There comes an age,
when stains on the front of my sweatshirt
drawl, “I don’t feel like working” –
my mouth is dry and thirsty
my back aches
– must be (52).
There comes an age
when I don’t care what people think –
vanity takes a backseat to wisdom and sensibility,
falling in love doesn’t hold the same
steamy juice
– just another kind of love.
There comes an age
when you can only count on you,
standing on your own two feet
is preferred to being taken care of,
and writing is the only thing that matters.
There comes an age
when hair grows thick inside the ear,
tufts eek out the edge of the nose,
fingernails grow misshapen and brittle,
calluses defy the serrated file
– gray outshines the natural.
There comes an age
when a romp in the hay stiffens the blood,
love is more powerful than hate,
the irritation you feel,
a lone grain of sand in an oyster shell
– a pearl rolling in a silver bowl.
There comes an age
when the most powerful people stand least exposed,
humility slinks through desperation,
underground:
Tom cruises low in the Maldives
suddenly (6″) taller than Holmes;
Kramer burns his crosses
ex-megalaughbuster –
bad manners, poor taste,
and racist hate.
O.J.’s dead and buried, killed
by the two-faced blade of Rupert Murdoch –
“If I did it, I want the world to know
I’m covered in bad blood.”
– what the hell are people thinking?
There comes an age
when the truth matters more than lying,
Santa red makes a comeback, your favorite color
like it was at age (6), tenderness and fragility
outweigh the need for tough love.
There comes an age
when strength is not measured in pounds pressed at the bench,
clear-sighted has nothing to do
with (5) layers of cornea,
visionary does not extend beyond (30) years.
There comes an age
when humility and grace trump privilege and fame,
money is something I want enough of, without being greedy,
good and bad traits of women and men
become the same damn thing.
There comes an age
when I want to laugh at my failures,
hail them as successes –
soar down the hill on a hot shiny disc
spewing freshly mowed powder;
but snow flies blindly
in the cold face of reason,
falls flat on ice-burned lips
lapping it all up, only to discover
the thirst has already been quenched.
There comes an age
when silence speaks louder than words,
the tough get going
and the meek inherit the earth;
– (230) years later
the Framers return,
Jeffersonian voices booming
through British clairvoyants named Lisa:
“Yes, you’ve made a grievous mistake. No, those witches weren’t supposed to be burned at the stake. And the (300) lost languages of the indigenous peoples? – No, not supposed to be traded for steeples.”
a muddy, booted sole plunks down
on a tiny piece of granite –
Plymouth Rock –
“the most disappointing landmark in America”
There comes an age
when stinky cheese seems less stinky,
a single glass of Merlot is all it takes
to put you over the edge,
and laughter’s more important than sex.
There comes an age
when it’s harder to hold a shape, any shape,
the weight of the world piles on
over Thanksgiving waists –
I don’t want to haul an evergreen home,
to celebrate Christ’s birth, not one silver fir,
or spend the entire weekend baking turkeys
and mashing potatoes; but I will
watch A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.
There comes an age (2654)
when Pisces plummets
into Aquarius full bore –
the mossy air of the (11th) sign
fanning watery flames –
What’s Going On never loses its punch,
the Fifth Dimension no longer reigns,
a hollow remnant of a parallel Universe
or a Grammy production of Bones Howe fame.
It’s Thanksgiving week (2006)
I’m restless, not bored,
older, feeling young
hopelessly forlorn
and quietly strong.
My heart hurts – I’m in love,
full of hope and promise
for (2007), year of the Fire Pig.
My stomach churns –
the head says, be quiet.
Full.
Empty.
Alone,
surrounded by Souls
life could not have imagined.
Lost is a place,
I’ve found my true calling.
There comes an age –
when I have to let go.
Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006
-post from writing practice, PRACTICE – There Comes An Age – 15min
It’s like watching art on a canvas, seeing the transformation of raw
practice into “There Comes An Age (2654).”
Questions I have about your process for this piece specifically:
What prompted you to take it the next step? (Did something about
the practice call out to you?)
How much time did it take to do the edit? Was it a matter of one
edit or several?
What prompted the topic?
And, something to think about: do we ever post for our readers the
raw piece, then the next iteration, and finally the finished poem or
story as a way to show process?
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Y, Answers to Your Questions about process for this piece. Live your questions now – Rilke, wasn’t it? —QM
(Q) –What prompted you to take it the next step? (Did something about the practice call out to you?)
(A) After I finished the writing practice, I realized it had a lot of juice for me. I’ve been feeling worn the last few weeks, the kind of “existential worn” that happens from living life on life’s terms. When I read the practice, it reminded me that everything has its time, even death – and all of it’s going to go on way after I am gone. I’m only spit in the bucket. That spoke to me and I realized I wanted to take it further.
I’ve also been getting into poetry lately. And haiku. With the repeating line, There Comes An Age, the practice had already set the stage for prose. So I went with it.
I find the hardest thing for me in finishing pieces, is blocking out the chunks of time. For me, and this might be just me, I work best if I write the piece while I’m still jazzed about the practices I’m taking it from. That means not only do I have to let wild mind practice, but I then have to allow big chunks of uninterrupted time to edit, research, and post. It’s a big commitment. But sometimes I get on a roll, inside the joy of writing. And I don’t want to stop!
(Q)–How much time did it take to do the edit? Was it a matter of one edit or several?
(A) Several edits over several days. I started editing right after I did the practice. Since I knew I wanted it to be prose, I started by dividing the practice up into usable lines. Then kept shortening and working it right up to the end. I’d say I spent about 2 hours editing yesterday, 2 hours today. And another 2 hours on researching details and concept. Then another hour polishing. Is that too long? ; – O
(Q)–What prompted the topic?
(A) The topic, hmmm. Well, I’ve been thinking about what it means to come of age: as an individual, a nation, a culture, a world. I decided it’s a moving target. I wanted to write about the movement.
(Q) And, something to think about: do we ever post for our readers the raw piece, then the next iteration, and finally the finished poem or story as a way to show process?
(A) I like this idea. Raw to polished. I could post the raw practice for this piece but I’d have to edit out a paragraph where I went on a rant. The beauty of writing practice. The challenge of editing. I’ve also got two drafts I saved. I like process.
Thursday, November 23rd, 2006
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I went back and re-read “There Comes An Age (2654)” holding the answers to my questions in my heart as I read. I noted lines and stanzas I missed the first and second time I read it. I have to say, the piece was more profound on the third reading, and I think it had to do with the fact that I had more understanding of the process.
I’ve never been one to buy a book of poetry, yet when I read a good poem, I will read it again and again and again. The trick is getting me to read it the first time. I like that we’re delving into poetry. It makes me scared and insecure, but there’s a certain rush–like standing on the edge of a seven-story ramp–knowing I might fail. I don’t want to fail. Or maybe I do. My friend has a mantra: Art is arrogant. I think I have a mantra, too: Failure is freedom.
“There Comes An Age (2654)” is worthy of being published somewhere in addition to here.
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