Figuring Out Life While Aging
Air-conditioned coffee shop,
conversations bleeding into
silent tables,
voices speaking about conceptions
of God
or meditation
And addictions.
And relationships.
I want to interrupt
but don’t.
I wonder if I
arrived here
drawn
by those invisible connections
The Enlightenment
has denied me.
I have unprotected dreams
late at night
with strangers
searching through my metaphors
to find the weapons
I’ve buried
and attack.
In the morning, I run words in my head,
To see if they fit together,
To see if they flow.
Sometimes I reach for my keyboard.
In youth we come through our bodies as explorers
Seeking and measuring
Astounded and disappointed
As we grow into ourselves.
In our long midlife, we travel our path
Forgetting and wandering
Sometimes grateful, mostly blindly seeking
The more we yearn for.
Now, our bodies re-astound us
Aching and refusing
Complaining and attacking
Reminding us of time.
In youth we come through our bodies as explorers
Seeking and measuring
Astounded and disappointed
As we grow into ourselves.
In our long midlife, we travel our path
Forgetting and wandering
Sometimes grateful, mostly blindly seeking
The more we yearn for.
Now, our bodies re-astound us
Aching and refusing
Complaining and attacking
Reminding us of time.
Christmas is a time of
difficulties and disappointments,
Santa failures
And other losses.
The dogs of hope
snap at the turkey bits
they’ve been whining for
and drop them, snarling.
Joys are seen
backwards in mirrors:
coloured lights on others’ houses
as I drive away.
And yet …
and yet in the darkness
some small light, hidden,
that I can hold
And nurture.
What does it mean
to love yourself –
other than the herky-jerky
I’m okay; I am okay; I am okay?
What does it mean
to be compassionate with yourself
other than accepting the lust for
more chocolate, more wine, and even the occasional secret
cigarette?
What does it mean; what does it mean?
Who am I
and why do I want
to know this?
What does it mean?
I have a horror
hangover:
a surfeit of tv dribbles
repeating;
the images and words
addictive
and numbing.
To look away, to change the channel,
I switch to a story of plotted
murder where the killer
is named and blamed
and hunted and destroyed.
When I can’t resist looking back,
the bodies still
lie on the street.
My Hallowe’en Costume
I am the stranger-lady answering the door
with a blur of chocolate
at the corner of my smile.
My purple bowl holds
the tokens you call out for.
I am the stranger-lady answering the door
and I demand your identities:
Spiderman, Supergirl, a nerd, a cop,
a princess, an angel, Harry Potter, and
Snape, a hockey player, a football player,
and names I don’t quite hear
or recognize as you quickly mumble,
hands reaching.
I am the stranger-lady answering the door
Passing on the instructions of murmurations of old ladies:
“What do you say to get the candy?
What do you say when you get the candy?
She was first; don’t push.”
My mother’s voice alive in me,
softened by my gramma’s smile.
Please help Canada return to our positive humanitarian approach; sign and share this petition.
https://www.change.org/p/stephen-harper-prime-minister-of-canada-allow-more-syrian-refugees-entry-into-canada?recruiter=4977621&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=share_email_responsive
Thanks
Wednesday, September 9 come to the Oakville Town Square (Lakeshore and George Streets) to demonstrate your support for expediting Syrian Refugee claims in a timely manner.
Learning Living 
