Tired. Tired and with a night-vision of a never-ending road, presenting and preventing the future. Tired and with a series of aches representing the wind-down.
The older you get the longer it takes to get old.
In the small hours I wrote what may be or may become a new poem; it has no title yet:
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And so the old men go to war
each approaching his end
in his own way and his own good time
no matter how, in flame, in soil, in lime,
dissolution, final or otherwise, is our last wide smile,
“Oh, yes!” our last flesh-based word.–John Bailey, December 2009
West Glamorgan, Wales
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Final would make a title. Well a short one any way. I know an old lady who I would wonder about her last flesh word, what is it to be?
I’ll go out like Molly Bloom. Been contemplating the end all too much of late. Or maybe, not enough.
That seems to be the beginning of a really great poem. Is your depression winning tho?
That’s a very evocative verse, John. [Yes, I know, blank verse.]
The sun will shine, soon. Try to get out in the light for at least 20 minutes a day, if you can.
Hugs, ~ Sil
Sounds like a pretty solid case of “Winter Wimwams” to me, John. Old Grey Poets and other elders are known to be particularly susceptible. Only cure is as much light, preferably sun, but bright, wide spectrum indoor light, truly helps. But if it provokes such excellent poems, maybe — no, I can’t wish that on you. So just hang in there. Spring DOES come, as you koow, and take lots of naps until.
Mine will be “Not Yet”. What a lovely powerful poem.
I like this…the entry and the poem. Both are simply powerful.
Time for a vacation in a warm and sunny climate?