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On The Ripening of What Will be Heaven Sent Someday.

Updated on January 13, 2010

On The Ripening Of

What Will Be

Heaven Sent




You are not old,
your are simply

being born,
into a new age,
each decade

we advance to
the point of

being reborn,
into a life where

we never grow old.

We must serve

our time here,
in doing the

best we can
under the weight

of the years,
and how we

handle that burden
leaves pathways

for those
much younger

to follow.

Your eyes

never age,
though the skin
around them crinkles
they still flash with
the brightness of youth,
light with laughter
at the silliness

around you,
and glow with

the softness
of knowing

you are loved,
and you are.

Poets must get old,
to tell the tales

of the journey,

Adolescent love

poems grow tedious
after the first

one hundred or so.
We ink the

worn lines
straight from

our faces
into beautiful scrolls
and loops that

make souls
weep and dance,

and understand
the process we

have lived.

I hope to whisper
a poem with

my last breath
telling all of

what I see
on the other side,
a peek at the

amazement park
that awaits us all.

Your soul is eternal,
it is not even

a toddler
for another hundred

million years or so,
relax, savor the years
that kissed

your passions,
cherish the marks

of your travel,
each holds memories,
laugh lines being
the most beautiful,
scars remind us of
how precious time is,
and wrinkles are simply
the loosening
of our skin,
so that eventually
our souls can

break free.

It is all good,
you are

so young
in the span

of true time,
celebrate, and

blow those candles
right off the cake.
Grab life by the

balls and have one.

This is your birthday

poem from me,
which I will post,
to honor

the further
maturing of

a stellar poet,
heaven sent

Happy birthday,
Happy here

on earthday
sometime faraway
to be a mirthday,
when your soul
discovers what
it's worth day.



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