(Poem) The Paradox

I am grateful to be as old, with

Years embellished by memories

                Some are loving

                Others painful

But all form the soul

Nourishing me

When I was much younger

A cynic was an old grouch

                Unfeeling and

                Disparaging

But now I am of that age

                 And disposition

With a trail of unfulfilled ambitions

We recycle dreams and failures

                Deeds are repeated

                Verdicts reassessed

The paradox of a newscast

                Life in replay

Cynicism is the upshot of a lifetime of hope:

                That bigotry would beget care

                And anger reason

                That hunger would be fed

                And competition unite us

                That wealth would be apportioned

                And envy lead to goodwill

With life in replay:

                Murder as an act of love

                Ceasefire that intensifies the war

                Extortion in the premise of governance

                Greed impoverishing the populace

               

Wisdom with aging

Is the caution from

                Knowing it to be in replay

(Poem) Where are my excuses

My older brother described it best
Retirement is been always on Saturday
Out of bed when sunlight pries the eyes open
And capriciously undertake the chores

In my work-life, I was not as fortunate
The job set the intervals for my leisure
Yet gave me plenty of reason to defer a chore
Procrastination became proxy for Saturday

Nowadays the sunlight is my wake up
And duty no longer arranged in a timetable
I carry a mental list of deferred activities
And desires long sublimated by obligation

                  I am creative with intentions
                  Imaginative from aversions
                  And inspired by distractions
But hard pressed to find excuses

                  I aspire to live on Saturday

(Poem) Matter to Love

Crumbs follow me often from the kitchen
A flaw you’ve endured to fancy


Your silence speaks a thousand words
Of the ring I’ve left about the commode

My clothes are washed
Even when I’ve returned them to their hanger

Bruises and scratches I notice only on your gasp
For the pain you fear they may have caused me

Frequently I’ve eaten my meal
Before you’re even settled from the cooking

Yet you smile and offer a second portion
Grateful I’ve taken pleasure from your effort

There’s so much else you do
From which I know you love me

But I am sad to think
I’ve not done enough to assure you

That until we began our lives together
I had not loved as much as I love you

(Poem) Stung with love

In this poem
I own the verse
And dance to its rhythm
Its style I bear
     As I would a garment

The lyrics recount a passion
With no rhyme
But plenty of reason
It fulfills on a shortcoming
     What I left unsaid

It arrived through the post
A birthday wish
Laced with love
An enticing wrapping
     I was swift to open

A mirror turned on me
Assessed a soul not truly happy
Like the wrinkles glanced
On each morning’s washing
     An image I’ve taken for granted

As a mother’s finger
Smudging clean an imprint of a kiss
The included self-help books
Stung deeper than a viper
     My stare withdrew, not my heart

I’ve not ever met
Someone to stand boldly above passion
Whether of joy or sorrow
But plenty, turned away from character
     It’s a quirk, I own as deep as this poem