46 soul (ode to middle age).

When you’re beaten down, broken and sore
when some dreams you held are blocked by locked door,

and you look for the old ones, the wise ones, those beautiful souls for their thoughts and advice,
looking for something to jar your heart and dreams re-entice

you close your eyes for a long blink,
a wink of sleep that was slept
those tired old eyes that have waterfall wept.

and dreams come
in that moment you realize
you’ve been one who tries, who tries and tries
and tires their weary eyes for so long,
battered and sore, what mattered? is what’s so sore also tore?

a many door
you’ve been through and around and now,

you’re alive and safe and sound,

beauty around and joy to surround,
unbound, unbounded,
though tired and weary,
the fog of long days to make teary but not dreary,

you open your eyes wide from their nap,
the real and the dreams never a close-enough gap,

but a remaining reminder to push through the doors, to push the doors,
to batter the doors, because in the stores of your souls is contained and maintained the beauty of your histories and her stories and the happenings of your lives intertwined with many mores,

and you know, you realize a sudden, slowly it dawns
the unveiling of truth with a yawn,

that those old souls,

the ones who’ve knocked the doors,
those old souls are also yours, mine, ours,
the hours of clocks and sundials, the life vials and tough trials have been upon you a time, for a time, sometimes paying you zero or penny or dime as you gave your time,

and that makes, that made you grow, your back bow,

bow as you worked and reaped and sewed
the seeds of a life that have led through enough doors to make you an old one as well,
the dreamers of heaven and fighters of hell

you have grieved and believed and ridden this earth,
muttering blessings and songs, even a swear or a curth

but you have done it,
you are around still, doing some good and listening some,

using the feet of your soles and let not your soul be defeat,
and trying to,

trying to, trying trying, trying to, just trying…

The author at the younger age of 42.

and suddenly, it is apparent…

my time on this earth has not left me jaded and bent…
well, maybe bent,
but not broken.
more than a symbol or token, I believe I exist and was sent,
sent to make a dent in a sense to make better the dent life can bring any and many

I’ve done this for long,
trying, trying with compassion and song,
and I guess it makes me at this juncture,
a patch for the puncture,

a patch for some, a hand or help to some folksers,
even flat earthers and unkind conspiracy hoaxers.

I look in the mirror and I see a face kinda old,

but also a heart, with some help, who can still blaze with bold gold,

who might have some wise behind struggling eyes,
and tries for beauty and truth over meanness and lies.

I’ll keep going and trying to be a medium old soul,

who will continue to grow to a pretty old soul,
until it’s time to finally lie down, lie down ahole, in a hole, in a restful old hole.