I hope I’m not a “pantaloon” in my middle-age
Clowning around in my own self-importance.
with paunchy sides and drooping eyes
Silver–lined hair wanting repair,
Laughing at my own self-imposed despair.
I want to be elegant in my carriage
With eyes bright like morning’s light,
And poetic tongue—quick and lithe
to praise the soft petals of delight
And sing my urgent heart’s desire.
Who wants to be a doddering fool
With slack mind flowing with repetition
Of unsung dreams, and hopeless monologues
Of how things aren’t what they used to be.
Instead, take me to your snow-clad mountains
To drink, to taste, to breathe such majesty
And let my blood run wild like maple syrup
Such sweet infusion of sun and scent and
Spring me, pour me, take my every starlight fervor
For if “All the world is a stage”, I’ll be alive
til’ my last bow, when petals fall, my day is done
without so much of a second childhood.
April 1, 2015
*Note: Shakespeare writes of the seven stages of mankind, the 6th being the Pantaloon.
hinarising 