gnarled old trees…

been
rooted
in the broken promises
of
freedom
for
over two hundred years
so
it should be of no surprise
that
we have grown
roughened
in
our views
of
the future
and
misshapen
in
our attitudes
for
hope
and
justice
in
this nation
oh
when we were young
we could
easily bend
and
not break
when
the winds
of
ignorance and hate
forced
us toward the ground
then
we would rebound
and
once again
grasp at the sky
but
now days
we refuse to bend
nor
do we have to
we have
an outside
that has grown hardened
and
an inside
having knotty memories
of
the pain
of
our lifetimes
we have
grown
and
survived
like
african mahogany

 

interference patterns…

by just looking
at it
one might
draw
some
negative conclusions
for
the case
is
well worn
it’s
wooden shell
shows
its age
and
how
hard
it’s been
handled
over the years
some parts
are
tarnished
resembling
the color
of
gray hair
other parts
are
dented
and
i doubt
work
anymore
but
when you look
inside
it still maintains
its
youthful beauty
my old
kaleidoscope

 

an old photograph…

i am
a fading
portrait
each friend’s death
dims
a part
of
who
i am
and
each death
within
the family
makes faint
a portion
of
who
i was
soon
i will have
no eyes
to
see
into
tomorrow

 

quarantine…


i suppose

out

of

a level

of

self pity

i called

aunt bea

to

see

how she was doing

without

visiting

her friends

and

to

lightheartedly

complain

about

my imposed celibacy

aunt bea

gave a giggle

and said

well

a number

of

my old friends

have

a hard time

getting around

these days

so

visits

were

infrequent

before the pandemic

and

as for your

celibacy

you’ll find

there comes

a point

in

aging

when

passionate romance

becomes

a mere memory

savor…

an old school candy jar
one of a kind
filled with
the finest sweets
individually wrapped
like
they were
special moments in time
these days
they’re unavailable anywhere
so
it can’t be restocked
of course
when young
the jar seemed
immense
and
the candies
were
endless
grasping handfuls
didn’t seem to affect
the supply
but
over time
the jar began to look
depleted
slowing
the pace
of
consumption
didn’t seem to slow
the rate
of
depletion
it’s obvious
now
the jar
will soon be empty
like
life

 

an old notepad…

pages full
of
broken words
some
never spoken
others
discarded
as
foolish
dreams
some
secrets
have been pressed
like
roses
between
the pages
left there
to
dry
and
die
never to be read
by
anyone
mere
remnants
of
what could have been
or
should have been
but
never
became
there are some words
even
if found
lying around
would be
seen
like
the scribblings
of
a child
who never learned
to
color
within the lines
a maverick
of
society
whose
offerings
of
words
without question
shall be
ignored

 

yard sale…

found among
the archeological items
ceremonial clothing
as well as
personal adornments
adjacent to these artifacts
were
cooking utensils
and
an assortment
of
decorative statues
some
obviously used
in
religious rituals
below
a strata
of
old news papers
collections
of
leather bound
images
sorted by stages
of
life
other images
were
string tied bundles
that were
incongruent
with
the bound images
often
portraying events
which seemed
to predate
this particular tribal unit
perhaps
the forefathers
regardless
none were
remarkable
in determining
the tribe’s past life
or
culture
however
the assemblage
was
quite amazing
but
there was one
diagnostic artifact
that
captured my attention
leaving me
spellbound
and

speechless
a photograph
of
you