Early next year I will celebrate my 68th birthday.
Life is certainly beginning to look different as I approach the fine wine age.
One way this manifests is more people around me are dying. The 91 year old mothers of two of my dearest friends just died. In the same week.
Another way is that some things that I used to pay no mind now aggravate me.
Here are a couple of recent poems about this.
Happy holidaze…
i first met her
at a reunion
of a large
family
i was not a
member of yet
a chaotic gathering
that had a freshness
combined with
an awkward
familiarity
at kim’s invitation
i brought my guitar
got to jam with
her brother buffy
sometimes we played
together
sometimes alone
sometimes nona joined in
for a verse or two
she was a
musical
person
with a small
beautiful
singing voice
knew a bunch of tunes
from the songbook
and some country classics
i once heard
kim’s sister jo
accompany her
on the piano
her children
called her mother
she had a
few husbands
one that she
married twice
she raised
horses
rode them
well into
her seventies
she once had a job
writing about them
in a magazine
she had a few
religions too
ended up a loyal
christian scientist
even worked for
the church
a few times
she wanted to
end her days
at the church’s
rolling estate
outside boston
she made it
to her room
when she was
ninety one
the clan
gathered
daughter jo came
from pennsylvania
son buffy
from maine
with his daughter
jody
daughter duffy
all the way from
california
granddaughter
erika
from florida
with husband wayne
world traveler
grandson josh
dropped by for lunch
i came with kim
from new york
got to play
buffy’s brand new
12-string guitar
weeks later
she called all
her children
and left them
the same voicemail
with labored breath
she said i’m fine
just going to sleep
for a couple of days
those that could get there
came the next weekend
kim and jo spent
friday evening
and saturday
with her
buffy
played for her
on sunday
afternoon
she died that night
her last words were
i love the sound
of a 12-string
guitar
we want to communicate
our fears of being lost
scared scarred poor
unloved forgotten
alone different
and a human being
in this big concrete ATM
we call New York
message written on the side of a wooden Manhattan newsstand
i ride the uptown bus
for the first time
in months
same dilapidated
vehicle
now equipped
with an incessant
sound system
blaring information
about the next stops
on the route
at a volume
set to inundate
consciousness
i peer thru this
sonic barrage
and count
the empty storefronts
that line
amsterdam avenue
it’s like i’m trapped
in a low rent version
of one of those
futuristic movies
where the machines
have taken over
II
the moon is
just another
street lamp
as i look out
my window
on a night
in early winter
sometimes it seems
we live in a world
where only the
seasons change
and even that
may go away
soon
III
i never thought
we’d see the day
when they paid farmers
not to grow weed
to improve
the industry’s
stock price
or that hooch
would go from
boutique to
homogenization
in the vape
of an eye
or that you
couldn’t avoid
a contact high
while walking
on the street
or that
hemp products
would be available
in every
drugstore
IV
colonies of
former felons
populate
street corners
posing for
iPhone photos
while tourists
wander the
avenues
consulting
their apps
and reading texts
V
sting once sang
one world is enough
for all of us
well here
it is
a murky mix
of third world
and first world
rolling in
on steroids
antidepressants and
methamphetamine
with a dash
of fentanyl
i wish us
luck
random thoughts on hearing
a recording of their last concert
14 years after it was performed
I
they were still great
still working their magic
visiting strange and wonderful places
it brought back the
sonic somatic and spiritual
experience that was
the Revolutionary Ensemble
in the 1970s
you’re riding along
as they get deeper and deeper
into a section
then you realize
they’ve taken the music
somewhere else
and it’s like
how long have we been here?
