February 5, 2016 by phicks2012
I enjoy writing poetry, but every once in a while I might just go for a while without writing any. Maybe I’m busy with other things — like dealing with rental units, or managing vehicular issues, or coping with problem people — or maybe I’m just not inspired. In December I didn’t write a bloody thing. I can’t claim to have been caught up in holiday merriment, or to have been overwhelmed by holiday gatherings of friends or family. Nope. I was doing things, but mostly I was just dealing with mundane annoyances and with getting over an unsolicited chest cold. I spent most of my time — when not called upon to drag my butt out of the house to take care of leaky pipes, non-working furnaces, and non-stop faucets for tenants — watching football games, working on newsletters, reading, catching up on housework, and playing World of Warcraft. I only had one SCA meeting in December because we’d cancelled our Arts & Sciences class on the 24th for glaringly obvious reasons, and I had to turn back (due to car problems) from attending the one event I’d planned to enjoy. That means I can’t even blame the SCA for keeping me too busy to write.
No, I just wasn’t inspired, in December, to write anything I didn’t feel obligated to write, but in January I got back into the habit, and the following verse started coming to me while I was out (at Walmart, of all the uninspiring venues) shopping. I hope some will find value in it.
The Hanging Glass
The hanging glass. though frosted, does not lie.
Within it I am lined with toil and strife.
The flowing locks that once did bounds defy
Are graying now; eyes sharp as creation’s knife,
And keen with wonder, that did loss deny,
Are dulling, looking backward over life.
The love that once was sure to happen by,
Can not now make me mother, bride nor wife.
Those who would look beyond the marks of age
To take me as I am are surely few,
And their need rarely stirred by passion’s gauge,
But rather what in age will see them through.
They offer, but their hearts need not engage
And love eternal, that they can eschew,
For, seeking one to tend, not passion wage,
Companionship and nurturing will do.
But I have for too many hungry years
Seen to my own heart’s needs, and life’s travail,
Without a hand to take when grief and tears
Descend, nor yet to weather heartache’s gale.
I will not settle, now that the twilight nears
For lesser dreams such as will not avail.
And, if by chance, a fancied dream appears
I would upon that mystic ship set sail.
I’ll not take up a burden not my own
Of caring for a soul appearing late
Who did not offer when we might have flown
But only after in an earthbound state,
With every eager oat already sown.
That’s not the fantasy I did await.
So if by destiny I stand alone
Then I will recognize it as my fate.
But it may be that while I’m growing old
With much to ponder since I was a lass,
And many battles waged and stories told
And all too many foolish deeds, alas,
I still might, if I to my fancies hold,
Somehow find magic e’er my last days pass,
And find a dream not erstwhile bought and sold,
Despite the truth seen in the hanging glass.
[15 January, 2016]