The Poetry Of Dotage (Poetry)

Now I am old and sick and full of sleep
and all I have are dreams of frittered youth
I put fresh flowers on those graves I keep
and write on stones the names I loved in truth

Time and distance hide my aging face
and illness-ravaged body curled in pain
I live a near-recluse in my head space
resigned I’ll never walk the world again

My pen is ever-busy spilling ink
across the narrow page of each new day
my brain still agile — programmed keen to think
and shape the words before they melt away

And ink flows far more richly than thin blood
that struggles now through channels clogged with rust
fresh poems burst when fancy’s in full flood
imagination stirs the year’s soft dust

I’m never quiet inside — I rage and shout
there’s still too much to say I’ve left undone
so much to ponder and then rhyme about
but dusk draws near — too soon the light is gone

Each night is haunted — bell, book, candleflame
the broken hearts and promises revive
lost romance — wistful might-have-beens again
recall when it felt good to be alive

Oh, nostalgia’s sweet — too saccharine for some
but memory’s no arbiter of taste
I let them in just how true feelings come
and value all — let nothing go to waste

I write my history in potted verse
no critical acclaim has come my way
a poet in their dotage might do worse
and maybe like the dog I’ve had my day