Fifty – it’s sounds old. It sounds middle aged – middle aged? Like knights of old? Armor?

Well, I turned 50 today.   And I wonder as I look out with dimished eyes how this will change my outlook.  Will I have a different view of life?  How do you feel about life?

Dave

Yes,  I’m approaching 50 and the math overwhelms me.  Half-century sounds old – maybe by it’s nature, maybe by words.  We associate century with old things.   We speak of antigues in this manner. It’s a half-century old brings oohs and ahhs from a crowd.  But not from people.  A half-century person is just an old guy. Where’s the value in that piece of information?  Just like the mist ghosting around the river, it’s here and gone and who cares?  We might acknowledge it briefly, even walk its trails in wonder but then it passes.  Ho-hum, it’s gone. 

But as my birthday approaches (at approximately 8:48am my mother reminds me.)  I think about the last century.  The minutes clicking away and moments disappearing one thought comes to mind.  It’s the same thought I onced asked my boss.  I asked the so-what question.  What impact have I made?  Did you receive your money’s worth?   At work, it’s easy to answer (Or easier) because I can point to various documents, detachments, assessments, etc, that I’ve been privy to.  Never mind the scores of mindless minutes I’ve attended.  But here, here at the end of 50 years, what really do I have?   My daughter is grown. I’ve tried to impart the best to her.  What have I taught her?  Is she ready to be an adult?  Maybe a bigger question (Or better)  could I had really changed her.  She will have to discover her own path as I did.  I must make that way clear for her – some how.   Yes,  I have the same wish – that I had this wisdom at twenty. But what would be twenty without the will, the ability to make those mistakes.   That is what the age is all about- the exploring is what life is about – (I’m convincing myself at this point, aren’t I?)     So, there is one question left, right?

What does the next twenty or thirty years bring?  If I have that long.  There are no guarantees.  I could barely finish this missive and pass on.  Will I do better or will I continue waste time and act like an errant school boy on dirty dog summer days?   I still feel like that boy.  I really do.

Where is my world going? As I watch the traditions disappear, honorable things turn to dishonor. It scares me.   The economy is collasping,  everything is being re-defined.   Racism has increased, not decreased.    Truth is suppressed. (Reference EPA suppressing the Global warming data.)  We’re become what we were never supposed to be.  Freedom has died in a vote – cheered and rallied.   As it was said in the Star Wars Movie.  Freedom has died among thunderous applause!

It’s a strange start,
a sleeping person
turned ill

then the transformation.
My name to Doctor
my time gone,
my house a ward.

I’m wanted with water,
soup,
paper,

and it goes on.
Chores still needed,
life goes on,

and the hospital
repeats.

It’s been 10 years.
Maybe at 50,
we can draw the line
decide oil and water
and give in.

Maybe not.

I can’t take pleasure
in shimmering water,

It’s glow,
the way the sun glints
and mirrors,
the naked masts like
winter trees.

They just remind me
of what?

Heck, I don’t remember
the argument
Do you?

Seagulls plunge at the sea,
those last scraps left.

I sure can’t find them.

I have nothing to anchor to.
No piece of earth to tie off,
nothing.

I’m the guy at 50
wondering what happened.

Why swimming is forbidden
and I have expect
to see a warning sign.

I’m not sure what to do with time
that odd fluid thing
that floats by,

that tempts and stretches
Distorts and reminds.

Is it possible?
I die,
I’ll meet my uncle there.
and he’ll say,
he just arrived!

Or is it some strange
physical ruler
a Planck’s length
I can’t divide,

Invented on purpose,
to keep our brains from bursting?

27 June 09

That was me,

the one they show in the video

falling at Normandy

right into the surf.

Each time you see it,

You wonder.

Whoes son was that?
Whoes father, brother?

And we go by it.

A portrait of death.

I can’t bring him back

I can make breath

fill him again.

That portrait

is the door hanger

at the death gate.

Here it here,

ring and enter

where faces end,

where humor ceases

the blest leave

And belief?

Well, we could hope

make a wager

no matter how meager

that he would have some share,

Who knows? Who knows?

But that photo war ghost

plays over and over,

the waves washing the body

the gate and the door

living among ruins.

27 June 09

When I walked this morning,

you slept.

I brushed wild flower skirts

played with their hair-

greeting the morning sky,

You pulled the covers closer.

I watched the busy bees

sweep the golden tops

looking for treasure,

Cheering them onward

snapping photos,

You rolled over again.

I felt the soft earth,

buzz of the mosquitos

looking for a quick drink

Walking slowly.

When I returned

smiling,  relaxed,

You didn’t know I was gone.

27 June 09

I don’t understand it.
Those tolerant aren’t
Continuing to attack
continuing hate
they blame others for.

Strange.

And those wishing life?
Wish it for every thing
except newborns
(They don’t count)

What phase is this?
Will I awake on the
non-digital side?
See the slowing clock
light slowly turning red,
and wonder why
the edge of the universe
is so close
all along.

Maybe I’ll see it,
maybe that non-digital
is filtered different
and life really counts-
all life.

20 June 09

My hands are in the garden,
waking flowers and yards
of old rotted leaves
left over
for bugs
to hide.

Some are eyelash soft
darting away in a hurry
others simply blink their eyes
and look at me-

coffee?
no coffee?
what’s the rush.

But regardless,
I’m waking
and tipping the coffins
of deceased plants
everywhere,
pulling their little bodies out
and dropping in my morgue bag

their last resting place
my trash.

What ever secret they knew
is gone now,
what ever whimper of sadness
their leaves might know
how water made them laugh
and wind whipped their children
loose to fly-

yes, it’s vague and strange
altogether
mixing this soil with
the sudden red blood
from my hand.

3 May 09

After dad died,
I opened it-
that rusty red lid
with the tools screaming for attention,

The ones dad yelled about
breaking,
chipping,
leaving out.

Yes, the same.

they know his hand
the way he held hammer’s head
and struck,
every curse for the blow
to tender thumb.

they heard them all.
The pliers tightened it jaws
and the level bubbled with joy.

Except it was me.

I kept them, yes,
in the garage,
next to the others.

They got to know them.
those smells and dry air.

And occasionally
I used them,

till my hands felt
the pressure,
same pain.

but they were never
relaxed,
never mine.

3 May 09

月の霧 彼女の露出した体のまわりのカーテンを通したスリップ。

Those natural numbers seem lonely
sitting there counting upward
but never irregularly
or like a prime-
One number
can’t divide
except itself

Myself,
I’m prime and natural
irregular and rational-
sometimes not.

But wanting to count
I’m chasing those numbers
looking for equations
that equal peace.