If the earlier march of our lives is for learning, it is seldom the case that we continue to the end in the cadence of our earlier lives. As we mature, if those around us as well as ourselves are lucky, we continue to learn— but in a different way that is more like a long walk, observing the world around us.. Then comes a time when we float on the iridescence of the world we’ve created by our earlier learnings and decisions.
Prompt words today are iridescence, march, learning and case. Here are their links:
My mind is turning derelict. It often wanders on. While I am still in need of it, I discover that it’s gone. My thought processes aren’t uniform. They come and go at random. Will and concentration no longer come in tandem. It never ceases fascinating me that what was once a certified ace student has turned into a dunce. I know it is the fault of age and yet I often ponder about this vagary of mind that sends it over yonder when I have need of it at home. I find it most distressing when common words are wanted, that my mind now leaves me guessing.
When I was just a little sprout, I liked to boss my world about, but now that I am old and gray, I’m merely keeping it at bay. Howbeit that life I used to rule when I was a kid in school has come to be the boss of me— determining what I hear and see?
One-by-one, each faculty just seems to be deserting me. I find I’m often in the clutch of a world that doesn’t listen much. I’m less intrepid in my demands as joints and organs, bones and glands furnish surprises, glitches, quirks. It’s sufficient if my body works!
I’m held captive by your wrinkles, dear, enraptured by your ripples. I love your freckles and your moles and all of nature’s stipples. They are sacred landmarks. When I find one that is new, I must give thanks to nature for adding more of you.
Sometimes with the darkness around us rich and deep, my mind goes on a walkabout as you lie asleep. The roadmap of your body is the terrain that I pace— the ravines and the gullies and your face’s fragile lace.
Some bemoan the changes that nature brings about, and they bring a different beauty. It’s true, without a doubt. But as I trace each special feature of your body and your face, I’m reassured that nature’s carving instills a deeper grace.
The lustre’s left my hair and skin. I’m simply bottom drawer. My lovely high soprano voice has deepened to a roar. My joints are gnarled and knotted. My back is bent a bit. I’d prefer my stomach if I could see over it. To say I am exasperated would be understating it, but at least the truth cannot make the claim I’m skating it. I blame it on the influence of age, chocolate and gin. I’m simply not responsible for the shape I’m in!!!
The gentlemen surround me in an unbroken cluster, exclaiming over my smooth skin—its creaminess and lustre. My drawers are full of love letters. Exasperated lovers seek to win my girlish shape and woo it under covers. They fall under the influence of my winning ways. They do not guess my actual age when held rapt by my gaze. I do pilates every day and all my life I’ve fasted. Although I haven’t had much fun, at least my looks have lasted!
It whistles a soft melody, this whisper of the wind.
Sings a mysterious lullaby, seemingly without end.
We do not know its language, but know it well by Braille.
It makes a tangle of our hair and swells our vessel’s sail.
It blows into a tempest that hurls us off our course.
Where it once took us willingly, it takes us now by force.
It is that infinite mystery whose answer is unknown
until someday, perhaps, when we arrive at where we’re blown.
I’d like to know on just what basis we deserve our fine oasis? In other places, other climes, people our age have harder times. They work ’til death or do not eat. They toil in poverty and heat. So though we may have aches and pain, I must our grumbling disdain. Yes, I ache and limp and groan, yet prefer these problems that are my own.