{"id":102,"date":"2013-04-14T11:39:31","date_gmt":"2013-04-14T15:39:31","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.freerangepoetry.com\/?p=102"},"modified":"2013-04-14T11:39:31","modified_gmt":"2013-04-14T15:39:31","slug":"an-aging-cycle","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.freerangepoetry.com\/?p=102","title":{"rendered":"An Aging Cycle"},"content":{"rendered":"

on getting older<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

as my next decade takes
\nits careful aim at my hair<\/p>\n

I reflect on life as I
\nhave known it thus far<\/p>\n

we men, still fascinated by fire
\nstill with the visceral pleasure<\/p>\n

of the smell of the smoke of the meat
\nthe gas grill backyard barbeque<\/p>\n

recalls the cave, the life of bears
\nand stirs our thinning blood<\/p>\n

but the libido recedes with the hairline
\nand the prostate expands with the waistline<\/p>\n

and the demands of a caffeine economy grow
\nto meet the available excess in salary<\/p>\n

where does the time go
\nwhere does the time go
\nwhere did the time go<\/p>\n

I was a building on fire
\nI was the sword in the night
\nnone dared cross me
\nI was the big man, the boss
\nthe wanderer<\/p>\n

I was the man<\/p>\n

The fire smolders now, and I watch as young men pass me without a glance
\nyoung ladies too, they see me without seeing me at all
\nno longer am I the fire, the night, the force with which to reckon<\/p>\n

but not yet the reckoner, not yet the worrier
\nI walk unmolested, the shadow of my youth still preceding my step.<\/p>\n

For now content, while the shadows grow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

snows of our fathers<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

how many of these will begin with the days of my youth
\nthe snows of my memory were not just bigger
\nthey were more pure, and more purely real
\nthe better part of what they meant to be
\nthe purpose of snow
\ndriven to the drifting hills
\nmountains of molehills on the prairies.<\/p>\n

the snows our people stepped on, in the days before the cars
\nwas whiter snow, was more truly what it meant to be
\nthe snow shovel is a recent invention
\nanother of Henry Ford’s bastard stepchildren.<\/p>\n

It falls on the ground, the ultimate democrat,
\nand we – out of our minds – feel the need to
\npick it up and move it?<\/p>\n

Our ancestors would surely howl, laughing at our modern need
\nto dictate where the rain will melt<\/p>\n

and where it will not.<\/p>\n

And while the power of 150 horses cannot take me a single foot past my driveway
\na single horse carried our fathers miles through snow like this.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

things are getting dicey<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I feel like we’re at cliff’s edge, contemplating the drop.
\nMemory rises unbidden at the sight of an old photo of us, arms around shoulders.
\nThere we were,
\ntouching,
\nin tune with our time.<\/p>\n

Here we stand, leafing through this album,
\nphotos of a
\nhalf-forgotten
\nlove.<\/p>\n

Maybe God doesn’t play dice with Man in Einstein’s universe,
\nbut She sure seems to be placing odds here.<\/p>\n

I love you.<\/p>\n

Definitely dicey.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

shoes, new, in box<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I stand alive, staring at these Mezlan ‘Opera’ Oxfords,
\nWith soles that have yet to touch the ground.
\nMy eyes are fascinated with the eyelets, five-a-side,
\nStaring seemingly back as I stand looking into the box.<\/p>\n

This quiet patent finish is perfect, without flaw or marring of any sort,
\nLeather the way to go, shiny, silk lining on the inside,
\nVery expensive, stylishly understated, and the tongue is never loose.
\nThis is the perfect finish, a metaphor.<\/p>\n

The fit is almost custom, and customs are important \u2013 you taught me that.
\nI wish I could show you these shoes, in whose leather shine
\nI see only the reflection of myself,
\nFrowning back at my beguiled countenance.<\/p>\n

The obligatory shoes I purchased for this customary walk
\nPinch as I shift my weight, a reminder:
\nI may wear their like, but
\nI will never fill those shoes.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

the age of my art<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The Age of my art is long forgotten.
\nNo more masters, no more masterworks
\nto lighten days and\u00a0\\\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \/ tongues
\n                              \\ trip \/<\/p>\n

at nightly storytelling time.<\/p>\n

Modern music holds our tempo,
\ntime, our truth.\u00a0 Outside, the world
\nhas lost much of the
\nmagic
\n         that was found in the days of
\nthe great poets, of the great poems.<\/p>\n

Much.
\n          But not all.<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

knitting a sweater goodbye<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nit’s beginning to look that way<\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nit’s beginning to be OK<\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nit’s getting to be that time<\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nit’s beginning to be that way<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nthe sight of your naked arms<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nthe way that your elbows bend<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nthe shape of your small tattoo<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nthe delicate sight of you<\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nthe sight of your naked arms<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nit’s beginning to be OK<\/p>\n

long sleeves
\nthe scent of your small tattoo<\/p>\n

I’ll miss
\nthe delicate sight of you<\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

Definitely dicey,
\nbut still, for now, content,
\nwhile the shadows grow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

on getting older as my next decade takes its careful aim at my hair I reflect on life as I have known it thus far we men, still fascinated by…<\/p>\n

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