True

As a child my hobby-

Rock collecting, and poetry writing.

Hours were spent,

my pointy nose inches from soil,

daylight, my shadow and me

digging,

Digging with whatever sharp tools

were found in the garage;

in my own back yard,

…..Fools gold, mini garnets,

rounded globed octagon treasures,

my rock book was miffed,

me smiling,  entranced,

By middle age I question,

When did the grape become my hobby?

It wasn’t even my favorite fruit.

If only I’d stuck to rock collecting

And poetry writing,  and stayed true

To myself.

Aging, it’s all how you tweak it

How do you tell the difference between a happy middle aged woman and one who feels used up and left for dead?

  1.  Her calendar has gone from cocktail outings to waxing appointments
  2. She wears an infinity scarf not just cause it will stay put-but to remind her of her longevity
  3. She is not afraid to announce her best friend second to her husband is her regular grocery checker who ties for second with her cat/dog
  4. She talks to her boobs
  5. She has phased out jewelry and phased in expensive undergarments
  6. She openly admits how many sex partners she has had
  7. She is proud to announce the rare occasion she used the recipe from the box
  8. She buys flowers for herself at least once a month completely devoid of any hidden messages to her husband
  9. She works out so she will feel good rather than look good
  10. She sees age-discrimination in the workplace as an opportunity; a second chapter, “how to turn your hobby into cash flow?”

Skin’s Truths

Hands outstretched…a little further, a little more,

My Touch means less and less,

As it’s unmet by more than air.

The speckled valley of age tarnishes perfection,

Dots my hands like brown islands

Each one an unspoken story;

Deep grooves mark my every laugh,

Fault lines of life’s quakes, sun peaks,

Winds of struggle,

If I hold very still, and want-

With all my might….want bad enough,

With every nerve ending and pore, neuron and muscle,

With the symmetry of the choirs last note,

Will you hear my truth?

Feel the wear on my jacket,

The shell, that is barely impervious to all elements?

The one that tells my every truth,

Even those my mouth keeps silent?

Why would I inject poison into me to fight truth?

To stop the truth, is to stop the wonder

That lingers

At the heels of questions

unasked?

If only we had some Wings……

I hear Band on the Run,
And see the carpeted brown stage,
I picture years of me bouncing about;
in the ugly golden yellow split level
We called home.
We had so many years there
I am realizing now
staring, looking for more,
meeting your blank eyes for answers,
Is this tease of death enough to wake you?
At least laughter still peeps up
in the clouds of blue
Purposefully and silly, you widen them
your eyes… at me,
you were always funny, always.
You see a whole life of me,
cause we celebrate the same day of our birth
cause we’re January 12ths
Your eyes dip and lull, vacant, then gone
Please smile inside for me, we’re here.
Oh Daddy, if only we had some
Wings…….

Aging, the wonderous Carmelization of Self

Aging, the Wonderous Carmelization of self

Let it be known, it’s natural to ponder life, tick, tick ticking away. Before your eyes, your first child walks then drives a car, gets married. Life unravels before you- like it or not. It’s meaning, its’ call, it’s message? Nothing that cannot be found in any number of songs, from the Eagles, to Aretha to Merle Haggard, it’s there like that sign you’ve driven by for years and just noticed.ds….…As we accrue another year, as if it were a freckle, we cannot turn away from those lessons, those hidden gifts, they simply are everywhere.
People, myself included, as they age, often want the brief scenario of things, the quick n dirty. I even gravitate towards the section of the newspaper, that tells the most in the least amount of words, I just love the obituaries for this reason. Seems morbid-yes? I find it honest, the topic of life, calls death on the carpet in contrast. Perhaps we read the obits to feel as though our lives are in good measure; keeping in stride with at least the average person’s story. If for nothing more, than ticking off of our list-what five Who, What Where When and Why’s of our lives would be of mention if today was our last day on earth? Do you fall short, and if so, what’s stopping you from get busy with your real truth the job you were sent to do. Today may as well be the day you get busy fluffing up your story, putting the finishing touches on the life that defines who you truly are?
For many, we find being a parent, a graduate, a stable, conforming, law abiding, home owning member of society perhaps is too insignificant to chalk up to being successful. Today, just dream a little, risk a little, be brave and fearless if just for today. Google that idea you’ve been sitting on. Research open land to build that house, or that roller rink in the nasty part of town to give kids a place to have fun and be safe? Is there a patent on your invention? How much would you really have to save to do it? Just maybe, it is brilliant or innovative or original or soooo good someone did it already? That’s validation. You know that project you don’t have the money to do? You know that plane ticket you don’t have the money to purchase- make it happen? Go find it, sell your art, sell your table, refurbish old shit and double the price, make your prized cracker recipe (my neighbor has a huge newly built house for this exact reason!) don’t whine about never having been there, find a way, and GET there! Polish up your obituary before you must, hurry to volunteer and shine up your unattained goals! Make it happen. I for one want to be moved, inspired; relieved by your good ending…. if in fact-God willing, you end up in the Obituary section of tomorrow’s paper!

Pain’s hidden beauty

My wrists swell, like the lids of my eyes

After a hard, repressed cry surfaces;

Tears find their way out,  

as naturally as a snakes skin, they must be shed,

for fear the heart will become saturated,

or the salty droplets will extinguish

the embers that warm the insides,

Why though- does my flesh expand,

Heavy, puffed as if I’m padded to be tackled,

to prepare my innards from outward attack?

When the insides put up a fight of its own

It’s like the shadow of my 20’s self,

It’s emphatic, on guard, fluffed and cooing;

pomped feathers to protect my bones

 For fear life will chip away at them.

I never thought I’d see the day

I felt more brittle

like a shelf of once adored miniature figurines

Layers of dust, blanketing their charm,

Perhaps I should write a letter to my first love

And thank him again?

At My age……..

                            At my age…….

At my age you’re damn straight I wear sexy panties,

We must strut around feeling sexy as we don’t

turn heads on the street anymore.

At my age we hold our heads high with confidence

And feel good in our skin, despite its’ new sags

Head HIGH….. or Beware the double chin

At my age we want that fancy device that makes us feel youthful…..Yeah THAT one….

when we purchase the nose hair trimmer for “grandpa” for Christmas

Why MUST we ask the clerk to free it from under lock and key?

At my age, surely we look to old to steal? We don’t wander Victoria Secret at the mall for Bridle gifts

But instead to fantasize about that black little number and how

Housework in thigh highs would indeed be more fun?

At my age we secretly want hand trucks for Christmas rather than cute leather boots

Because practicality wins and silly plastic clogs are great for gardening?

At my age we’ve been reminded one too many times

That beauty withers unless we carry it in our every action

And yes action at My age IS a flirtatious smile…..before I drift off to a good night’s sleep