when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility

when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity

when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune

now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise

the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river, 
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day

recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace

so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we


proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being

**all too human

~

from the dock he calls her name,
now beside he grasps her rails,
deftly steps aboard her frame,
to loose her lines of mooring.

leaned o’er, he shares his secret hopes,
ocean breeze her mast is callling;
then wings are spread with hoisted ropes,
the call of ocean’s blue alluring.


he guides her through the shallow drafts,
gliding faster, hull and ballast,
like seabird’s cry on wing, her craft,
his touch responding in devotion.

she heels about now, lunging forward,
together ’cross the waves;
he, the author of this poetry,
keeps rhythm with each changing motion.


they float above the salty spray,
white sails, her wings, a swan of grace;
in fading light, ’cross waterway,
her highway now a full moon bright.

his bearing set for emerald isle,
she tacks to follow compass lines;
together tame the ocean’s wild,
in flight as one to form their rhymes.


from high atop her outstretched form,
he guides her body through the night;
shifting lines to feel the storm,
like bedsheets thrown, arched and open.

then far above this watery bed,
her canvas flows with watercolor,
of sapphire, jade and ruby red;
a sunrise o’er bejeweled ocean.


sailing on,
in stunning sight;
as one they sigh,
in heavenly flight.

~

*post script.

unwinding from the first work week of the new year and a chaotic Friday night commute, these out-of-the-blue, out-from-the-blue lines strike me as i hear strains of Chrstopher Cross crooning his 1980 classic, “Sailing”, from my dear wife's Pandora station, aptly named.  

“Well, it's not far
down to paradise,
at least it's not for me.
And if the wind is right
you can sail away,
and find tranquility.  
Oh, the canvas can do miracles,
just you wait and see.
Believe me.”

the song takes me back to a simpler time in our marriage, but sailing... this always takes me back, all the way to childhood, and a carefree state of mind.  and no wonder... for in my pre-teen years, i and my brothers helped our father build a small, eighteen foot, sailing sloop, crafted after plans he found in a Family Circle magazine.  thereafter, childhood summers were spent freshwater sailing at the foot of Fuji, sometimes alone, sometimes together.  it is no surprise that today i am most at peace on or beside the water.

A final breath
And comes the light
My soul to You
It takes its flight

This light I see
I’ve seen before
When on my knees
You, I adore

Within the sun
Of shining gold
Behold the One
Who holds our world

Through the Son
Is to the Father
He holds my hand
And leads me farther

Into the light
Into the Host
Accompanied by
His Holy Ghost

He pulls me home
Within the light
A familiar feeling
A glorious sight