The question is not when we meet our end,
but how, and how does not mean what you think.
Should it be fought, or welcomed as a friend?
To that I say, live to the very brink
however you have lived to now.  Each one
who walks though shadowed days finds their own pace;
some stride, some cringe, some stumble, others run.
What each can handle is what each will face.
If talking seems to help, then speak.  Or you
might soldier on, clad in your armored will.
No one can tell another what to do,
just what they've done, for better or for ill.
The path, if smooth or bumpy, is your own
and should you choose, you need not walk alone.

Because recycled
themes keep showing up, guess
I'm a green poet.

self-reliance was
my savior; today, it keeps
me from salvation

Found out recently
that I'm no longer afraid
of dying; I fear
most mere survival until
I've used up all of my days.

The power of music
and friendship
heals dead connections;
a well-meaning member
of a jam session
offers me a guitar.
I politely decline,
embarrassed by my disability,
and they shrug.  Your choice.
The familiar curves
beneath my arm
like a woman
from my past,
my amnesiac left hand
reaches for the
muscle memory
of fifty years' practice.
After an agonizing minute,
the G chord miraculously plays,
as I played it at five,
the three big fingers alone
strong enough to hold it.
The switch to C impossible;
so I play a variation.
Doesn't sound bad with the group.
My God, I might play a D7
by the next time it comes around
in the song.
The gang is playing old standards,
Ohio State music;
three chords and a cloud of dust,
which suits my present skill(?) well.
I almost cried when a few tunes later,
we sang A Horse With No Name
to my accompaniment.

Beethoven was deaf, yet heard the Ode To Joy.
Hawking is paralyzed, and travels the universe.
I have three good fingers,
and no good excuses.

Comes a time
when the mathematics
of the years
becomes more about
- than +,
÷ rather than x.

When wisdom gained
< vitality lost,
and dis-ease > health.

A good night's sleep
and some energy ≈
happiness.

Living is
tangential
to survival,
and not
necessarily
congruent.

A dozen chairs
haphazard
in the service entrance
the boss says
you can have
any or all;
the junk man comes tomorrow.
None are broken.
Perhaps too firm,
or too soft,
not supportive enough
or someone
just couldn't get
comfortable
with this one.
The one I found
on the third try
is plain and strong,
has my back
where needed
and holds me
at the proper height
where I see best.
Strange who
some will toss aside
as worthless.

I hold my
sexuality
with pursed lips
and *******;

a wry smile
belies
a life of
joys and regrets.

Read the poems
your favorite poets read;
expand your mind.

You came back in 1968
from teaching Kenyans
to speak English
to teach Americans
how to see the world.

A nine-year-old boy
was in your fifth-grade class,
precocious, gifted
and quite full of himself
and ignorance.

It was magical, that connection;
the world-wise teacher
and the barely contained
bolt of potential.
It was his only year of school
where he never missed a day
or dropped a class.

Amazing how subtle,
blunt and gentle you were with him,
tapping walls of arrogance
with a wrecking ball,
allowing him to maintain
his structure
while rocking and rebuilding
his foundation.

You saw the boy
who danced on the the tightrope
between genius and insanity...
and quietly fed the jukebox.

He wanted to write;
you gave him Frost and cummings.
He yearned to draw;
you showed him Van Gogh.
He thirsted to learn;
you taught him how
to slake his parched mind.

He left your classroom,
but you continued to teach him.
You still do,
nearly fifty years later.

The last time he saw you,
he hurt you,
in that casual,
caustic way
of the high-school senior.
Still, when his nieces and nephews
with his last name
passed through,
you'd ask them
how he was doing,
and asked them to tell him
to stop in, or call.

He never did,
so he's now reduced
to offering words
you would have loved to read
in their full futility
telling you
that you
are
immortal.