Actually I’m 26 minutes early

It’s one of my faults

I’m always early.

Sometime I will show up for events

A week early

For doctor appointments

An hour early, at least

Talk about the definition of insanity.

I have tried to be late

So far no success.

I’m early.

Carolyn said she wouldn’t tell

If I start this poem early

I said that’s not right

But I’m doing it wrong now

With 24 minutes to go.

A year older

Although it’s only a minute older.

Not yet but soon.

I am surrounded by Trudeau news and Syrian news

Canada basks in the hottiness of our leader and wife

And their children. The sun is out.

At the Greek and Macedonian border

It rained and the refugee children

40% of the refugees

Are huddling in the rain

Asleep in drenched, crowded tents.

Coughing fills the sound bite.

I watch this and feel this

In the comfort of my house

In my comfy pyjamas

Munching on a sweet dessert

Waiting for my birthday to arrive

In 16 minutes.

So much of the world at my fingertip

I can see pomp and tragedy

On a split screen

And breaking news and market up and downs

On the ticker tape below.

I want to wave a wand and make it better

I’m sixty-seven, twelve minutes shy of 68

But I don’t feel older or wiser

Well, maybe achier, more aware of it.

I am conscious of being alive

Of having come howling into this world

Actually, the world of 1948

Another world

Another language

An other.

Conscious of how I still am the other

The writer who finds life in words

Puts them together word by word

Sign language to speak to myself

A cottage industry in a cyber assembly age.

Alone but not lonely

With three minutes to go

Before I go over to that side

I surprise myself with a party

And give this to me with love

As the clock clicks 12:00.

Now I can tell you

What it was like

My demons growing

Old along with me

As long as I shall live.

My angels are moments

When I remember that I am

And that there will be

A time when I won’t be

When I can write this and not care if

No one ever hears it.

When I will write no more.

They are fleeting.

I want to say something true

To myself.

There

I said it.

Good night.

Back from sleep

From the Laundromat of the brain

To morning wishes and kisses

From son and sunshine.

And still a sadness about what

I don’t know.

My mornings are heavy

A fog of anxiety ties knots in my belly.

Coffee and toast

You across the table, the smile

Seems miles away

I beat myself up for this.

Don Quixote in another pickle

Because of his illusion

That allows him to see the world

As worth fighting nobly for.

A world in which the would be president

Of the United Insane of America

Is defending the size of his hands

Boasts about the size of his junk.

I tilt with my digital pen

At windmills of my mind

Interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

My 90 year old mother

Who remembers my birth

A slow one, at home

At 11 pm on a Thursday night.

Your father ran to the city square

And beneath the statue of Kossuth

Declared to the star filled sky

I have a son.

Make meaning of that

Make meaning because

Aside from the luck of the draw

It could have been anyone else but you.

But it’s me

So it’s about me

So it’s up to me

Today

To make something of me.

I will do laundry

Call it cleansing.

Truth is like poetry

Everyone hates it

Except poets

But they do too

When it’s not their own.

Truth is like poetry

Everyone loves it

Wants it

Except when it’s about them.

If truth be told, then

We would all be in deep do-do.

Deep birthday thoughts.

I listen to the hum of dishwasher

The tinnitus in my head

The best wishes of friends and family.

I am between the light and the dark

Gray like the sky.

Spring is coming I say

I say to cheer me up.

So is my end.

Which is no surprise

So, want to make something of it?

Think about it daily

Make it part of your life

Like breathing.

Google just googled me

Happy birthday.

Big brother is watching.

The sun just came out.

Me too.

A walk in Verdun

Down to the river

To watch ice melt

To watch ice flow

To watch an old man

My age, my god

lying on an a rock

Cuddling his dog.

March is the coolest month.

It’s when I march out of my winter mind.

It is my memento vitae

I may have said that in another birthday poem

It bears repeating

Especially as I shuffle off this mortal coil

As I shuffle off to W for hipster coffee and a sandwich

As I shuffle towards the edge of the springboard

It puts spring in my step.

It’s almost 4:30 in the afternoon

And it’s bright shine outside.

I’ll be back in a few.

I’m back.

A few ray moments

Pecks on the cheeks.

Wanting an epiphany

I stare at the screen

Listen to my leader

In the United Nonsense of America

Making sense

Seems unreal, surreal.

Need a shower, a shave.

The luxury of hot water

Soap, shampoo, lather

A blade that doesn’t nick.

Looking in the mirror

Seeing something that resembles me

Looking for any signs of signs.

I am almost used to what I look like

Bald, oh my beautiful hair

Tons, down the drain

What’s left is white

Except, like a cruel reminder

My eyebrows thick and black.

I no longer have bags under my eyes

I have suitcases

to carry the nights I have spent awake

First, partying, then writing, then kids

Now the daily gathering of days and nights

Writing. Stuffed. Ready to go

But not today.

6:01. Five hours and fifty-nine to go

The liquor commission just wished me happy birthday

And offered me bonus points on booze bought in the next seven days.

Oh how I am loved.

After supper

Showered with gifts; slippers and socks

And a super Swiss army knife.

And before love and sleep

To live and die hard

At 11.48

A moment of silence.

Interrupted by the call

To crawl beneath a car

To remove something that makes noise.

Now

It is past my birth day

And the end of this rambling

For today.