Past Seventy-Six

 2025

Am I as old as I think I am?

I think I’m seventy-six 

but time can tip us 

one way or another

and turn us inside out.

Just yesterday I was twelve

and I’m still in the same body.

Aging separates us 

from imaginative reality 

leaving us in the realm

of wishful thinking and envy.

It happens imperceptibly 

and progressively 

while doing what we thought

we were supposed to be doing.

It’s not too late to look past the numb 

and blunted world into those things 

that are eternal, beautiful, and magical,

to reverse our downward slide,

to return to our natural sense

of imaginative reality,

to speak in thunder,

to write in dreams,

to wander with 

sacred intent.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 34

That Lasting Regret

For the bullied children

It hurts to love in the wild open.

It’s the clumsy fire of naked life that burns us all.

What is the difference between love and beauty?

We love what we do when we let beauty blossom.

What has been good about being 76 years old?

Seeing the truth of what was.

When roses are crying, everyone is saddened.

Earth grieves when a flower blooms alone.

Where on Earth is there a demand for tears?

Wherever the Joel Richardsons

and the Margaret Coles are.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind:

A Non-Linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 51

Anonymous comments will not be published.

In A Dream, A Reminder

Dreaming about the unintelligible and the 

scary shapes my psyche gives to darkness,

makes the rational into something which it is not

and harbors imponderables for later distortions.

I have wondered, while grappling with the unformed, 

while trying to understand a world as if seen 

through rain splattered windows,

while traveling without a destination

around the next bend and over the next hill…

I have wondered if sometimes a dream 

might simply be reminding us 

to turn on the lights.

From: Stumbling Through Dreams, Memories

and the Unintelligible

Unpub. MS p. 21

Please note that anonymous

comments will not be accepted.

Roots

How is it that we, 

in some manner peculiar to us,

identify with trees that are 

the lone sentries of fields

or keepers of forests,

yards, and neighborhoods?

We love fluttering leaves and shade,

the crackle of autumn’s footsteps,

the chirp of spring’s new foliage,

the sounds of breezes through their limbs,

and how we grieve when one is lost.

And how strangely beautiful it is to walk

over the rise and fall and breakage

of old sidewalks stamped,

USA

WPA

1939

heaved by the persistent roots,

the undoing of things made by man.

It’s the nature of things that impresses.

Look again and imagine what beauty 

exists underground, bearing such lofty 

and enormous burdens.

Then sit and sip some wine,

basking in the tranquility of its shade.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind:

A Non-linear Recollection

Unpub. MS p. 35

Night Driving

March

I-10 Burnt Well Rest Stop, Arizona

It was a delicate darkness that night,

made so by the aroma of the day’s rain

that flavored the air and settled in puddles.

At the rest stop, a chilly desert breeze 

brushed across our faces, momentarily flirtatious,

then continued twisting around the cacti,

flowing through mesquites and palo verdes 

until it finally located and swirled around

a patch of ground like a dog that walks 

in circles before lying down to fall asleep.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 43

Things Not Far Away

Sunset glares through a slit in the clouds, 

cool air descends with a childhood memory 

of horses in Willcox…

They know things.

We stared at each other over a millennium.

They know wind, rain, and trouble.

They helped me to many 

places that were kindred to my nature,

escaping the oppressing forces,

to wander in the dreams of silent places

where kindness flourished.

There are no maps for any of that. 

It’s windy on the borderland

and rain approaches.

I opened a lovely Malbec to sip slowly

and relax while the storm treked across 

a darkly veiled sky.

Wine is poured and its fragrance

mingles with the aroma of rain

that falls from dreams and memories.

The horses know.

We all know.

Rain will soon come.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p.2

A Night When Wild Decides To Alter Your Reality

A quiet night at your desk— 

an owl hoots; coyotes yelp.

You look up.

The brows on your mother’s portrait wrinkle 

as if in deep thought;

she rolls her eyes, disapproving

of whatever it is you are doing.

She never liked her portrait,

though it’s one of your best portrait photos.

You blink. Rub your eyes. 

Again you blink.

Horses in the pen and ink drawings

gallop across the paper and out of the frame.

Dust falls to the floor.

A rider in another drawing turns 

his head toward you, and another man sitting

on his horse leans forward

to whisper a secret. He motions

for you to come closer.

Your voice fills with rocks 

but you can’t cough them out.

A dog sits beside you, panting, dripping saliva;

cats and lizards lie on your shoulders,

unaware of the other’s presence.

An old-time phone you don’t have grinds out 

its terrible racket.

There is a thrice hard-knuckled rap

at the front door.

Your name is called, startling, 

like a spaniel’s sharpened bark.

You step outside.

A lightning strike, the crash and roll of thunder,

and a Sonoran cloud burst fills the air 

with chilly, drenching relief.

It’s 2:00 AM.

The rain subsides,

your guests have departed,

and you to the warmth of your bed,

slipping into the comfort

of a rainy haze.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 22

Zitle Newt

That is what it isn’t, isn’t it?

Marla Loska

Right. It’s an act of sabotage.

Marc Crowley

Blue and Cyan

on Rye with Green,

a dab of slow poke Red,

and topped off with Yellow,

make it Mellow, but only a smidgen,

over easy, carefully, twice baked.

Then add a side of Paisley, 

make it medium rare,

and a slice of Irony,

extra Metaphor,

extra crispy,

extra spicy.

Top with a Paradox.

Add a shot of Tequila.

Please, hold the Sarcasm.

From: An Absurd Realm of Unknown Sources

Page unknown.

What The Wind Brings

Summer Childhood 1960s 

From the Willcox Playa,

raking off the crackled surface,

a grumbling, dust-driven monster.

From a short distance, a peculiar spitefulness— 

the wild scream of thick wind and dirt churns up

and attempts to bury Willcox before it rains,

making for some anxious afternoons, 

relieved by friends, cookies and milk,

and an ongoing game of Monopoly.

From: Short Poems On How We Ramble:

Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 19

An Unexpected Chorus

Hereford, Arizona 

June 

Like an orchestra without a conductor,

the spring winds meandered

in a confusing atmosphere,

fearful of commitment 

to one season or the other.

They brought rain at the wrong time

of the year, but no one complained.

Long and deliberate, these storms

through the grassland, with cloudy days 

that looked like December, 

with distant lightning,

not what we would normally expect.

Such an unusual June it was,

a blessing that the heat didn’t rise 

too quickly, that wind blew softly at night,

that water from slow, circling clouds

came and went, came and went.

Awakened at 3:00 AM from my 

dreamscape into a light rain,

lying in a warm bed of combined solace 

and excitement, I listened to the splatter 

and distant rumble mix with the 

rancorous howling of a coyote chorus.

Then I remembered that whatever arrives 

from unexpected places, music comes with it.

From: Small Places, Big Places,

And Every Other Thing In Between 

Unpub. MS p. 50

Questions

To My Children and Grandchildren

Inspired by Pablo Neruda*

Will strawberries and cholla cacti

ever grow fond of each other?

How do the fragrances of flowers

make the stars twinkle?

If you were to start over, would you start

in a waterfall or where 

the Columbia River meets the Pacific?

Or, if from the end, how long will it

take you to reach the beginning? 

Do storms at sea originate

from a wild ride of tides?

When was the last time

you asked a foggy question?

Do you still have room  

for an array of misty answers?

When mesquite trees talk to the sky,

are the palo verde trees jealous?

Will redwoods scold noisy campground children,

or will rain sufficiently 

dampen their enthusiasm?

How many landscapes in Arizona

have moved to the suburbs?

If poets write poems they don’t understand,

does that mean they know 

what they are doing?

*The Book of Questions (El libro de las preguntas)

by Pablo Neruda, Copper Canyon Press, 2001.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere

Unpub. MS p. 51

A Question Of Madness

No one has a right to say that no water babies exist 

till they have seen no water babies existing, which is, 

mind, quite a different thing from not seeing water babies.  

~Charles Kingsley

To awaken and then to disappear 

into something beautiful

saturates our hearts and minds with wonder.

Waves never go to the center of the sea.

The oceans do not forget that bearers of pain

find solace at the turbulent edge of the world.

The wind on the grasslands whispers to us

that everything possesses music,

but if you listen for it, you won’t hear it.

The failure to speak

in the voice of the invisible 

will render your heart barren of vision.

If never allowing for uncertainty,

for possibilities beyond light and darkness, 

then our spirits languish.

The question of madness is always present.

I would not argue against it being 

the highest form of intelligence.

From: Finding My Way: A Meandering Journey

Seeking the Sacred Mysteries Through 

Memory, Time, and Place

Unpub. MS p. 15

Pens Rule

Today jumped over yesterday

so I don’t know where I am.

I’m missing the punctuation,

and yesterday is on the prowl,

looking for its sense of time.

Yesterday asked me if I lived alone

and I said, No, I live with time and place.

As the day went on, I got lost

in what sense I was writing.

Probably the past sense.

Sometimes there are no rules, I was reminded.

The present sense has remained full of its rules

and I want to break them all.

Can I say that a fire burns in my pens?

Or am I thinking in some other sense?

From: Dreams, Shaky Memories, 

& Stumbling Into A Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 28

Into The Deluge

50 Miles south of Wells, Nevada

Cumulus clouds have massed together,

lumbering into a determined singularity,

filling the sky until earth melted into it.

Cloud bottoms, flattened dark grey,

threatened a gently rolling landscape.

The straightaway road disappeared

into the horizon as if earth had come to an end.

An occasional sun beam managed to peek through,

momentarily lighting small patches of scenery 

dotted with black angus cattle.

Drive on?

Yes, drive on, we said.

A mile away something dropped, something massive

and dark, and everything seemed to become motionless.

The car shuddered against the wind driven rain;

drops the size of our thumbs attempted to pound

everything senseless. Even at five miles per hour

we were driving nearly blind.

This is madness, we shouted, madness.

And then came the clamor of hail.

Drive on?

Yes, drive on, we shouted.

We drove on through the bellowing chaos,

past lightning leaping from the earth,

thunder crashing into everything.

We laughed. 

Yahoo! we laughed,

white knuckled we laughed.

Bring on the madness.

Drive on, we cheered. Drive on.

On out the other side into Wells, Nevada.

Safe and sound.

At the restaurant Susan ordered wine.

I ordered tequila.

Never again, we moaned.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 39

Blue Sky Brown Scrub

US Highway 93

Kingman, Arizona, to Hoover Dam

Like every other desert highway,

miles of drab brown,

low to the ground scrub,

living dormant under 

perfectly peaceful blue skies.

Something fearful dwells in deserts

so pervasive it weighs heavy in the heart.

It can be smelled in the creosote and sage, 

in the rocks and dirt like death’s warning.

It is stern and treacherous, 

yet a few invite themselves in,

daring to live an austere,

precarious existence.

It has cast a spell

on the few squatters 

dotting the landscape,

living in fragile travel trailers

or dwellings of found materials.

They couldn’t resist the lure

of the land’s breathtaking solitude,

the mad done in by rejection,

heretical outcasts hoping to silence 

the clamor of worldly things 

and their own inner turmoil.

Some may be irreparably broken.

Whatever is held dear,

it’s a seductive and formidable wilderness,

where anyone can get lost in its time and place.

From: Memories Of  Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 38

That Lasting Regret

For the bullied children

It hurts to love in the wild open.

It’s the clumsy fire of naked life that burns us all.

What is the difference between love and beauty?

We love what we do when we let beauty blossom.

What has been good about being 76 years old?

Seeing the truth of what was.

When roses are crying, everyone is saddened.

Earth grieves when a flower blooms alone.

Where on Earth is there a demand for tears?

Wherever the Joel Richardsons

and the Margaret Coles are.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 51

The Moment

June evening

Phoenix

As she was leaving 

I was arriving at the Havana Café.

She was tall, in her early fifties,

wearing a white cotton dress.

It was the stuff of sudden connection,

some would say love at first sight.

Time slowed down.

Her dazzling, hazel eyes settled on mine 

like hands reaching out to caress a tired face,

reminiscent of a time when we might have known 

each other before our creations.

She was lovely, nearly angelic, 

stepping lightly across the dusky parking lot,

turning, a backward glance, a subtle smile,

before disappearing into a waiting Volvo,

leaving behind a trace of her timeless, 

luminous fragrance. A deep sigh.

My heart beat a little faster.

The hostess seated me. 

With a friendly pat on my shoulder

she said, 

Down boy.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 29

Janis And Grace

After a little too much wine,

I wandered into my back acre

where I discovered a rabbit hole.

I peeked in and saw it was dark,

but no way would I try to enter,

though I might have if I had been 

much smaller or the hole much larger.

I recalled the lusty, beautiful mayhem 

of the 1960s and remembered my crush 

of the era, Grace Slick, singing “White Rabbit.”

What a spine-tingling, powerhouse voice.

At the time, the song was mysterious to me— 

a white knight talking backwards?

a hookah-smoking caterpillar?

the pills that mother gives you?

That last one I think a push-back 

against the elder hypocrisies.

It wasn’t until 1968, after “White Rabbit,” 

that I finally read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

What a curious, amazing place,

and what a trip Alice had. 

I wished I could have done that.

“White Rabbit” still gives me the chills.

And Janis Joplin, having nothing to do 

with rabbit holes in this sense, God bless her,

I don’t think she ever got her 

Mercedes-Benz or a color TV,

but that was the last song she recorded 

for her album, Pearl, before she died 

three days later in October, 1970.

Another tragic loss for the era.

Caught up in the mystery of nostalgia,

I poured more wine and looked

across the grasslands of my home.

Grace wasn’t here yet, but I could hear Janis, 

her passionate, raspy voice singing 

like her insides were shattering, letting loose 

into the wind pieces of her broken heart.

I raised my glass of wine.

Here’s to you both

and to what a time that was.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 37

A Movie Dream

It was there,

life and death,

the six-fingered man

accused me of killing his father.

I killed your father? No.

Where’s Westley?

Out pillaging the world.

The countless echoes from

the Cliffs of Insanity are guarded

by a sword-wielding Buttercup.

What of the prince?

Forget the prince. He’s a sissy.

We need a miracle!  Call Max.

He knows everything.

No. We just need Fezzik.

Then we can storm the castle.

Buttercup and Westley are married 

by the Impressive Clergyman.

Vizzini and Inigo Montoya 

arm wrestle for a horse.

Inigo wins; Vizzini protests:

That’s Inconceivable.

Buttercup and Westley,

Fezzik and Inigo

ride into the sunset.

All’s well that ends well.

From: Dreams, Memories, &

Leaps Into The Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 27

Early Morning

Under this clear blue sky,

sitting on a towel in blue jeans 

and a red Tee on damp steps,

sipping coffee with the sunrise,

orange and yellow;

wisps of high clouds appear

as if from dreams of ideas,

barely thought out, 

stretching themselves fearlessly.

I’ve seen this many times before

while wandering Pacific shores, 

deserts, and from the forest’s edge, 

how they will blend together, 

shades of white on white, 

as on a painter’s pallet,

without effort,

without the heave of collision, 

creating again and again, coalescing

into something imaginative and new,

and all we have to do is wait and watch.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpub. MS p. 7

Set Love On Fire

To fly with wings ablaze, the moth 

cannot resist a flickering candle.

Inside the needle’s eye a growing universe.

Its constellations and galaxies need no scale.

You wonder how is the embrace you long for

that will set love on fire, split from all else.

Despite all the words written about 

love and beauty, your silent gaze says it best.

The grasslands whisper, You have tasted 

the sweetness of wind. You are the Universe.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 5

Absence

A restless night,

up early.

Yard work at sunrise, 

then shower, coffee, breakfast.

Reading headlines:

Ozzie Ozbourne’s cause of death;

Brad Pitt buys a mansion for 12 Million Dollars;

famous women are wearing see-through clothing;

I couldn’t care less about Kanye West.

Evening Tequila, like a savior, 

sets this corner of the world upright.

The grassland sighs with the swirling breezes;

the stars are intense, glittering eyes;

a bird, into the good night

floats its sleepy trill.

From: Shorts: Short Poems

On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 60

Radio Flyer

Remnants at best memories are,

lodged or dislodged by strange forces

that come out of nowhere.

We try so hard to remember some,

equally hard to forget others.

They’re all there,

even if we think some are lost forever.

I’ll never forget my first kiss

and the panic in my heart.

My first wagon, a Radio Flyer,

in which I traveled the Universe.

My first bike, a Schwinn.

My first rifle, a .22, at eleven years old.

My marriage to a beautiful woman

and the bewildering beauty 

of the births of our children.

Mountains are grafted where valleys lay;

It was winter…or was that early summer?

Things were shiny? Or big? Or small?

Did they ever exist at all?

The faces, the places, 

the joys, the broken hearts.

Memories are strewn in our heads 

as if by five-year-olds 

who played with them all day.

Sorting is futile at any age.

We cling to our vague certainties 

of who did what and when.

They were like jewels in the fog,

but we fill the gaps with what seems possible

and change them if something seems better.

Even siblings, under the same roof, 

witnessing the same things,

rarely agree on what happened.

However messy it is, we still say, 

Oh yes, I remember that…

And for a minute, utterly convinced.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and

Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 27

A Love Letter To Edna St. Vincent Millay

Once too young to appreciate you,

now too old to ignore you,

seasons have also sung to me,

and come and gone,

and come and gone,

some forgotten like casual kisses 

planted on one’s cheek.

Were we to meet in some

timeless shadow,

you might catch my hand

holding your face or grazing your breast.

Your sense of beauty and grace 

would have endured time’s test,

without thoughts of being friendly 

with death.

We would walk together for a while,

and walk and walk, 

together talking of living lives,

in and out of love,

enjoying the sun’s warmth,

stripped of pride

and shorn of reticence.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 11

Quartet

I have stood on many beaches staring

at the oceans’ promiscuous turbulence,

astonished by their vitality and exuberance.

In their seeming chaos, they were reassuring and calming.

I secretly wanted in despite their obvious warnings,

but the message was astoundingly clear.

Just wait—your time will come.

*

In the third grade

Lora Lee ambushed me with a kiss.

I had no idea what happened but it was exciting.

Today, I marvel at how a kiss of love is exhilarating, 

becoming suspended in a place of no time,

in a time of no place.

*

In our later years, 

we begin to acknowledge 

the frustrations of our youth, 

having left unpicked so many beautiful blossoms.

Too eager to pluck the easy ones and be ‘finished,’

we ignored what we really wanted, fearing the blossoms 

that were more elaborate and mysterious.

*

The world changes rapidly;

the usefulness of stuff is fleeting.

We accumulate more than we care to admit,

but how our hearts speak to us is obscured 

by the possession of glittery things,

sacrificing the Grace of intimate love.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 8

Wandering In The Dreamscape

The Paintings of  Philip C. Curtis

It became dusky, then darker the moment I leaped 

off the path of conjecture into this imaginarium.

Looking out and up, confused faces stared back at me.

My call for the North Star to appear in a blank sky 

went unanswered.

It doesn’t matter where I look in this alien landscape,

my blood pulses loneliness, my anxiety deepens.

There was endless slogging through sand and 

staged scenarios of broken wagons, 

useless train station platforms, solitary baby carriages, 

more loneliness, pointless tea parties, 

and a woman running from some unknown danger,

leaving her hanging laundry to snap in the wind.

In fear of this wasteland, I saw nowhere to go,

yet an endless, hopeless, incoherent road enticed me.

I made my way through the wrinkles of pastures,

the tilt of bones, and leaves drinking moonlight.

Dodging partiers on stilts, I staggered the way of stones 

and gravel, almost to infinity, until, at the precipice of nowhere,

in a panic, I made my escape, loosed my anxieties,

leaped blind into darkness nearing dawn,

into the welcoming warmth of sheet and blanket,

and the familiar creaks and groans of my body and house.

Outside, an owl hooted; the coyotes barked.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 40

For more about this artist, see

https://phxart.org/artists/philip-curtis/

Things That Matter

Love matters most of all.

And hope.

Children and Family.

Stories, poetry,

and music.

Art in all its forms.

And friends, too.

The seen and unseen.

And Kindness.

And just showing up.

Faith and Charity.

Hard work.

Truth.

And Silence matters.

Listening for 

the unexplainable,

the unknowable,

the incomprehensible,

and all that nature offers;

listening with the ears of your heart

to the pain and joy of others.

Walking in the way of peace,

toward a goal,

even if the goal is 

simply to rest.

That matters, too.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 46

Like Prayer

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5

in E minor, Op. 64

From the moment the orchestra begins 

until the last magnificent chord,

I am playing and being played,

stretching myself from low notes to high notes.

It is wine from the glass into my mouth,

a rambunctious exuberance,

stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.

What is the way to pray

when there is no translation?

When I would have so much to say?

I’m left with only the continuous rhythm 

of my aching, pounding heart.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 29

Pondering

If yellow turns into rocks,

will rocks blossom in the fall?

If hope springs eternal,

from where does infinity spring?

Earth sings duets with the moon,

but how does Mars stay well read?

What kind of wine is made from

meteors dropped from a stellar vineyard?

If a rose has collected too many thorns,

will the extras be donated to Good Will?

The ocean’s wild surf asked me,

Where is passion most wasted?

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 10

The Silence Of Wild Places

Mill Creek Campground, 

Northern California

After two days of driving,

feeling odd and out of sorts,

finally camping, I craved

to know the silence of wild places.

That afternoon I put my ear to the forest floor,

listening for the rumble of Creation

only to come face to face 

with a bright yellow five-inch banana slug,

shouting to all the world,

Here I am.

Its eye stalks moved right and left,

up and down, independent of one another.

Its lower tentacles sniffed for food,

scraped into its mouth by its toothy tongue.

Down here it seemed so much larger

(along with everything else),

a little creepy but not so menacing.

It wasn’t intimidated by whatever

light and shadow I resembled.

It moved silently and fearlessly

over the forest debris.

That night, while gazing

at the mass of the Milky Way,

I thought the one thing I would like

to see before I died would be a supernova.

Yet I was astonished that the most elegant

thing I saw that day was the banana slug

and the reservoir of silence 

that was the forest floor.

From: Memories And The Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 16

Stormy Weather

Borderlands, Southeastern Arizona

When the sky is indistinguishable

from landscapes anywhere,

and lightning becomes heavy-booted,

belligerent winds roil the Sonoran deserts,

and dust surges from its places

before the sky plunges to Earth,

isn’t there a compelling sense 

of being irresistibly pulled into something

huge, magnificent, and dangerous?

Yes. A truly great storm,

wild and primal,

humbling and frightening.

A little like falling in love.

From: In Transition

MS in progress, p. 20

A Mirror To The World

A Painting Of Five Horses 

by A.M. Stockhill

There was shuffling and thudding

of hooves, like horses do, when they’re

on the verge of going somewhere.

There’s often some indecision,

but eventually, they make their way.

They know wild.

Some evenings they talk about ghostly winds, 

air of different colors, the flavors of clouds, 

and other puzzling phenomena.

It’s the stuff of Scientific American

and Harper’s that decorates their canvas.

Their heads rose high when they heard

Vaughn Monroe’s version of 

Ghost Riders in the Sky.

A couple of them snorted; 

the others shook their heads; 

they kicked up some dirt

and shifted their bodies.

They think the Burl Ives version is better.

Today they have been pondering

the grassland’s question of whether 

they were of time or simply beyond belief.

There was some tail swishing and head bobbing;

their soft noses lifted to the fragrances 

of wet grasslands and their eyes to the 

astonishing monsoon sky.

They all nodded.

We are who we are and then some.

From: Dreams, Memories, &

Leaps Into The Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 9

For more information about this artist:

https://amstockhill.com/about/

Becoming Old Folks (Part II)

Epilogue, Part II

ca. 1970-present

We were in love and out, unrequited or used, sometimes 

choosing expediency over what was true and beautiful.

There is a vague nostalgia for our lost innocence, 

a disappointment that will never be reconciled.

Now in our seventies, with successes and failures,

a mix of hope and cynicism, whiskey and wine,

in and out of spiritual realms and practices, settling 

on something comforting as part of our end game.

Children are grown and gone and loved ones have passed.

I am astonished at having made it this far.

But, like wine, the stories we tell of the 

times and places will always improve with age.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 48

Becoming Old Folks (Part I)

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

5/4 Time

Thankfully, we have time and space,

room to gallop and lurch and stumble

in 5/4 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

Retrospective Of A Boomer (part 3 of 4)

What a time that was when Elvis Presley and The Beatles

upset the powers that were and sent the rest of us into a frenzy.

The Beach Boys got us all worked up

about cars, surfing, and California girls.

Rock bands with horns— Chicago, The Ides of March, 

and Blood, Sweat, and Tears. They were fresh and exciting;

so was Cream, Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, 

Pink Floyd, The Doors, and The Who.

(Nothing like “White Rabbit,” “A Woman Left Lonely,”

“Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and “Good Vibrations.”)

Leonard Cohen’s voice became better with age.

Sadly, we didn’t get enough of it before he died in 2016.

Jimi Hendrix’s “The Star Spangled Banner” still reverberates

the pain of where we have been and where we are today.

We saw the Berlin Wall built in 1961 that failed 

in 1989. Seems that freedom had the final word.

And in the midst of everything, two men landed on the moon,

July 20, 1969. I remember our stunning, speechless awe,

right there with Walter Cronkite.

From: A Rambly Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 33