Fortune for the Day – “To change one’s life: do it flamboyantly. Start immediately. No exceptions.” – William James
Sundays are poetry workshop days here at Adulting Second Half. On Sundays I share a poem and I fully encourage you to share your poetry in the Comments section. It’s fun to play with words!! Please give it a try. I moderate all comments and I would never allow negativity in this sacred space, where we share what is on our hearts and minds – openly, freely, authentically. Here’s my poem for today:
invecchiamento
Sometimes I accept the inevitable,
I let it flow,
I’m at peace with it.
Sometimes the frustration builds,
And I try to dam it all up,
Trying to defy the laws of nature
And gravity.
Sometimes I laugh at my acts of futility.
Sometimes I marvel at them.
Sometimes I play the comparison game.
Who of us is doing it better? And in what way?
And does it matter? And do we really have a say?
Sometimes I stop paying attention to the things which I cannot change.
And I am at peace,
I am at peace with aging.
Aging.
This was beautiful.
Thank you! 🙂
Love this!
Thank you.
Collecting the World
One Stone at a Time
That is what I like to call it.
In Reality it was always
so much more.
A hobby for children
you might think.
Let me explain as best I can.
Things come and go
Stones are much more permanent.
Although they, too, wear away
given enough time.
Our time measured in Decades
Their’s in Millenniums.
You can toss one in the rubbish bin
have it carted away to a landfill
to be buried
and a hundred years later, when it is dug up
or exposed by the elements
It is still just a Rock.
Ready to slip into a pocket or
be lugged home to decorate the flowerbed.
Ready to be someone else’s memory marker.
I like that.
A lot.
Attached to each one of mine
The Memories.
A hand sized white stone
flattened and worn smooth by the surf is
A morning walk along the beach
listening to the gulls and sea-lions calls
the waves crash
at Big Sur, California.
Jacket on, and hands in my pockets,
still chilly in July.
A chunk of Rose Granite
as big as a baby’s head
blasted from the still emerging face
of an Indian Warrior Memorial
in South Dakota
Where I stood with my sons in the 90 degree heat
marveling at the sight of something
I first saw in my Weekly Reader
when I was still a child
and it was still just a mountain,
and an idea.
A Boulder
prised from a mountain road-wall
somewhere in Nevada between the State Line
and Ely
Highway 50- America’s Loneliest Road.
It must weigh 35 pounds.
Helping my late husband dig it loose
then watching as he hefted it into the back of our van
as he jokingly commented
“After this trip, we will need new shocks, you know.”
17 States that Summer
and oh-so-many stones.
Collecting The World
is not limited to rocks.
There are also fossils and shells.
And even a bit of a Meteorite and a tiny black diamond-
purchased, of course…like
my chunk of The Berlin Wall
Seafoam green graffiti and all
bought soon after it fell.
“Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall.”
A bit of Space.
Of Stardust.
A Chunk of History.
I’m still waiting for a piece of The Great Wall of China.
Watching eBay every week.
A Spiral of a Whelk Shell
from a beach in Bradenton, Florida
that still tastes of salt…even after all these years.
While our three boys
played like seals in the wave-wash
we sat nearby on beach-towels
spread in the soft sand
playing guitar, singing and serenading the seagulls
having both just discovered
Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise
“Once Upon a Time”
The birds appreciative critics
as long as the crackers and chips held out.
A Corner of a Red Street Brick
dug by my youngest son who noticed it was broken
and presented to me like Pure Gold
during a solo trip by both of us
to Savannah, Georgia.
Laughing like fools
when a local tried to give us directions to Forsythia Park
but when she opened her mouth
the voice was the Voodoo Witch
from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
“And don’cha DARE look back!”
Indeed.
I could tell you about
the Bedstone
from Cumberland Falls, Kentucky
remembering a time in 1965
when I sat on one of the flat river rocks
like a young otter sunning myself
with my Grandpa
The cold river water rushing over
both of our bare legs
and later bringing my own children back to the same spot.
Bringing home the smooth clay-turned-to-rock stone.
Or what a Moon-bow looks like
through the mist of The Falls.
Some are picked up
and brought
by friends or family.
A chunk pried from
(I could not make this up)
a Mayan Ruin in Belize
by a friend on holiday there.
Asking her
“Isn’t that illegal as hell?”
and her reply
“Not if they don’t CATCH you.”
A smooth zebra-striped black and white
rock from Tuscany
by another.
Several wave-ground stones
from a beach in Crete.
A bigger than my hand
wave-washed stone
from Aberdeen, Scotland.
A huge river rock
fished out by my Grand Daughter
and brought to me on Mother’s Day one year
“I have a surprise for you, Grandma Rose”
So no…
It isn’t just collecting rocks.
It is a collection of My Life.
Oh wow, Carla. I am so incredibly moved . . . and jealous. I wish I had started a rock collection long ago. You are so right about their last lasting-ness. Thank you for sharing this wonder of a poem.