It blew in off the sea

It went out on a limb

And broke the olive branch

Do you hear the wind through the hair of revolution

--black raven hair--

Bone straight and frayed

The split ends of society forging separate paths

Progression at their tips, regression in their roots

It makes a sound akin to the back of an old haunted house settling

It wandered here in due season

It's about to be cut short

It's about to be swept away

a nervous 𝘵𝘴𝘬 of the lips
a little drop of sweat bulging at the neck
an eyelid flickering way too much
a mind that won’t change
a pillow that reeks of salt
a photograph of a distant memory
a fly buzzing around the plasma tube light
a buzz that won’t go away

a switch that won’t turn off
a stain that won’t dust off
a walk that’s unusual for the age
a kid who refuses to play

it’s the little things that give you away

I was never truly loved by anyone
Only by me and I
and I am not even sure about either one

I love my therapy session with poetry
I can assess myself with self-evaluating
I am at the point in life when I don’t
Give a rat ***, about what others think of me
Retirement has taught me to be a free agent
I am now the captain of my soul
Free from other people's demands and clutches

I have not heard that demanding salutation in the
Morning of Mrs. Lander can you come to the front desk
Or waiting for the clock to strike 3 to make my exit
Time is of the essence, and it means nothing to me these days
I will be there when I get there.
Unless it is boarding time in row 3
To love me is to know me,
as for me to love you it will take
A strong will and endurance in my poetry sessions
I have been there and done that
And will not allow it into my life anymore,
Haven to be humble and being humiliated
I had to endure, haven to question myself
About my love for me, I lamented:



I was never truly loved by anyone, only by myself, and even that I question. Poetry is my therapy, a mirror for self-evaluation. I've reached a point where I don't care what others think. Retirement has made me a free agent, the captain of my soul, free from others' demands. No more morning calls to the front desk, no more waiting for the clock to strike three. Time is now my own, and it means nothing to me.
I'll be there when I get there
unless it's boarding time in row three.
To love me is to know me,
and for me to love you, it takes strength and endurance. I've been there, and done that, and won't allow it into my life anymore.
I've endured humility and humiliation, questioning my love for myself. I lamented:

My roommates and I
always have something to say.
We talk incessantly, like chirping birds.

We’re all reading the same large print here, and It suggests that college is almost over.
We’re bleeding time and there are dreams in need of scheming.
It’s time to stack our chips with transactional relationships and hoard the things that matter most.


I have to admire the sheer attitude and bravado of these girls—their defiant strides,
as they face the invisible indignities and constant obstacles of job hunting.
(Where they’re required to behave while they’re observed and evaluated).

They have their resumes and they’re complaisantly ready to flex their appealing gregariousness.
All of the major playas are passing through—from established giants like (Amgen, Bayer and Genentech)
to biotech startups and research Institutes—to cull through the herd of Yale biomedical graduates.

I don’t get to play (interview) this time and it’s rough just watching the signs and plays from the sidelines.
I can’t help the feeling that I’m underperforming—even though my ‘Master of Public Health (MPH)’ program starts 10 days after we graduate. ‘Baby, I was born to run’— to steal a line from Bruce Springsteen.

Despite our separate paths—we’re like cats getting ready to jump in all directions—a bouillabaisse of intoxicating and terrifying excitement for the future is brewing, and we still have the constrictions of our current curriculum to deal with—like a snake, it still wraps around every aspect of our lives.
.
.
Songs for this:
born to run by Bruce Springstein
Time by Tom Waits
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_03.mp3