Becoming Old Folks

Epilogue, Part I

ca. 1970-present

We entered the world after our protests, 

love-ins, and show-downs, ready to prove ourselves.

We lingered at the university gate, not wanting 

to leave, yet fearful of that first step forward.

Some who lacked a plan asked themselves,

What now? Most figured out something, some didn’t.

Some hoped to apply their idealism to social programs, 

others were sucked into corporate America

never to be seen again; some remained stoned

for a number of years, others plainly floundered.

Many of us did the best we could, getting married, 

raising kids and pets, entering unplanned careers,

remaining involved, at some level, in politics,

social issues, PTA, and our kids’ sports teams.

It added up quickly, it seems, as we saw the future

watching our grandchildren grow into themselves,

while loneliness and vulnerability 

are increasingly an everyday reality.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 47

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 4 of 4)

It sometimes seems like a dream, Right? Timothy Leary,

LSD, “Voices in the Sky,” In Search of the Lost Chord,

Haight-Ashbury, flower children (I wasn’t one but wished

I had been...I opted to be a hippie. Mind, they aren’t the same.);

lost in that murky realm between childhood and

a notion of lust and desire; wrestling hope and uncertainty;

alcohol, music, brilliant successes to dismal failures,

Vietnam disrupting the post-WWII “American Dream” 

of Donna Reed, Ozzie and Harriet, the Cleavers,

Norman Rockwell, and The Saturday Evening Post. 

Yet...there were race riots, Kent State, police brutality,

non-violent protests, War on Poverty, voting rights;

anti-establishment, racial equality, First Amendment rights,

women’s rights, “I have a dream,” and “... give peace a chance.”

The 1960s were too big, too much for anyone to grasp.

Some of us found a corner or a niche or a room with a view

and watched events unfold from everywhere we were not;

bemused, confused, excited by the chaos, many were rebels

in search of a cause, faced with the decision of either jumping

into the rough and tumble or crawling back into the womb,

alienated and disillusioned about what to do 

or where to go, just as we watched in the final scene 

of The Graduate, Benjamin and Elaine 

riding the bus to who knows where, 

and I and thousands of others were suddenly

brothers and sisters riding along with them.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 44

7/4 Time

Thankfully, we have time and space,

room to gallop and lurch and stumble

in 7/4 time and other odd meters.

The people I love would not sell out 

the Mission Impossible theme to a 4/4 beat.

We possess plenty of madness,

but we are willing to be rational if necessary.

What resonates in our chests 

is brassy, offbeat, and suspiciously earthy.

We are patina-coated non-rationals,

conducting our own fabulous orchestras

at full volume, stomping the ground, raising dirt.

This is our rhythm through life.

It’s our only defense against the maddening crowds.

From: In Transition

MS in progress.

Notes To A Man

Do you remember the first time

you realized the world was new,

when words had their places?

They didn’t always 

work the way you wanted them to.

When others used the same words,

you were disappointed,

but you learned

to use them to leap 

into clouds of the unknown.

And remember your first

truly passionate kiss?

The one that made your body vibrate,

closed your eyes,

sapped your strength,

weakened your knees.

Your body became a furnace,

your sanity became chaotic,

the crackling madness of love 

made a strange kind of sense.

When you saw the world

through the eager eyes of your children,

through their questions and wonder,

through their gestures of offering you water,

you realized everything has its purity,

old and new, coming and going,

a colorful world after all,

and that you were an ordinary man

blessed by an intangible mystery

that made you something more 

than you would have ever expected.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS in progress.

Old Juan

You have had your time in the sun.

Your hands, stiffened by hard work, 

are now at ease on your lap.

A cane helps you get around.

Memories are thinned and uncertain.

Are there old friends still alive?

Do you have children?

Who helps you day to day?

Your magnificent gray beard hides

the shape of your lips,

the jut of your chin;

your pants are ripped at the knees;

your boots have trod many miles;

your large, well-worn hat covers your head

to your eyebrows, 

but it’s about your eyes, old man,

a weary, world view of life you can’t hide.

You have been through dust storms of all seasons.

How many miles did you ride with the herds?

followed how many roads?

pierced how many lies?

Was there one great love?

One great loss?

Whatever it is you left behind,

you know you can’t go back.

Would you even want to?

But you have wisdom no one else has.

It matters, yes, but who is there to listen,

to take heed of the lessons of an old man?

Your weariness has caught up with you.

It’s your turn to sit in the shade and rest,

to watch a world go by with some disdain,

to nurse the silence of your final years

while a plant in the yard 

sprouts into new life.

Based on a painting by 

Wood Woolsey (1899-1970)

Old Juan, 1930

(El Viejo Juan)

Phoenix Art Museum

Phoenix, Arizona

https://phxart.org/arts/old-juan-el-viejo-juan/

From: Memories and the Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 50

Kisses And Wine

You keep secrets on your tongue.

They age, mature, becoming tastier

than they ever were.

Music, wine, and prayers

are born in the soul.

There the meaning deepens.

It’s passion, not reason.

Kiss me, play a symphony, 

sip the wine, kiss me again,

say the prayers with me.

Secrets will emerge one by one,

something different every time.

From: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 79

Of Peaceful Intent

for the fallen

I was in the Navy in 1968-69,

and the only action I saw was

the war games we played in the Pacific

somewhere between San Diego and Hawaii.

But I have walked many battlefields— 

like Yorktown, for example, 

Gettysburg, Little Big Horn,

and Mountain Meadows.

They are broad fields of memories,

often with their own cemeteries

of countless headstones for the known

and the unknown.

When in those places,

I have to stop walking,

stop talking,

close my eyes, 

and stand in silence.

The blood and clamor,

the wild screams of mangled bodies,

the masses of armies running headlong into

each other’s blast of cannon and gunfire, 

and the treachery and murder of men, 

women, and children at Mountain Meadows.

All anyone wished for was to survive

and go home.

Terror still inhabits the landscapes, 

protected by nature’s eternal allies.

And in the quest for redemption,

nowhere in the world is untouched.

The fallen are not to be forgotten.

When the smoke and dust settle 

and the roar in my ears quiets,

I open my eyes and everything 

remains serene and sanctified.

With quiet steps of gratitude,

I walk with peaceful intent.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 11