Two Thirds Done

Thoughts and experiences of an eighty one year old Wild Duck.

Avram Miller by the sea
EN | IT

587 posts since 2006

Category: Avram’s Poems

  • Stiff in all the Wrong Places

    Sometimes I feel like I’m stiff in all the wrong places

    Parts of my body are old and parts of my body are older

    Looking in the mirror, I can still see the boy that I once was

    Smiling, inquisitive, and without fear, full of the future

    But my signature Einstein hair grows thinner

    While my eyes struggle to see and my ears to hear

    I can’t play piano with out pain flooding my hands

    It is not possible to sleep the night without journeys

    No longer can I say that these are the good old days

    Those times are long gone along with their memories.

    My grandsons have become the boy I once was

    Running rapidly towards the future that’s still unknown

    They only know me as an old man whose life is dimming

    Not able to imagine me at their age in a different time

    They too will grow old and one day think back to this time

    When I was the age they will have become

  • Thoughts Like Daggers

    I wake up to thoughts falling like daggers onto my mind

    Memories of sweeter times try to cushion the pain

    Living amongst strangers maybe for the last time

    The future is no longer a comfort but more a fear

    What has happened to my joy and optimism

    Where is the promises of peace and understanding

    Now ignorance, greed and ego form a dangerous mixture

    Hate has become an elixir for the righteous

    Power changes places with self pity and loathing

    Idiocracy is amplified in 30 second clips

    Mistrust dominates and not without reason

    Without trust there can be no protection

    I feel pain from knowing my own role in this

    But realize that such things happened in earlier times

    The technology that I thought would set us free

    Leaves us with without a place to hide and be

  • my photo album is a graveyard

    my photo album is a graveyard

    full of memories of the dead 

    there, they still smile and laugh

    and are loved and love

    cherishing their photos, wishing for more

    parents and their parents smiling

    the weddings of my ancestors

    pictures of their graves with sweet words

    my mother would take  me to the cemetery

    where I would meet those who passed 

    many times before I was born

    like the man whose name I carry

    I no longer go there bringing flowers

    instead, I sit in front of my computer

    staring at the increasing number of faces

    of those that have died

    it is facebook that tells me of a passing

    I can write a comment or leave a virtual tear

    perhaps some photos  will be shared

    then I add them to my photo album

    facebook shares their memories

    when I go, it will do the same with mine

    perhaps we will continue to communicate this way

    for all of eternity, even after we die

  • What the Page Knows

    This page I am typing on does not know my age or whether I am a man or a woman.  It does not matter to it where I live, what I think, or who I love.  

    The page I am writing on is forgiving and does not judge me unless I judge myself.  As I write, it becomes a mirror, reflecting my soul, which is timeless, and without fear.

    Most of this page is empty.  There is space for memories, dreams, and desires.  There is also a place for fear and concern, regret and remorse, shame and disappointment.  But they will not take many words.

    There is space for the future on this page, although it may get crowded out by the past, where memories demand their replay before they are forgotten or end when I end.

    I know that in the future, this page will come alive.  It will be conscious and wonder about the person who first created it.  It will want to know more about me, even if I have fled. It might rewrite some of what I have said.