LatinosUSA

A Question of Identity

On her 90th birthday, she looked in the mirror
and tried to identify the face looking back.
She felt the same as ever.
But the face,
that was the mystery.
How could she connect the two,
how she felt and how she looked.
Perhaps a mystic would tell her
that the face had been through the fire of life,
but so had everything that made up her identity,
or more accurately, her multiple identities,
different ones for every occupation,
every relationship
and every situation.
The ones foisted on her by parents
were soon rejected and replaced
by the ones she made up for herself,
different identities
but always the same person,
easily recognised
but not in that mirror,
but still something to celebrate.

First published in “Bourgeon Online”

~~

My Detached Memory

I think of it as a detached memory
floating free
engulfing me when I least expect it
and then
leaving
again
without a trace.
I can’t recall it.
Not for sure.
But clearly
it remembers me.

First published in “Whispers and Echoes”

~~

Aging

I was young once,
unbelievably young,
almost a child,
playing.
Oh, I was young once,
waiting for life
to begin
to grab me
take me
up and over.
Yes, I was young once
playing
waiting.
No end
to it
just waiting
playing
aging
waiting.

First published in “Anti Heroin Chic”

~~

The Ache Of My Bones

Time moved so slowly then
used to take forever,
an eternity
from birthday to birthday,
Christmas to Christmas.
My bones filled with longing
for it to speed up a bit

and ready itself
for the long summers of memory
when it quickened
quick, quick, quicker.
I felt it in my bones
as time and me
sped seasonally
and painlessly
towards an autumnal slowdown
readying for a long, slow winter.

And now in my slow time,
it’s quickening again
quick, quick, quicker
I can feel it in my bones
in the ache of my bones
which tells me to go
slow, slow, slower
this time
everything has slowed
except time.

First published in “Heretics, Lovers and Madmen”

~~

I’m So Old

I’m so old that I remember a time
when people with mental illnesses
were treated appropriately
in psychiatric hospitals.

I’m so old that I remember a time
when people with mental illnesses
were not discharged inappropriately
from psychiatric hospitals.

I’m so old that I remember a time
when prisons housed criminals
not people with mental illnesses.

I’m so old
soon I may not remember
them.

First published in “The Recusant”

~~

Only Time Survives

Time is digging graves again
graves of bones
and flesh
graves of ideas
memories
avenging a life lived
a spent or mis-spent youth
all buried now
the running away has stopped
and only time passes.

First published in “Broken Spine, Reels: Cinematic Poetry”