Poised on the knife's
edge between old and
too old. It is easy to
count up my misses.

I know now I'll
never get a PhD,
win a Nobel Prize,
discover a
Quantum particle
or find True Love.

It's just too late.

I am broke, old,
not very handsome
and slouching
towards inevitable
decay.

           No matter.

I have always been
better at life on paper
than living in the
world of phenomena.

Never keep score
on your life.

Don't mean nothing:

what counts is
not simply winning,
but learning the game,
loving the game,
playing for keeps,

and dying like
the man or woman
you are proud to be.

  ~mce

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

mature man
holding his nose
to life
desires young woman
who
is indifferent to
oranges
and longs for those
days
before umbrellas

we danced like we were in paris
danced like lovers under a summer moon
everyone saw us
everyone loved us
the beautiful songs played
while we breathed the romantic night air
wrapped in each others arms
entwined in each others hearts
we were the center of the beautiful world
we were swept away on a sea of love
forever in each heartbeat
forever in each others eyes
we danced like we were in paris
we danced like lovers do
we were the center of the beautiful world
the light shined all around us
everyone saw us
everyone loved us
a warm rain of smiles
a hot long kiss of tenderness
we danced like we were in paris
till the song faded away
we were the center of the beautiful world
till the song faded away

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

You told me
(As I laughed at you for
Your draining phone memory)
That you have 7,936 images
Because you photograph everything
You fear losing.
                            I can't help but notice
                            In all our 2,190 days
                            You never took a photo of me,
                            Once;
                           ­ I suppose there isn't room
                            In your memory
                            For me.

Another day of anguished waiting
My earthly life, now put on hold
Another day, that I am hating
Of my death, I have been told

My life is now an hour glass
My days, those grains of sand
Veiled by tears, I watch them pass    
As I am funneled, to my end

I cannot slow or stop the flow
Each grain, thus bleeds my heart
All earthly things, I should let go
But I'm yet, not ready to depart
  
My sorrow strikes like lightning
Piercing bolts of what’s to come
My doubts and fears keep heightening
Until deaths hand does me succumb

In this world, I’m just a speck
My life, sifting into death
As that last grain, slips past the neck
I’ll take my final breathe

I wonder if, I’ll fly on wings
Or be prodded by a scythe
Will my remorse, then save my soul
When I am forced, to leave this life
BOEMS BY JA 498