Today, Part 5

By Clarence Allan Ebert

Fearful

It’s a hot Thursday night & Sorrow sleeps
though less soundly than a fattened newborn,
tired of poking her nose into everybody’s business. 
I am free to find bright glints
the sun surrendered to a happy, 
so it seemed, shooting star
a sliver of temporary brilliance
after all day bounding over the moon,
and prepare my hand to pen a poem.

If not this, then, the machinery of solitude,
will grind its gears, spit dark thoughts
from its jagged hulk, grease the brutish 
scowl in front of the mirror, sullen, 
forsaken, rattle its moving parts
without peace or purpose
like a garbage truck rolling downhill
civilizations' rot bulging in its belly.  

I have spent a lifetime composing
interruptions, at the least opportune moments
on dead-end trails through melancholic phases
whispering ominous second thoughts to pause 
my step, bluff with the hand I’m dealt, pretend  
I have a plan to save myself from success.

I Belong Here

I am old but I was never young.
I am happy but I was never sad.
I am strong but I was never weak.
I am alone but I never enjoyed company.
My life has meaning but was never without purpose.
My face looks worn but it was never fresh.
My days are numbered but they were never infinite.
My time has come. I belong exactly where I am.

Rainy Day Soulsong

It’s time to quiet	

               the jealous past

find new storms
		
		to rile our blood	
one eye 

                           on tomorrow 

the other, wise

	 	
                              to yesterday   	

equally sharp 

                             as diamonds 

when the sky opened  	

                            in the wink 

of an umbrella

Two Guys

One evening an old man sat down 
next to me, a random coincidence,
on my brownstone stoop.
He had thin lips & dirty elbows.  

When I began a conversation he rocked  
back & forth & hummed.
Still, he stared straight ahead
never looking at my new bright teeth. 

I continued, pretending he was listening
& lifted up my shirt to show him
the purple scar above my heart
only inches from the Eiffel Tower tattoo.

He rubbed the shadow on his chin
looked at his loose laces, the dead 
cigar butt squeezed between his fingers
& left without saying goodbye

Just Another Day

Morning arrived weary of being
dawn again. The cat licked
herself on a wedge of sunlight
near the furball, she’d spit out
tired of gathering wool. 

Mid-day arrived weary to be 
the afternoon & the cat groomed  
on the cat tree. Little sparrows 
chirped sorrowful songs tired of
the sun burning on their tiny heads.

As usual, I left the house for my walk 
at 9:30 p.m. The stars were looking tired 
of shining bright. I walked to the first
corner I met of any consequence, where 
my cat jumped for a June bug 
under a streetlight tired of flickering,
oblivious to the end of another day.

Clarence is a Boomer (71 years old) and a “survivor” of cancer (colon & liver). He first published a poem, Recipe for Harmony in 1978. Since then he’s had several “non-poet” careers, mostly practicing law and business development. He’s written in numerous different genres including news & magazine nonfiction articles, short fiction, flash, legal articles, & poetry.

He writes what falls on his old head, revises, revises, and feels happiest when writing, published or not. His motto is simple. People in his social group, boomers surviving cancer, are as relevant in the current wacky, weird, and wonderful AI-generated society as the next son of a gun. Poetry (personal creativity) is one way of showing their bounty of wisdom! BOOMER SURVIVORS UNITE!