In the east, the day is dawning
at  6 am, I'm still yawning
sipping my early cup of joe
I ponder, where it is, I'd like to go.
That's retirement, I guess
finally done with work, I now  can rest
no more punching timeclocks
no snarled traffic or roadblocks.
How do I spend my time, I ask myself
walking, reading, writing,
dusting off neglected shelves
loafing on the open porch
until I feel the sun begin to scorch.
Taking long, warm baths and showers
stopping to admire flowers
curling up with one good book
not much caring, how I look.
Eating foods that I love best
watching hair fade from my chest
doing things that give me pleasure
in whatever form or measure.
On my face is one big Smiley
as I live,  the life of Riley.

my dad used to say all of the songs were about being seventeen young and sweet, wind in your hair, excitement in your veins and I thought wow, that means seventeen could be my year will my fairy godmother spare a wish? can my rags of hopelessness finally sparkle? maybe seventeen is the excuse I need to be brave to take the shot in the dark if it means finding light to cross the unbeaten path even though tree roots are out to get me to express the love flowing in the canyons of my heart to stop closing doors as quickly as I open them my age is young, but my dreams are old with this next chapter comes stories untold
I've had 536,457,600 seconds of air and don't want to waste one more

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could