Oh, To Just Be Old.

Oh, To Just Be Old

on February 13, 2002. © -MFB III-A.Y.Studio-All rights reserved

Oh, that I could
just be old
and at long last
done with it.

Snuggled down in my
wrinkled, scarred, flesh,
in a bentwood rocker,
watching sunsets on a porch,
just south of nowhere
beyond the insanity of yet.

Watching life spin onward
without my contributions,
through eyes that blur
it's hard core edges.

In rumpled hair
with toothless grin,
every vanity forsaken.

Kids all grown up,
and raised successfully,
all other droll
duties completed,
grandchildren softly
giggling eighth notes
as they dance
around my feet.


Holding hands
with my best decision
who always was,
and still is,
a love
more comfortable
then an old, soft quilt,
or a June nap
hammock bound,
or kisses that
are planted gently
on a fevered brow.


Here we'll Remain
as sexy as
those first nights
we sang out
passionate odes,
to our warm
glowing honeymoon,
hung over endless
paths yet traveled.

In flannel shirt,
over brushed linen trousers,
my slippers flapping
ancient rhythms
as we go creaking
off to bed.

Oh, that I could
just be old,
skipping all
the toils ahead.

Dreams die
so much harder
when you're young,
hope spends years
frayed at the seams.

Old is a
cottage by the sea
all baggage unpacked,
the surf,
and tropical heat,
soothing your arthritis.
Where keys to the
driving forces
of your life
are tossed casually
into the waves,
forgotten in the slumber
of your twilight years.

Old has to be earned
so many fail to reach
its soft tints,
and pastoral places,
as they rush headlong
into the mayhem.

Taxing their hearts,
and souls in the pursuit
of hopeless dreams,
all the while wishing
they were young again
but never stopping
to cherish what
youth they have