Like a Weed

I want to live
if not beautifully in bloom,
color and flower,

then like a weed, fast and proud.
At least live,
not need
not need this or that
just to thrive.

Make do and do well
with whatever.

Feel whatever hands
I have around me
and the love they can offer,

not still bent out of shape
by all the bargains unkept.

See the best
in sunset and sunrise both,
take what comes
and enjoy.

Being specialized has its niche
but also its easy downfall.
I'd just as soon bend,

just as soon bend
and bounce true and proud
like a weed,
surviver,
at least until
I find my bloom
find my spot in the sun,

each day building...
not just hoping it finds me.

To Go On

feeling it impossible
to go on,

not because it is heavy
but far too light,

and far too
off in the distant yet to be.

Far to far away
from where I want to be,

and despite knowing what to do
I also know
it will be so many days,

so many days
before I can be there,

and that when I am,
most of what I have now
will not be around for the arrival.

My kids will grow
and leave
and my friends will wander in and out
of my life and surely not be all the same.

I will look at a picture
or read a "to: Dada" note from now
and cry to go back.

The old will go on
and the young will come in
and some others just for the mix.

Can't I just be
and
be happy,

here and now for always.

I am feeling it impossible to get the years
to where I want to be
and still be.

I want it now
like a teen nearly grown but held still
and impatient
never allowed all they know is coming,

but worse still,
I know... what I want...
never comes...
 while I am still who I am.

Change eternal
killing
with every birth.

I am

Late
laying awake
looking at the shadows
I cast on the ceiling through my covers.

In thought
over how my numbness
protects me,

but how it protects me
from the good
not just what I am.

Missing t's to cross
but plenty to wear,
I am.

Missing i's to dot
and everything to put a thumb hard on,
I am.

Late,
I am.

Late
in thought

Late
in doing
living
only.

Late
to my own shadow,
I am.

And others
could all read this
perfectly clear.

But I deny again
in better times.

Wrinkles

Your winkles
interesting and all
outweigh your years.

Drawing your face
a long taught older
than your years.

You walk the season on your back
and in your hair,
but the year is
too much to do at once,

but I bet you've had
a good time longer
than I to think this world out.

Conclusions only in the ear
of the beholder
matter no more than ever.

Your old young,
hold young old,
what we keep becomes
us eventually,

and what we give up
sometimes
gets too far away
to ever get back.

You've been
here long enough not to just do anything
for the sake of nothing,
but only for its worth,

less surprise
but so much more rewarding
over the long bridge that really is each of us.

You are lived
and you are

you are
and I should stop there
not to end under doing it.