Monday, February 25, 2019

Acting Class

I’m taking a basic acting class
at a local theater.
I figured after 63 years of being myself
tt would be nice to learn how to be
someone else.
I think I’m doing okay at it.
Have to shake some of my nervous mannerisms,
But for the most part,
Changing my voice
Reading someone else’s words
Figuring out tone of voice,
Facial expressions,
A little movement in someone else’s shoes,
Not being me,
Is kind of fun.
And not as hard as I thought it would be.
At least not at a basic level.
I guess after all of these years
I’m ready to shed my skin.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Old Father Time?

Time. Who hasn't complained about not having enough time, running out of time, having too much time. Every day, I have less time left to live. Or to flip it around, every day is one more day that I have lived.

the continuum we use
to measure
what we have accomplished.
Events going from
past through present
to future.
Always present,
the present becomes past,
the future is now,
and all kinds of existential bullshit.
Time is measured by seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years,
decades, scores, centuries.
Time is meaningless
and time means everything.
There's an old Father Time,
but not a mother.
I wonder what that means.

Inside, Outside

Is there such a thing as too much introspection?
I sure hope not.
Some days I live internally,
Dive deep into my head, heart, and soul.
Analyze my thoughts,
soothe my heart,
and free my soul.
Those are the dangerous days.
Raw, bare, open, vulnerable,
Brave, free, and aware.
Other days I am external,
Pretending the internal things don't exist,
don't matter,
don't effect me.
I carry on as if
I know what I'm doing
and don't have a care in the world.
Until I realize that I am on rewind,
At which point I switch modes
and so the cycle goes.
In, out, in, out.
I wonder if other people do this
or is it just me?


Gray Sundays seem to inspire gray poems.

Trying to get back in the groove.
can be difficult.
Wind, rain, life
have erased the ruts.
Trying to find my rhythm
in a new song.
Trying to blend in,
not be noticed
any more than necessary.
Trying to find my place
in this world,
in my life,
maybe even in someone else's life.
Trying to continue on a path
I know too well.
Trying to set my personal GPS
to find new routes,
new places,
new adventures,
new people.

Saturday, February 2, 2019

Life goes on

Well, everybody dies, right?
Overheard from a room
while I’m standing in the hall
Of the skilled nursing facility.
While my mother
Is in her bed,
And we’re waiting
For the medical examiner
And funeral home guy.

Everybody dies.
And life goes on.
It just feels different.

I think she’s gone

“I think she’s gone.”
One minute I was touching her hand
The next I stepped away for the hospice nurse
to check vitals.
One breath
and she was gone.

Sitting here,
for the medical examiner
to verify and note time of death.
And then the funeral home will
take her away.
Next step is the freezer
And then a box.
And that is why I can’t stop looking at her
Before they clean and process
Dress her up
And put her on display.
And then close the box
And bury it.
We'll murmur prayers, Some of us will talk about her life, We'll laugh, cry, smile. and hug. We’ll all take the shovel and drop sand on her casket. Tradition.

Long life, Full life. Four kids, that's a lot of spirit left behind,
For fulfilling dreams
And continuing to fill vicarious needs
Of a mother’s heart.