Reflections on My Seventieth Birthday
Marked by seven decades on land and sea,
my asymmetrical soul always out of place.
Trying on attire like subtextual pedigree,
My fake jewels mimic a state of grace.
Ignore the Homeric, Shakespearian legacy.
Forget the poet as prophet.
Now, most poets are stupid beasts jotting every lunacy.
Now I know my haven. For this, I am another misfit.
Lopsided is my consciousness, deformed is my thought.
Seven decades of faltering certitude, years of faltering competence.
I am forgiven to write poetry, excused for being overwrought.
These are my coarse unauthorized edges in coexistence.
Always in motion, animation distracts broken reflection.
So many blunders and ill-conceived opinions.
My metamorphosis into Aidos, sick with shame and dejection.
No, I never belonged, just a squatter in all dominions.
There were meager victories even in the freezing midnight rain,
more like random good luck, I had no faith in them.
Poetry grants license to accept what I can’t explain.
Seven decades casting about the rubble ad hominem.
I am stable now. These back-brain wounds play only for me
as unavoidable torment probing my limits.
It isn’t exactly old I feel. It’s more like experience ladling fresh ways to see.
The best lives are extended childhoods confident in attaining new summits.
Any universal architect surely granted us supple wonder to adapt.
Our galaxy alone presents at least 480 billion alternatives.
But from other monkeys, we branched, with imaginations we tapped.
As our cortex grew, our pictographs became the language of narratives.
I am lucky to be among the privileged wondering.
Seven decades have nearly reduced most of my conceit.
My wisest word to travelers is to ask questions and start wandering.
Above all, believe your purpose in the journey and roam without deceit.
Published: PS: It's Still Poetry, January 2022
Published: Caesura, September 2021
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2021
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