Paeans - and Aches

over the years

Sunday, August 29, 2004

Older

Having, reluctantly, concluded
that i am now too old—
we will draw the veil
over questions of ability, please—
to become

an engine driver,
pilot,
Olympic champion
or matinee idol,

and

knowing one cannot learn to

carry a tune,
fly,
visit new planets,
or be dimpled,

and

having ticked off:

snowball fight,
river running,
being published,
being on stage,
and dancing,

i look now
to my remaining ambitions.

To climb a mountain,
to swim once in every sea
to start a religion,
to be tough enough
to intimidate my daughters’ admirers,
to write words that you wished you had.

That should keep me busy.

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Metapoem

i have no message for you
if i did, i’d send you mail.
No fresh insights, no causes,
no attempts to change your mind.
i have no influences,
i come from no school,
i’m untutored in style and history,
and know nothing of conventions.
i have not workshopped,
nor been peer-reviewed.
i do not push the boundaries of verse.
Real Poets have nothing to learn from me.

Because i only write of love, of longing,
of losing, of getting older,
of the oh-so-ordinary things i see around me.
i write for myself, it’s true.
But you, you may find some solace here,
at the very least you’ll find
that you’re not alone,
at most, words
for a thought you hadn’t spoken.
More i cannot give.
May it be enough.