Category: Poetry

Middle Age

the day beats down
in heavy waves
leaving me gasping, wasted
as I set out
to sweat out
this mess that I have become

the challenge:
to find who I was -
those ideals I held close,
the dreams I reached for -
before I gave into life's pleasures
and turned into
this mess I have become

my knees echo with the ache
of days gone by,
as my back reminds me
of brazen choices of youth,
and old wounds ache
with the coming rains,
I am determined not to accept
this mess I have become.
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Morning Rain

from the safety of deepest sleep
I arise into the darkness
                           of morning;

the sheets beckon me,
stretching tousled fingers
            pleading for my returning -

raindrops drum 
their hypnotic melody
                         on the glass

and I am tempted
to answer the call
              of the welcoming sheets

as these are the nights
for which my body aches -
  crying out for the rhythmic comfort;

Mother's song on the glass
soothing the torrents of the mind
  allowing me, for one night, to rest

though these nights are rare -
my heart would take me back -
       my tired mind knows the score:

the demons of guilt will torture me
if I forsake work for sleep,
         even just a few minutes more.
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