Sonnet for Old Age
I will be deep, buried below the ground
Asleep, a ghoul in a shadowy grave
Like you, beside your table turning gray!
Oh mother, your eyes never did regret;
Ah, yes, me, me! We may be happy yet,
Travel afar, but not yet, to-day.
When you grew old, you’d often say:
“You’ll get old like me, some far-off day!”
(I feel like this, this very evening).
When I was young, to my son I’d say,
“Cody: with your busy mind, keep forefront,
Now listen to me…” he called “…dad!”
He’ll be held long in remembering.
Before the making of man
The Bird-gods rule the lands:
Ere, love and war took place then!
The Hawks and the Eagles raced:
Clawful, fluttered, muttered:
They cast (somehow) to each other:
An evil magical spell, then–
Embracing they fell.
Then man appeared and found fire,
But somehow, it was wiped clean:
The memory of the Bird-gods,
From mans brain.
Are the Dead, Dead?
Are not the dead, dead?
It is not strange to reach me
I am at present, reaching out of the dark
To see you (or out of the light)
To see you–
I am dead.
But I wrote this for you
T’is true–the world
You will join me soon.
Note: This poem was found after ten years, sitting in the back of one of my old books, thought I’d bring it to life. 8/1996 (#1529); at this time, the time I wrote this, I was very ill, not knowing if my system (body) was ever going to recover from a number of atrophies. But it did somewhat.