Fifty-Six

So here I am, at fifty-six
Fifty-six? Grandpa's age when I was a kid (No grandkids yet, and that's fine)

As a kid, my birthday was
always overshadowed
by my (still) favorite holiday, Halloween

Costumes and candy and
grinning Jack o' lanterns
were first and foremost on my agenda

Only afterwards,
in the midst of a candy coma,
would I realize my birthday was nigh

These days my birthday
is just one of those days
in the dull lull after Halloween

(Though my wife gets me something,
and we usually go out for dinner)

But fall is (at least for me)
naturally melancholy
A time of reflection

I think of years past
and that ever-diminishing number
of years (days!) yet to come

Dad had a heart attack at sixty-five
Just nine more years? (No, not me!
He survived to almost eighty)

But I do think about it -
that terrifying time
when I will be no more

That terror so real
we refuse to face it,
pretending there's more to come

It would be comforting to believe
in some grand, eternal here-after
a sanctuary beyond death's reach

But I see no evidence
of a great here-after
only graveyards and urns

Of course, an omnipotent God
could easily conceal
such information from us

And, himself (itself?), be
beyond our reckoning
like the infinite universe

Still, I know the ways of Man
and can easily conceive that religion stemmed from that common terror

But beyond giving solace
religions have been used
to control and extort

As the late, great Neil Peart once
so pointedly put it, "I find no absolution
in my rational point of view."

So here I am, at fifty-six
No wiser about the end
and closer to it than ever

The Tale Wags The Dogma

Who let that idiot get on camera?

Who gave that nut a microphone?

Who put that bigot up on the stage?

Who gave that mouse a megaphone?

Who let that idiot have a talk show?

Who gave that nut a chance to run?

Who put that bigot on the podium?

Who gave that mouse an assault gun?

Alpha-Omega

Confidence bold

Then hot and cold

Deep and profound

But clowns around

Without a clue

Then hip to you

Youth green and gold

But growing old

Tied safe and sound

Then came unwound

Righteous and true

But selfish too

Missed Message

Some people think poets walk with their heads in the clouds

Drifting through life filled with fanciful notions, not in reality

Some people think poets wear their hearts on their sleeves

So easily swept away by some kind gesture, or a pretty face

Some people think poets get carried away with their anger

Raging against stuff beyond their control, even death itself

Some people think poets swoon over things like the sun rising

Too ready to surrender all, too willing to let themselves fall

Some people think poets live for wading through pools of despair

Wallowing in self-pity, wildly exaggerating their every heartache

But poets think people simply don’t understand life’s mystery

Despite how often, or how desperately, poets try to explain it

At A Loss

I’m not sure where to go

Not sure what I should do

Just stuck here in limbo

Wasn’t there a man?

Isn’t there some plan?

What does this all mean?

I thought there’d come a day

When I would know the way

But still no path is evident

Who’s writing this story?

What is the key to glory?

How will it all end?