Inadvertent post deletion yesterday. So sorry to those who took the time to read and leave a comment.
Here's the poem:
Crossroads
-- by Joyce Sutphen
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion,
and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday,
counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself
new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fence posts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going upward,
always up.
5 comments:
Insightful prose.
I have tended to break my life down into thirds. Having completed the second third of my life I am embarking on presumably what would be the final third.
However, being a bit like my father I pretty much follow the line of life he set out for himself, which goes like this... "When I'm on my death bead I plan to be be planning what I am going to be working on tomorrow." Simple. Forward looking. Ultimately positive. Deeply motivating.
I guess since I plan on completing the final third I'll be viewing life's continuum in quarters before I know it.
Ah, life is good, and conservatism as it should be will live on.
This is epic. Thanks for sharing that.
Yes, bigots will live on. That's why they need to be constantly exposed, not protected, and certainly not voted into office. Bigots will not just die off, they keep teaching young people how to be like them. No one is born a bigot, they learn that.
No one knows that from experience better than you Anon.
_________ Picking Berries _________
Parked beside a lane with lilies lined
Instinct drives us to the fragrant fields
Carrying buckets to our task resigned.
Keeping up with Nature’s bounty yields
In summer morning’s warm, earth-scented mist
Nostalgic sweet refreshment from the soil.
Gleefully we gather berries kissed
By sunshine, plump with rain before they spoil.
Edible, these gems that fill our pails
Remain, once tasted, as a lifelong treat.
Remembrance fond at “Realism” rails.
It knows behind our stated urge to eat,
Each one of us who picks collects delights
Stored to ease the future’s endless nights.
~ FreeThinke
Post a Comment