nay, have I the resources nor regrets,
to drop tears, since we have never met,
my rutted dial,
into the foul winds have faced.
many hours my fingers have paced,
upon the keys, when
should I be found upon my knees,
my eyes may as well be dim,
chances of meeting you, slim,
oh but for wonders of tech, and oddities,
have I not caught a social media disease,
if I have want to be anywhere but here,
it is with thee there.
whether coasts west or east or overseas,
York the New and Land of Port,
or some isle somewhere with a dialect so rich,
eight by eight so to speak,
or near the heart of the where I live,
or land on some place in Village Central
you all see right through me, my riddles,
my rhymes, my prose sometimes,
is off the cuff with no shirt sleeves,
tis a rant that is not to rave about,
playing child's games,
some say shame shame,
in this adult world that fills me with Awe
and Wonder, tortured by questions to
which may not have any answer.
yet I celebrate,
each waking hour,
each breath in and especially out,
and when rest takes me low,
my dour moods, make it easy to pout,
yet.
Yet,
I will celebrate,
with music, though sounding like
tin cans and strings, with a few pebbles
thrown in, I will not sing,
I will celebrate,
with movement but not dance,
for the two flat feet, that slap
like flippers make quite a flap,
I will not dance,
I will celebrate,
with no instrument,
my fingers and my ears, bent and deaf,
are tuned to different spheres,
that are both flat, fingers
lifted too many cold bridge parts,
while the ears heard too many
explosions, and rifle reports, bang, bang
So what do I celebrate...?
Each waking day,
and the dark of night,
every day of work,
until I take my leave,
each sight, eyes see,
about which to write,
not old but older,
a hardy fool and more bolder,
willing to waste money, no contest,
just foolish fortitude,
yet let the celebration begin,
there is no code for when
you get old, for I see myself as young,
another year comes close to closing,
another day births my hope,
my apprenticeship,
may time pass slow,
so I may learn quick,
so celebrate with me one day next
week, don't write me off yet, for
I have no stories in print.
Chuckle softly, smile broadly, we all get older. This was supposed to be in 55 words or 55 lines or more...