That time of year thou mayst
I hate to look upon
the land—to see how
strange a perfection
is a year’s time.
From the yard
this night comes.
Age is my canary,
a root sent to bed.
Poems on the topic: age
Poems on the topic “age” on Poets.by.
Graying
I accept gray hair,
in which I am finding
my father and my work:
this is the last
lost ice, all
my accounts.
Poetic fallacy
My office: wit.
I chant, I talk
of the weight of age
and where I err
is the present.
Leaving the cellar
we make the cellar a private place
dig the cellar again
dig the cellar from one side to the other
and go upstairs to grow old
I wish for night
instead of all the good things
which own our home
Swan’s way
For the old swan,
staying in bed is
the custom; best
to rest where the sun
crossed the water.
To the old swan,
we tower and boat
like blind
stairs of lead.
Old drunk
Lit again.
If my absence were
with her
I could carry my age.
Prospector
rubbing my belly I grow
old and ugly
all winter I am broke
and in summer like a child
I dig for gold
the earth going to pieces
in my pocket
The Hollow (33)
elderly beech
bark gathered in folds as if
it doesn’t fit right
zigzag scar
in a hemlock trunk
its sealed lips
graceful
the arc of a tree’s
mid-life crisis
the vanishing distance
between their two positions
oakhemlock
Downsizing
Day by day
the shadows are dwindling,
assuming more realistic shapes,
like the ambitions of a man
in middle age.
The snow hardens underfoot.
I hear the first
mourning dove call of the year:
desire in a minor key.
Haiku 10
Out of this nightfall
two white trucks nose-to-nose, or
were they always there?
Two young women kiss
and just so, the storm passes…
the laughter and glass.
All my life I dreamed
of glory but I don’t know it
sitting awake.
Raindrops fill a pond
in the parking lot, size of
a lake, to an ant.
The edge of the storm
black, moving fast to the north,
sunlight past the hill.
Ice cream, 2 am
The Hill
Outside my house there is a hill
That I would often climb
And on this hill, throughout my life
I would find different ways to spend my time.
When I was young, it was for the adventure
For who didn't like a little fun
And I was a warrior, tried and true
There was never a battle I hadn't won.
As I got older, it was more to see the view
And sit in quiet contemplation
Or perhaps write a poem or paint
As it did give me inspiration.
But now I am truly old,
And I can barely climb this hill.
Sometimes it feels like it's not worth it;
Each time I try, I'm met with a chill.
Where The Sycamore Grows
There is a field where a sycamore grows
Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows.
It is a peaceful place for thought;
A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.
I love this place, enough to have said
That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead.
While I'm here, I feel sort of free;
A type of magic that affects only me.
Because there, I could truly be alone.
Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne.
And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand
That I could look all across the land
Now I grow old, as most rulers do;
So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view
And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows;
Here in the field where the sycamore grows.
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