Note Taken About My Body (After a trip to Sam's Club)

My left side leads my right side

and it has always been this way,

from, I suspect, mother’s womb

until, I expect, I find the grave.

My left foot anchors my right foot

each time I begin to walk steps.

Then I feel it solid on the ground

before I forward shift from the left.

As left hand hooks it, right hand plays

note found first before pluck or strum.

From this arrives one more tune

likely that again I sing and hum.

But so you say my left ear

hears a bit better than my right.

Well no surprise do I feel

always left carried the work and fight.

And from the womb to grave I go.

Being me requires this will be so.

© Dennis Wright,  2012

"Walking Man" by Alberto Giacometti

View from the Fifth Floor

The bamboo wood plays shadows 

on the full moon framed in the window,

a glimpse of the universe spreading, 

spreading past all comprehension.

Put your head on the pillow.

Set your slippers by the bed

as sentinels waiting for the dawn.

Rise, swivel to touch the floor.

Light, glasses, radio, hot coffee.

Relief of knowing

you can coordinate each effort,

lack of surprises

a relief.

The pain of a divided world presses in. 

The view from the bedroom window

is a fraction of the real world.

Beneath, it is Guernica.

You have seen ages pass,

and now the cups of coffee are numbered.

Where is solace now?

Slippers by the bed,

the moon in your window?

The necessity of awareness,

or the losing of it?

© Evie Safran, 2018

Girl and the Moon
by the Estonian painter Karl Pärsimägi
from Wikimedia Commons
In public domain in the United States

Objects

Small objects,

some round, some square,

some big lozenges,

others egg-like, or sculpted, or cut

in clever shapes

I couldn’t have imagined a few years ago.

Stamped upon their collective visage

are numbers, letters, trademarks,

symbols of authority, and other magical incantations

which inform the reader (should he or she possess

the requisite microscopic ability) of contents,

definitions, and the all-important DOSAGE,

an Anglicized word from a forgotten Mediterranean dialect meaning TOO (dos) OLD (age).

Too old to what? you may ask. Why, too old to see,

too old to handle, too old to count, too old to read,

too old to remember, to ask questions, 

to think, to hear, to dream.

Fear not, imbiber, these are but overheard baggage

when the symbols are empowered

and the magic begins to roll.

Oh, did I mention the effects, i.e., the enumeration of miracles

to be wrought, along with the after-effects, 

the collateral effects, the side effects?

To be taken with water. Do not drink water

when dosage exceeds the square root 

of the mass of the earth’s moon. In case of eclipse,

drink heavily any liquid that comes to hand. If unable

to read these instructions, signify by sending 

a long accusatory letter to your doctor.

If directions are followed,

relief is almost certain, unless

it isn’t, in which case, it won’t be.

Does this topic upset you?

No problem. Just take a pill.

© George Phillips, 2018

Adrenallrx
by FtWashguy
from Wikimedia Commons

Price Range

All grown-ups were children first. (But 

few remember it.)

                ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

The one-of-a-kind heirloom

under glass is roped off,

a proper distance

from museum onlookers

who afford a pocket-sized price

to applaud, not hold

dear to heart,

trumpeted treasure.

The search for fulfilling riches

at reasonable cost

overflows to streets

onto big-box stores and back-alley

vendors with knock-off deals.

Possessions glitter the path to satisfied

heartbeats despite night’s

isolation.

Having more seems happier

for many adults.

Once they’ve outgrown Neverland,

men and women get painted over

by agendas,

forget how to feed themselves 

with hearty nourishment freely given

by fairies, pirates, and mermaids.

Lost from to-do lists is one-of-a-kind Pan, 

clad in skeleton leaves

and juices that flow from trees, 

who keeps his heart forever young.

© Patsy Asunción, 2017

 Pan and Wendy, cover, 1915
from Wikimedia Commons

Back in the Day

Back in the day  

before the ravages of time and injuries settled into joints

I could squat – 

but I can’t bend those knees that much anymore!

Back in the day

I could have run this 5 K race with you -

or at least most of it!

Back in the day

before the crow’s feet of time

etched a road map on my face,

I could look in the mirror

and see smooth skin, 

and bright eyes

which could read tiny print -

but are now clouded 

with the beginning of cataracts.

Back in the day

before organs sagged and excess weight crept on,

I could travel without a suitcase of supplements and

other personal necessities –

but I am grateful it is not medicines or medical paraphernalia!

And I plan to keep it that way!

I would instantly take back my youth – but only if I could

keep the experience and wisdom I have gained with time!

© Beverly Diane Harner, 2012

York River 5K Race during Estuaries Day 2015
Photos by Jon T. & John G.
from Wikimedia Commons 

So Old

I lie beside her on the sand,
Watching her breathe--- 

In ... and ... out. In ... and ... out.
And I try to match her rhythm,
To be in sync with her. 

We are alike in many ways.
Our bodies catch the light
And glisten in the sun. 

We both have wrinkled skin.
It makes me feel so old. 

I wonder just how old she is.
She has a right to be wrinkled,
For she is old, so old. 

The sea. 

© Joyce M. Broughton, 1997

Sea waves striking a breakwall
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

My Third Eye Is Blurry

Maybe it's a speck

of galactic dust

partially lodged

in the corner of my eye

or a seasonal allergy

from recurrent 

metaphysical storms

Possibly eye strain

from poor illumination

of a fading distant star

or damage to my hallowed retina

from gazing too long

at powerful suns afar

Can I blame diminished vision

on “End of Days”

foreseen long ago

by prescient Mayan priests

or is it just macular degeneration

from advancing old age

All seem rather likely

but if truth be told

a cosmic cataract

is blinding more each day

as golden Earth moments

inevitably slip away 

© Bill Vollrath, 2014

Mural num muro de tijolo em Aveiro

"Watching tv is like taking black spray paint to your third eye" ~ Bill Hicks

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Small Town

My childhood self

still walks the streets of the village

where I loved to visit

a grandmother, dead long ago.

Her aged friends

are still vivid in my mind.

One had a parrot that nipped my nose

and a goldfish pond

where the brilliant fish

eluded my childish grasp.

Another came to tea

and was given elderberry wine

because “the doctor ordered it.”

A glowering distant cousin 

with a crippled foot who came to visit

preferred to sleep on a feather bed,

so in the heat of summer

I dragged the dusty thing from the attic,

grumbling and resentful of that gloomy relative.

A box of demi-tasse cups

was given me by one of those women.

“Don’t wait too long to marry,”

was her advice.  -- ”I did.”

I sensed the sorrow of her life.

Unmarried women of uncertain age

seemed prevalent.

Why did they never wed?

Did the young men leave

for livelier towns?

Or did their beaux

go off to war and die?

Their locked trunks in the attic

were seldom opened,

holding treasures (I supposed)

for which they had no room

in the straitened circumstances

to which they had come.

Now aging as well,

I return to find

old houses remain,

still beautiful and cared for,

and the county courthouse

with the Civil War cannonball

still lodged in its pillar

looks solid and unchanged.

But busy stores

that then sold thread

and shoes and ice cream

now stand empty and forlorn,

and the ghosts of my childhood friends

walk the silent streets.

© Peggy Latham, 2012

County Courthouse; photo by Tony Russell