I would rather
be a wanderer a belongerer to no body to no country a loose end than to bob eagerly at every tug of the yarn's end whose wound-up mass amasses me a wriggled up ball of wriggles I would rather be alone than scooped up in a basket with others of my supposed ilk and held in by the over-under wicker edges domed up for containment ominous clicks and scrapes of my destiny clattering and chattering above fraying frizzled frazzled bits smoothing out as my length is tugged up and up like a long slurpy noodle I would rather be loose and scrappy and stumpy and ragged the one that nobody loves the discarded refuse of a more discerning eye than be made surreptitiously into somebody else's jumper © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Sometimes it's better to be alone than to be in bad company. Sometimes it's better to be independent than to be dependent on the wrong thing.
napkin full of problems tied to a stick slung across my shoulder strutting stubbornly from one place to another never questioning why I bother meandering all over a runaway to sunny beaches gloomy cities far off reaches of far earth with stars poured in my eyes and hard-earned pennies in my purse hoping that this time will be different it couldn't be worse ? ©2018 Adelaide Heathfield
Ever the escapist. Seeing new places with rose-colored glasses. Believing that everything will be better "over there". But forgetting to deal with my problems before I leave.
faraway triggered sweet by memory plucked from twinge of heart at husband whiskers sprinkled in the sink father slow transforming out of sight whisker white a-creep through long-time beard of boyish blondish-brown sprouting scraggled out from ear and nose and knuckle round eyes a-cave and sunken deep in shaded-over cavities for inward looking more than out with no more footballs flung about and no more children yanking on the waking hours' daggy trousers for weeping over old-time music secret in the dark up with the birds down with the sun midlife rush at last a-hush and calm in its surrender done bones exposed of parenthood held frail a-clung by gristle grey of simple habits coffee thick and silky run with milk and crispest crusty bread torn up for dipping into hearty stock with olives cheese and ham on top a drop of something oaky sipped and languished a-crawl with thoughts of father own disintegrating boyhood memories coddled close and satiating with daughter unbeknownst father-watching faraway © 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
A man to whom one has looked up with reverence is especially treasured. His strength, his masculinity, his ability to protect those he loves. And as he ages his loved ones notice a softness creeping in, which only belies the softy they always knew he was inside.
But nevertheless it is poignant to watch—even from afar—as a great man begins to wither. Ever so slightly. But wither. In his body only, not his mind. But wither.
— The End —