Inevitable

She’s a hollow reed
Dried and brittle at season’s end
Bent by the winds
Stripped by the storm
Bowing to the earth
In graceful submission

What else can you do?
But face the inevitable
With quiet contemplation
Serenity and acceptance
Fulfilling a purpose, knowing
That this was all there ever was

[Painting my own.]

Adulting

Lights, camera, action

Part-time jobs and full time classes

The cheap apartments

Shared by three or more

Shabby sofas, drafty windows

Stuffed with yesterday’s news

But nobody noticed or nobody cared

When we were young

And full of exuberance

Dancing, spinning

Performing for each other

In our too cool, thrift store clothes

Saved our cash for the hair salon

And army surplus boots

Looking for the next thrill

In late nights and lazy mornings

Each one a version of the other

Playing on repeat

Running around in circles

Like the records on the turntable

Everyone’s a player

And the beat goes on

A mass of undulating bodies

Like a murmuration of starlings

Moving almost as one

It’s joy of life unbounded

Until the break of dawn

But youth is nimble and fleet footed

And time is cruel but fair

Shows no pity for the partygoers

Burning the candle at both ends

As the house lights come up

Show those tiny lines and wrinkles

It’s last call once and for all

Grow up baby, morning’s here…

*Galway is a city full of students, just beginning their journeys, finding their way. They’re so full of life and free of care … at least on the surface. Oh, to be young again without the burdens and responsibilities that adulthood places upon us. Carpe diem! Seize the day! The time goes quickly and you never get it back.

Blue

On a beautiful day, I am blue
Not like the cloudless, cerulean sky
Where the bright, mocking sun
Unfavorably compares my mood
To her brilliance, warmth and cheer

This blue is the slate
Of the storm-tossed ocean
Heavy seas, deep and dark
Full of sunken ships
And drowned sailors

The dangerous blue
Of exposure
Of lips curled over chattering teeth
Shivering in the cold
Killing frost of November

The kind of blue
That manifests itself as anger
Only because the rage
Feels just a little better
Than the weakness of sorrow

But its a blue that passes quickly
When I raise my head with purpose
It runs away like water
Dribbling through my fingers
And drying in the breeze

Header Image: IKB 79 ~ Yves Klein, 1959