40 swans
with outstretched wings
all feather and muscle
40 ashtrays
full of the soot
of waste's sadness
40 mountains
the same distance
up as down
40 shoelaces
snaked through
my walking shoes
40 blackbirds
with eyes unblinking
as the night
40 fingers
plucking guitar strings
of gold
40 coats
shielding against
the bitter cold
40 alphabets
for all the language
inside
my forty year old self
Comments
Hello stranger
Nice to see you’re still writing. I like the idea of the poem. The images don’t seem to have any personal connection but the abstract concept of years passing does make it a unique birthday poem. I think personally to go all “forty” would work better (rather than “40”). I like most of the images , not so much the ashtrays.
Your 40’s are a great time in your life. Believe me it’s better than 50’s,60’s or 70’s. It’s still uphill. Enjoy!!
hello Eumolpus! appreciate
hello Eumolpus! appreciate the encouragement. my dad is still living his best life at 64. with a couple aches and pains, granted. I try to write daily, mostly songwriting. but I'm working on a book of poems for my grandpa, so I thought I'd post here a little more often. always good to hear from you
Welcome to...
the edge of old age! When you start needing glasses to read, it gets harder to get up in the morning without sounding like Rice Krispies and you start watching what you eat. I liked this, even through the repetition of that magical number forty!
Title is good, likewise the language and the theme is one everyone recognizes. It began and ended well as the poem slid through the many urbane things that make up life. Nice. ~ Gee.
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