cronechronicler

You don't know where you are going. You don't know how to get there. And you arrive just the same. Ghanaian saying

The Senior Transportation Connection

I quit driving myself – abandoned my car
Found I’ve been transported to a new world
Peopled by those who still have destinations
And when needing a ride call the S.T.C.

We help each other putting on seatbelts
Check on how each one’s day is unfolding
And sometimes something magical happens
When we tell our stories

Not long ago on one of my trips
A second passenger boarded the van
A smallish woman in a neat knitted cap
With whom I clicked while helping buckle her in

I saw a riot of colorful flowers
Grass, vines and green trees graced her yard
She told about her plants outside and inside
I soon sensed we were kindred souls

And so began our discussion of plants
Like some women have about their grandchildren
She mentioned her birthday coming up in December
I asked her the date and she said “the ninth”

I felt a tingle of recognition
Felt my joy bubbling up
So I replied “Just what I expected.
That date is my birthday, too!”

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New Address: The Ocean

Stepping into a river one time – then again
And finding it’s just not the same
Later musing maybe it’s no river at all
But a deep ocean I now call my home

Maybe my views of the world and my life
No longer fit into seventeen syllables
Maybe climate change has stripped the dawn sky
Of my beloved pink cloud inspiration

I want to address the whole world-wide family
All swimming in rivers, navigating strong currents
New generations, new fears, new over-comings
Some things borrowed from elders, many more all their own

That deep ocean I now claim as my address
Swelling with challenge for my elder years
Requires new perspectives, new understandings
That oddly enough, bring me peace

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Deja Vu

I never guessed to find
At my age the Youthful Fountain
In a “Life Long Learning” class

Our program is to study
The art of Michelangelo
Freeing life from marble

We began like kindergarteners
With expectant faces seated
Around two tables set up end-to-end

Newsprint was spread before us
And then we all were given
A block of soap and tiny knife

Our instruction was to carve
Whatever we desired
Like Michelangelo, oh dear!

The last assignment and the best
Round the table as we sculpted
We told something of ourselves

I could do without the learning
And spend our class-time weekly
Carving soap and telling stories

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Haiku: Artistry of Time

Gray hair silver now
Wrinkles sketch abundant years
Golden-aging’s gifts

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Haiku: Alchemy of Aging

Days become more still
Old siren songs grow quieter
New drumbeat sounds now

Amazing freedom
Choreographs day’s tempo
Measured steps suit me

Laughter and lightness
Transform binding to-do lists
To “catch as catch can”

I watch with wonder
Diminishing energy
Re-shapes my desires

Life has new balance
I find joy in small things
Transformed into gold

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Haiku: It’s Not What You think

Faded memory
Soft like my old flannel shirt
Comfortable, well-worn

Wrinkled like my face
Old stories adopt new lines
Twice as much to tell

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Sisters Saga

I’m closing up shop for a couple of weeks. Tomorrow my sister and I are heading to Mexico to the place where I’ve been vacationing for the past twenty years. This is a first for us. We no longer have husbands and are having an extended girl’s getaway. It will be a fun adventure. I expect to return with some good stories.

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Ina’s House

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice. T.S. Eliot

For fifty years I’ve claimed the name of Mother
Lately evolving into being Grandma, too.
Always feathering my nest as haven
For those who’ve been entrusted to my love.

I knew joy in tending, teaching, reprimanding
Knew heartbreak when life’s bumps became obstructions.
Felt proud as children became each one a unique person
My days filled always with them as center.

Years passed my sons grew into manhood
Found jobs and wives, gave birth to their own children.
Created homes, developed talents, new directions.
It was amazing to become a matriarch.

I think now sons are where I started
I am moving onward to a different place
Time for me to live with new intentions
Time to cherish days as mine alone.

No longer is my prime identity my sons’ Mother,
My life breadcrumbs to teach my children how to grow and age.
I’m going to savor living in the moment, write my poetry.
My name is Ina and Ina’s house my home.

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Haiku: Art of Forgetting

My brain is wrinkled
From much mis-remembering
Things once so well-known

Shadowy landscapes
Appear in uncertainty
When facts fade away

Imagination
Rich new tales recreating
Child-like comes to play

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Haiku: Balancing Act

Janus-faced, two views.
Looking back, gazing ahead
Panoramic sight.

Comes a time in life
Years behind grow numerous
Tilt balance toward past.

Seesaw-like what’s up
View of future, contemplate
Time of less is more.

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