Oh, To Just Be Old

 © -2015-Matthew F.Blowers III-

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio.

Oh, that I could
just be old
and at long last 
done with it.

Snuggled down in my 
wrinkled, scarred, flesh,
in a bentwood rocker,
watching sunsets on a porch,
just south of nowhere
beyond the insanity of yet.

Watching life spin onward
without my contributions,
through eyes that blur 
it's hard core edges.

In rumpled hair 
with toothless grin,
every vanity forsaken.

Kids all grown up, 
and raised successfully,
all other droll 
duties completed,
grandchildren softly 
giggling eighth notes 
as they dance 
around my feet.


Holding hands 
with my best decision 
who always was, 
and still is,
a love
more comfortable 
then an old, soft quilt,
or a June nap 
hammock bound,
or kisses that 
are planted gently 
on a fevered brow.


Here we'll Remain 
as sexy as 
those first nights
we sang out 
passionate odes,
to our warm 
glowing honeymoon,
hung over endless 
paths yet traveled.

In flannel shirt, 
over brushed linen trousers,
my slippers flapping 
ancient rhythms
as we go creaking 
off to bed.

Oh, that I could 
just be old,
skipping all 
the toils ahead.

Dreams die 
so much harder 
when you're young,
hope spends years 
frayed at the seams.

Old is a 
cottage by the sea
all baggage unpacked,
the surf,
and tropical heat,
soothing your arthritis.
Where keys to the 
driving forces 
of your life
are tossed casually 
into the waves,
forgotten in the slumber
of your twilight years.

Old has to be earned
so many fail to reach
its soft tints,
and pastoral places,
as they rush headlong
into the mayhem.

Taxing their hearts,
and souls in the pursuit
of hopeless dreams,
all the while wishing
they were young again
but never stopping
to cherish what 
youth they have