it’s hard to be hip after seventy
abandon hope all ye who enter
keep your opinions from calcifying
and your beliefs will astound you
humor, not memory, is your ally
love and laughter bring others along
honor your white hair and wrinkles
they’ll stay faithful until the end
gather wildflowers
be thankful and rejoice
in the mirror face to face
I see this young man old
laughing together with one another
“how absurd, you’re so old so young”
not like an ancient city
built layer atop of layer
but a continuous construct
of the new, the humorous
thew humane the divine
forever renewing refreshing
relentless time at our backs
My mother is old
But make no mistake
She knows.
She knows how people can be cruel
And she’s having none of it.
She knew a hungry boy
Who came begging at her door
“Fill my bag to here, Miss Miposi
I want a little more. ”
She knew a girl whose body was twisted
But whose mind was keen.
She was sent to a place that was dark and hidden
So her illness couldn’t be seen.
And two close friends
Precious and true
Had been starved and tortured
Because they were Jews.
So don’t tell my mom it’s o.k
If she’s kept in the hall all day,
Wet and cold and soaked in blood.
Because, you see, my mother knows.
And she’s having none of it.
I’m searching for the source of this molten moonlight
And my memory is leaking like a bucket in the slaughterhouse
Like a blue and white tin-jug of unpasteurised milk.
Is that reflection, reflecting-back at me?
Is it really, really, really me.
My brain is somehow now a greyish crater.
All the edges blur, falling in
… Here is my molten moonlight come flooding back to me
So bright, I can longer see.
More at https://www.ctupublishinggroup.com/mark-andrew-heathcote.html.
just another old man on the road to nowhere
just another old man too far from his home
too many stories he would love to tell you
too many stories to tell and he’s all alone
i’m just another man goin my own way
i’m not another old man, I;ve got a home
you don’t have to hear any of my stories
i’m not selling them and I’m not all alone
My granddaughter
speaks to me
with phrases like
Whatevs,
a tiny sponge
for vernacular, my
only hope being
that I can still
translate as time
flies by.
In the modern coffee houses
Once the employees hit 30
Their wristband goes from green to red
And they’re (metaphorically) dead
Off to some older hipster hangout
To sell cereal bars and sweetened milk
Under the watchful gaze
Of Charlton Heston in his final 7Os
Hip cool movie
More at http://www.dantindall.com.