns were sung in harmony

To the melodic bellow of a pipe organ,
And punctuated with the sporadic chime
Of an altar bell, was the music of my upbringing.

Even after so long an absence,
I felt the comfort of nurture,
And sat back on the pew to reminisce,
On that long ago day I chose to walk away.

It was then for a youthful transition:
The adolescent illusion of being almighty.
But age makes perception virtuous,
And muscles to be sluggish: I hate kneeling

It is my first week in retirement,
And I sought for an affirmation,
A rites of passage (if you will),
Beyond the farewell party at work.

With death the end result of this final passage,
I have felt alone and very vulnerable.
Returning to the church was to seek comfort,
And a sense of a purposeful belonging.

In the liturgy of the Catholic mass,
The priest invites the congregants
To show each other a sign of peace:
A handshake and a verbal greeting.

His grip was strong as his voice was gentle;
Furrows, more so than wrinkles,
Shaped his face into a heartfelt smile.
The energy of his temperament welcomed me.