TSM 177

~ qbit 
Any final appeals to you gaoler, joker,
Earl of Poughkeepsie?
That my hips and knees,
shoulders and elbows,
their ball and socket truth –

Would become mortar and pestles,
the crucible of age,
turning, turning in a widening gyre –
daily grind
making meal of me

Hangman, oh hangman,
did you have to save 
every fallen strand of hair,
weave life's every twist and turn
to the end of my rope?

Strike me this, Jolly Rodger –
as I drop from the yardarm
through empty air, wind and rigging 
creaking in the wooden blocks –
let my soul unfurl to sail

The Sunday Muse

27 thoughts on “TSM 177”

  1. Ah, a fine finger @ Mortality! I love the nod to Yeats. This reminds me a little bit of the Simon & Garfunkel song “Save The Life of My Child” especially the ending.

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  7. through empty air, wind and rigging
    creaking in the wooden blocks –
    let my soul unfurl to sail

    It can really be painful when they do happen. All would want to be free of it and runoff. Love the beautiful way of expressing the dilemma!

    Hank

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  8. As Betty White so pungently remarked, old age is not for pussies. Yet there are moments…even tied on the whipping post, or waiting for the Gallows Pole, where we’re able to sense something so much richer and more complex than the cheap beer of youth..or so your poem makes me feel. I love that first stanza, and the ‘crucible of age’ which melts us down, hopefully turning some Led into gold. Killer finish as well.

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  9. Feeling that ball and socket mortar and pestle this week. Am I supposed to get such a lift from that last line? Love the image of a soul under a full sail.

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