There are certain days in my “golden years”

When I feel essentially like Ernest Hemingway

Whose suicide with two barrels to the mouth

Feeds my demons with a hushed dread of alarm.


On those days I wonder if our lives are linked, 

If the day will come when the magic abandons me

Like blackbirds airborne in the fall deserting winter

As with Ernest unable to write, to hone my craft.


Will I be like him reluctant to admit my decline,

Unwilling to settle for the mundane drone of old age,

Alcohol no longer a “mechanical solution” to life

As Hemingway stated to a “mechanical world.”


Then I write one true word, one true line, one stanza

And the magic is still there, the poem complete

And life is good and all is well in the universe

Old age no burden but a sacred experience to share.




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