At sixty plus
a series of scenes from a life past
started flashing back...swaying,
like soft organza curtains, giving
in to forces of the wind...blowing,
recalling...things that used to be,
places, faces i no longer see,
people i haven't met and long to meet,
words i meant to say....but didn't,
things i failed to do, but still meaning
to, given fresh starts...it's tiring,
counting "should haves," so i'm saying,
etcetera, etcetera.....the list is unending.
At past seventy,
sunrises are lovely as ever...and bolder,
sunset moments are quieter...and holier,
old days seem nearer,
with poetry-writing, the call is stronger
while still dabbling in beads-making,
designs pour over me, when stringing
moonstones, sodalite, and lapis lazuli.
I am in a different zone.
when mixing poetry and natural stones
to me, a word is a crystal, a gemstone
it's merely a word to some...a stone unknown.
I guess...at late seventies,
i'll still be in white shirts and blue jeans,
creating unique, interesting themes for poetry,
say, a big bus with travelers, seated hesitatingly,
or, finding a bright tunnel's end, serendipitously,
or, unrepenting souls sinking deeper, regretfully,
more silly love poems? i'd indulge willingly
my frame may turn fragile...i pray, not my poetry,
not my judgment, nor my decision-making,
not my courage, especially, when i'm past eighty.
sally b
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 18, 2021