hold my hand you young one
and we will never leave us
old one please will you hold my hand
inspired by Mary
age
My years turn
My years turn
like a key in a lock.
Now the knowledge,
now the wisdom.
I wait.
Hipster beard
I grew a beard to be a hipster. But it was silvery grey, almost invisible. Someone said ‘broken hipster’, another ‘chipped hipster’. A third said a chip dipster sounded like someone who taste-tested ketchup for a living. So the beard went the next day. I sometimes miss it when I muse.
Your hands often shake now
Your hands often shake now
Mine too when I seek to calm you
Holding on is all that remains
We have grown old
Invecchiati simu, frate.
Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.
I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.
And now we may be old my brother
and our bones
Night sounds
Creak.
Thump.
Tinkle.
Knees, heart and other night sounds as old age gets up in the dark.
How old?
The clock said his head was in his fifties.
The doc said his body was in his thirties.
But his heart? Oh, when he saw her, it was a teenager’s again.
simonsalento 