Ages of Joel

Posted on May 26, 2003 in Book of Days Poems

Note: This is part of a series based on exercises from A Writer’s Book of Days. It’s something of a rebellion against the Friday Five and similar tupperware content memes.

Today’s topic: And it was at that age….

And it was at that age,

thirty five,

that it all started to cloud into a deeper clarity.

When I stopped advancing against the thunderhead

let the rain fall

and stopped expecting rainbows in every prism glob

that rushed to smash itself against the ground.

I learned things.

It was at that age

that I saw the burn

the searing tide of mud spattered and spread

over the cornfield of my nativity.

I learned that it wasn’t all me.

I learned that others were cruel.

I learned that I was sick and the sickness wasn’t me.

At that age,

I learned

that “rightful places” were illusions and lies.

The best man wouldn’t be president.

Managers weren’t hired for their understanding.

No one but me had my best interests at heart.

I figured out that I had to act for myself.

And I was uncertain about that one for a long time

even after I figured it out because

so many wool-suited despots acted for themselves.

Many pairs of devil hooves advanced on clumps of grass

that each felt was his rightful munch.

I was tired of all that.

So at that age,

I went to my bed

and caught up on all the sleep that I had lost.

Dust collected.

At that age,

I decided to let it gather for awhile.

I slept

and dreamed
of airports where I couldn’t tell whether I was

arriving or departing —

nictous concourses

thronged with baggage handlers and sales reps

chattering to the gainless purposes of trite self-action

on their cell phones.

And it was at this age,

forty five

that I vowed to avoid being trite in my aims and my acts.

The airports closed.

I scattered and swept out the beds of dust.

I vowed at thirty five that I would not be Ganymede,

cupbearer to the rapist Zeus.

I am not, today, at forty five.

In this age, I get up and dress

because when I rise, I am not returning to bed

for many hours.

I’m still sick and the thunderheads still piss

and not every raindrop has a prism.

The more junk I dump into my mind

the clearer I am able to see things.

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Want to participate? First either get yourself a copy of A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves or read these guidelines. Then either check in to see what the prompt for the day is or read along in the book.

Tomorrow’ topic/prompt: It’s snowing.