Don’t know if I want to grow old,
for all its aches and unfulfilled goals.

Had such a time of it young, even the
slightest cold sends me
into tailspins,
panic’s plastic pins the voice of
reason that holds me down.

So I let myself drown, in full
public view, while wolves howl stories
of themselves at
full moons.

kind of a boon,
their being so
self absorbed, that
bruises of the currents
and rocks that
swarm my bones
can be written off
accidents, an

“if only we
had known”.

No wonder I swooned at the
rivers that run in you,
fell for
ghost white rapids
in a prescription of

Cast off a bottle, its
swallowed by rocks, its
original contents downed by
my balance;
recipient the
humanity I watched carried
off by tides.

Don’t know if I want to grow old,
unsurprised what gets pummelled beneath
the rush,
so the surface can
continue gushing beautiful, and this
part of me can
be stuck ever
just beneath.


5 thoughts on “Whitewater

  1. I work with seniors (people in their 80’s and 09’s) for over twenty years now…I have observed that if you can still have fun, and laugh, then old is not so bad. If you are a crotchety, crabby ole curmudgeon…it sucks.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Beautifully written. I am old as dirt and am glad I stuck around. We all have baggage because we are taught so much before we have a filter to throw out the BS. I have found blogging to be my passion. It has given me a new focus and breath. I am a quilter and was in heaven while making an I spy quilt for my third great grand child. I don’t think hiding under a rock every leads to happenness unless you are a bug. Just a thought. I loved your expression. I think I felt excactly what you were feeling as I read your work. That is talent in its self. Letting feels out is a pretty darn healthy way of dealing with them. Pretending never works. VIsit me and see if any of my work makes you smile, or pisses you off or makes you dream….all evidence that you are still alive.

    Liked by 1 person

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