My 62th birthday

It was my 62th birthday,
Herons, wild geese,
so beyond lake or water;
the perch does not bite
... it is a question of weed,
sea weed.

The I is a concerto, an adagio,
a slow introduction
into the dead Dead and their echoes
of dead qualities, of dead verification,
of tell tale blur and ambiguity.

Age is what I see, what I expect
in the meeting with all
I still can fathom or grasp,
with what I still am.
I am my years.




Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-08-16 at 00:39

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Happy birthday, Bob. Just as you are the sum of your years, you're also a poem, with each event a line, each year a stanza.

Beautifully written poem.
2011-08-16



A beautiful finish to a beautiful day, Bob.
You begin by painting a lovely picture, which fills me with a sense of serenity. You proceed to slow music, a little funereal perhaps, but mourning may inspire harmony in its way. And in the final stanza you communicate a dignified acceptance of your age.
For just as any object is the sum of its parts, so we humans may be construed as the length of our years. Yet, do not forget the soul, the infinite, boundless (cf. NT).
Thank you :>)
2011-08-16