I know
Or maybe I just think
I can't really judge
Culture is what we make of it
We own it
It says something about us
But my music
Is it really better?
Or is it because of the times
I can listen to something new
In my room
Or in a crowd of young people
But I'm not young anymore
So it has to be connected to something else
Something important to me
So is it the music
Or is it what I was doing at the time?
I once was part of the scene
Now I'm an observer
It doesn't matter what I say
Or what I know
So I'll just stay in my lane
I won't drive too fast
Or make a statement just to do it
I know I'm different
Why do I have to prove it to anyone?
I don't get off on that anymore
I don't trust anyone based on their age
I don't distrust anyone based on their age
I just listen
Then I decide
I know if it's of any value
Not to define their worth
But instead their willingness to be honest about themselves
It takes time
Sometimes there's not enough
And they move on
So it was just a point in time
And they may not even remember you knew them like that
When they were trying to prove their worth
And they didn't even know what it was
Or how to do it
They just wrote a novel in the way they spoke
But the pages will be discarded when they grow up
I'll just wait until that time
Because then they will know what I know
And that is that we really can't judge
Who's going to help the world anyway
What can you do except live?

I’m singing the blues
Saying good bye to my shoes
The red patent high heels
With the shine that appeals
The shoes that made me feel hot
Whether I looked it or not
Made me walk with a wiggle
Made my back side jiggle
Gave me a **** demeanour
Made my legs feel leaner
Helped me walk tall
On the days I felt small
The same red shoes, so sweet
That are now tight on my feet
Which squash my big toe
And somehow, they know
That I’ve got dickie knees
So I’ll never wear skis
Not to mention arthritic hips
Which cause a total eclipse
When I bend over
And moreover
I walk just like I’ve got off my horse
So I’ve got to bid farewell, of course
Part company with my lovely red shoes
That is why I’m singing the blues
…..They should sell on ebay pretty quick
….. I’ll spend the money on a walking stick

©Nicki Tilston

What to do with time that may last minutes or years
No way to talk about regrets with anyone who you once knew
Listening to young people talk about the pain of the living
If they only knew how time is so precious and what it can do

Fallen trees, food for the god’s that roam underneath our feet
Broken stone fences, dividing land once known for its welcome
Hope, as wispy as dandelions, blown about by our misgiving
The wings of Falls colors, flutter as the winter cold beckons

What we fail to see are the ways to be what they missed
To know the moon follows a setting sun is the beginning of time
How many times can it be that a chance passes to be forgiving
But to act our age is to allow time to commit another crime

There are too many hairs
I keep blowing off my keyboard
To pretend they aren’t there
And that they can be ignored.
I can't pretend I have gone blind,
I am admitting they are all there
And that they come from me;
They truly are my own hair.

It must be true, I hazard
Because I can see my scalp.
It’s a situation from aging
For which there is no help.
I have long expected it.
It will do no good to whine.
The disappearing tonsure
I needs must claim as mine.

And so I placate myself
With selfish comparisons
I may look older than others
But much better than some.
Not many decades ago
I once thought sixty was old.
I am thankful for my friends
Who decided not to scold.

They knew I was being
Just the least bit callow.
But they avoided labeling me
With words like vain and shallow.
So, perhaps the vain part
I have with me even now,
And I would abandon that
If I could figure out how.

An old man’s eyes
So much they have seen.
Actors and extras
In some memorable scenes.
Dim with time, perhaps
Yet they’re working still.
Seeing all the landscapes
But, from over the hill.

Happy young children
Playing with jackstraws,
Sliding down hills and
Riding on seesaws.
Growing up quickly
And thinking about cars
Becoming too busy
For looking up at stars.

An old man’s eyes
Saw the ages go by
Learning the lessons;
By unsuccessful tries.
Trying so hard to be
Just one of the guys
Growing old gracefully
And hopefully wise.

Singing songs of sixpence
Not knowing what it was
Echoing parent’s politics
Not understanding the cause.
Hearing about god-fearing
Never reading the book.
Not retaining a word said
In the courses we took.

An old man’s eyes
Can be fooled at times.
It doesn’t work out like
In old nursery rhymes.
The wolf gets the grandma
The houses blow down.
And beneath the old eyes
There was often a frown.

Going into the military, then
Looking but not really seeing,
Ignoring people without my luck
Selectively blind way of being.
Told there were people who were
Not part of the world we live.
Gathering mulberries while I could
Not having extra I could give.

An old man’s eyes
So much they have seen.
Actors and extras
In some memorable scenes.
Dimming with time, perhaps
But they are working still.
Seeing all the landscapes
But, from over the hill.

Walking in circles
In my lonely room,
Talking to shadows
As if they were blooms
And blossoms of love;
Old friends and lovers
Cousins and brothers.

Running in circles
Through my many pasts;
Forgotten or misbegotten
Some fleeting some lasted.
Replaying old movies
That played inside my head
Of people and places
And things that were said.

Walking in circles
Through the phases of life.
Trying not to remember
Times that cut like a knife,
Trying instead to rewrite
My history to come out right
Where nobody was unhappy
And there were no fights.

Stumbling in circles
As my body was getting old,
Too hot in summer
And, in winter, always cold.
But still I remember
My wonderful cast of stars
That have come and gone
Through my life thus far.

Some of us are older
And we remember a time
When being less than rich
Was not considered a crime
And dealt with Congressionally
By huge measures of stealth
Designed to take away rights
And relieve us of any wealth.

Some of us are older
And owning a home was not
Just a memory, and also
Was not just an empty lot
Where a house once stood
Before the owner got behind
And the bank ignored their pleas
As if they were all blind.

Some of us are older
And remember banks as friends
Who helped us with loans
Where good credit could begin.
We recall the days we could
Send our kids to university
And not saddle them with debt
That condemned them to poverty.

Some of us are older
And we remember the beat cop
Did more toward protection than
Murdering people at traffic stops.
We remember being told as kids
If you are in trouble find a cop
And old enough to have seen
The time that all began to stop.

Some of us are older
And we don’t recall seniors freezing,
Eating dog food alone in flats
And sitting in emergency rooms, wheezing
Because they can’t afford insurance
Because premiums were so high
And the insurance companies
Preferred that they just die.

Some of us are older
And we remember a country here
Where Christianity did not mean
Anti-black, anti-poor and anti-queer.
We remember you had to go
Down south to find hateful Christians
And it living life with dignity
Was not out of the question.

It may take too long a time to write,
For the anxious future's now the past,
But the words are flowing out at last.
Composing verse on love and hate,
Death and youth,
And all of nature,
First and all loves,
All relations,
The beauty in all of creation.

I'm pleased to share
My P.O.V.,
On myriad subjects
That interest me;
A perogative poets share
At all stages.
We take liberties,
Endure indignities,
Being the voices
Of all ages.

In the labyrinth inside my mind,
Sometimes my thoughts get lost.
I search down long dark tunnels
Where old memories are tossed
Like antiques in the attic, that
I can’t bear to throw away
Saved forever just in case
I need them again some day!

And as I age these memories
Show up at the strangest times
But there is no one there to talk to
So I turn them into rhymes
And hope some day that someone
Might discover them and see
That my poems are about my life
My poems are ‘bout me!

When age finally blocks the tunnel -
I no longer can break through
And I’m trapped inside with memories
And nothing left to do
But stare out through the window
Or at the closed front door,
Know I’m still inside the labyrinth
And I wish I’d written more!
Phil Lindsey 9/14/15