Tag: maturity

Midlife Chrysler

Published on April 28, 2006

Some dreams are meant to fade away with age;
starting another chapter means you’ve got to turn the page.
What seemed the promised land back in your youth
becomes a lawn to mow, and it’s the truth:
it’s hard when you start watching from the side
when you remember how it felt to ride

It don’t get good mileage, doesn’t have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there’s a loose screw behind the wheel
When we’re on the street I’m sure that people stop and stare
Don’t where we’re headed, but I hope that we get there
We keep getting old, but not much wiser
Welcome to my Midlife Chrysler.

Sometimes its hard to try and act your age;
just ’cause you’re getting old, doesn’t mean that you can’t rage.
But battles won or lost don’t make a war,
when you’ve got more to lose now than before:
Yet it’s hard to let that feeling slip away
when the balance of your life is yesterday.

You may call it vintage, but it’s not the same as wine;
Past a certain point, you end up tinkering all the time.
Then the parts start wearing out that are hard to replace
and all that mileage shows up on your face.

You can’t put a wild beast in a cage;
and there behind the curtain, you’re still standing on the stage.
The pace is slower, but the view is grand;
we can watch the young fools, hand in hand.
This ol’ ride’s still rolling, and there’s room enough for two
No telling what this crazy heap can do…

It don’t get good mileage, doesn’t have too much appeal
The tires are going bald, there’s a loose screw behind the wheel
When we’re on the street I’m sure that people stop and stare
Don’t where we’re headed, but I hope that we get there
Sure we’re getting old, but somewhat wiser …
Hop on in my Midlife Chrysler.

28 APR 2006

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My once sweet voice

Published on June 23, 2005

My once sweet voice, so innocent
and full of strength and power
is now reduced to rasp and hum,
its range half what it was.

It rumbles, where it once so glibly
glissed; the pure head tone
has sunk into my heavy chest
and breaks where it once slid.

Disuse, abuse and pure neglect
have left my instrument
(once proud and fearless,
capable of stratospheric feats)

dented and dusty, ill-repaired,
and painfully withdrawn.
It’s clear unless I brush it off,
and soon, it will be gone.

23 JUN 2005

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They grow up fast

Published on May 14, 2005

They grow up fast; in just a short month’s span
the smallest seed becomes a tall, wild stalk
grown high enough to look down on a man.
But that time does not fly, despite the talk

philosophers will write in dry, thick books.
It crawls, and through its microscopic lens
each moment, its own kernel, often looks
enormous to the untrained eye, and bends

beyond the simple frame that would encage
its constant search to stand free and alone.
The acts of men and gods, played on this stage,
seem little more than dust on ancient bones.

Yet insignificance belies import;
and often what appears not more than sand,
when magnified in life’s uncertain sport
holds more in scope than we can understand.

The weeds that crowd the garden, too, from seeds
the same as precious flowers were conceived.
Who knows what end ideas will breed,
if nurtured like their promise was believed?

14 May 2005

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When Twilight Pales

Published on May 3, 2005

When twilight pales your umber locks to grey
and lines the apples of your cheeks with care,
takes the wind from your merry laugh, so gay,
and makes your step less sturdy on the stair,

remember this: I loved you from the first,
not for your youthful smile, nor supple limbs,
but instead for your spark, and constant thirst
to seek for substance beyond passing whims.

Who cares what strikes the fancy of the fool
that prizes most, and loves, at just a glance?
The mine is worth more than a single jewel,
whose value is determined just by chance.

For surface beauty is a passing phase;
it blooms in early spring, and then is past.
It will not warm the hearth through winter days,
nor serve as fuel to fire a love that lasts.

05 MAY 2005

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Tailormade

Published on May 2, 2005

It may be that the swath through life I cut
runs down a different seam than I once thought
would turn into a finished garment; what
great pattern looked so perfect when I bought
it, now seems out of style and so ill-fitting
that it more suits a clown, like a disguise
designed to fool my parents, and their unwitting
support of crazy dreams, sad notions and white lies.

What were once intended as fine robes of sable
turn out to wear so quickly, and to fray
along the dragging edges; I’m not able
to hide the muddy edges where the lining’s worn away.
Yet pretending that my world is still defined
by clothes that make the man who isn’t there
is little more than dress-up play. Only a blind
fool would pretend they haven’t noticed, or don’t care.

And who would go to Mardi Gras in rags,
or celebrate a ball in some worn, shabby gown?
Even the poorest ne’er-do-well will drag
a pompous get-up from the closet to paintroll the town.
So that loose-fitting, monstrous thing I’ve sewn
will never do to be seen in or see;
‘tho built with care, its appeal has not grown,
nor does it portray who I’d like to be.

I stand, quite sadly, naked to the mirror,
that will not, though I’ve bribed it, tell a lie;
The bright light overhead just makes much clearer
those flaws I’ve tried to cover, by and by.
These yards of cloth, whose colors seemed to suit me
some years ago, now seem too bold and garish;
and scars from scissors mar the look completely.
I cannot leave the house. I’m too embarrassed.

Yet, I can’t bear to don a robe and sandals,
or throw some shapeless mumu round my girth.
Besides, such things just fuel the neighbor’s scandals
who like to cast aspersions on my worth.
Am I these clothes? This look? This sense of fashion?
They hardly seem to fit me or my dreams,
or match the style and vigor of my passions,
which masquerade in a t-shirt and jeans.

02 MAY 2005

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Society’s Man

Published on April 13, 2005

Society, your dream would have me beg
for pittance from a cruel employer’s hand,
and from my knees downward, not use my legs,
preferring that I genuflect, not stand,

to act as servant, bound to divine whim
that your appointed middlemen report.
What’s more, I must be weak, and bow to Him
who you insist directs my fate for sport.

No wonder I am just a half-grown lout
who spends my life in seeking childish joys,
when you have counseled me to forgo doubt
and are ashamed when men emerge from boys.

You take my destiny and claim my fate
should stay within the limits you proscribe,
denouncing me when I will not conform
or meekly take your bright and shiny bribe.

Who would choose the adulthood you profer,
all duty with no right, nor chance to rise?
No wonder most avoid it, or defer
a servitude unending ’til you die.

Yet when I pout and act a child of ten,
which seems how you and God define a man,
you feign surprise, and claim it’s always been
my choice to make; and either way, be damned.

13 APR 2005

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Finding Neverland

Published on April 8, 2005

‘Tis said there lurks a boy inside each man,
whose unhealed wounds from childhood form a part
of how he goes about when it is time
to find the man inside the young boy’s heart,

whose grandiose bravado and fierce pride
will not admit his battle lost to age,
nor for a moment take his unclenched hand
away from the great sword there at his side.

The world may change, but not his frightened soul,
that rages against clocks and seeks its wings
among the chimeras his mind creates
instead of laying up such youthful things.

He fears the loss of innocence, of grace,
invincibility and boundless joy
that beat retreat with each line on his face,
to the stronghold of that small, simple boy.

And yet, some dragons are not only myth,
content to parry blows with wooden swords;
they roam the adult kingdom to corrupt
its spirit in both evil deed and word.

Against such beasts, no childlike rage will do;
mere lads have little hope, despite their zeal.
It takes a man to strike such creatures down,
with blades not made of wood, but hardened steel.

For this, were young boys destined to grow old:
to wrestle demons beyond childhood’s ken,
despite their wish to stay forever young
and thus avoid the battle scars of men.

The boy will never fade to naught and die.
If that were so, no men would learn to dream
beyond hardship of a grown-up life
where everything’s exactly what it seems.

And so, half man and still half ungrown child,
each seeks some purpose that will suit the whole.
Some lose their way, and wander in the wild,
while others struggle vainly for control

Of time, that does not heed, but marches on,
each step after another, unto death;
then of its own accord, the game will end,
and either win or lose, claim the last breath.

So dream big dreams, stretched out from where you stand,
and whether young or old, seize with both hands
the time and place you are. To realize
the magic of each moment is the prize.

07 APR 2005

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