At sixty-five, the clock moves slow,
Yet faster than we’d like, we know.
The days behind a woven thread,
Of dreams once chased and words once said.
Time slips quietly through the door,
Like footprints fading from the shore.
Faces blur, once sharp and bright,
Softened now by morning light.
But oh, the road still lies ahead,
With stories we’ve not lived or said.
The map rewrites with every dawn,
Adventure calling, leading on.
We’ve danced through years both kind and wild,
With every scar, a wiser child.
And though the past begins to wane,
New joys arise to take the reign.
A deeper laugh, a gentler pace,
The wisdom found in every place.
No need to rush, no urge to race. Just breathe it in, this life, this grace.
So here we stand, with silver pride,
Not finished yet just redefined.
The rearview dims, but eyes still shine,
For all that waits beyond the line.
Happy 65 my story grows,
Like blooming petals on a rose.
Each year a gift, each step a song,
And the best, perhaps, was mind all along.

She is a mathematical genius—
eternity’s pupil,
who saw time unfold
through a portal only she could find.

Her mind drifts freely,
a vessel for the muses’ silent speech,
messages whispered in telepathic threads
she trusts like breath,
woven into the fabric of belief.

Behind the veil of the world—
the imaginary glass—
do angels wait?
She sees them there,
shadows of light in the stillness.

She speaks,
not to be understood by all,
but to share truths that linger,
for she knows—
the solid things of earth
are but conduits
from some distant, radiant sphere.

Her thoughts leap—
a dance from physics to faith,
from what is known
to what simply is.
The universe—
ever present, ever true—
needs no permission
to exist.

And all around her,
in every blade of grass,
angles converge—
silent guides
ushering her spirit
to a realm
where only she
can go.

Her life began, a story untold,
Pages unwritten, a tale to unfold.
A girl who ran, breaking records each day,
With dreams to light her own pathway.

She married her love in 1990’s embrace,
Giving her heart, her life, her grace.
He, a hustler with secrets to hide,
Set his sights on a girl, barely the tide.

At sixteen, her youth was caught in his snare,
Blinded by love, she was unprepared.
A trap was laid, a cage unseen,
Her life became a shadowed dream.

Thirty-seven years, her soul still sold,
Her heart in chains, her story cold.
For love, she complied, her voice held tight,
Living her days in muted fight.

But deep within, her spirit remains,
A flicker of hope through the years of pain.
Perhaps one day, her story retold,
Will free the girl from the shackles of old.

Life is a journey with many twists and turns,
Chasing dreams and adventures as the fire burns.
Then again, is each and every day,
A canvas of moments, both bright and gray.

People will come and leave in different ways,
Fading like shadows or lighting our days.
Rumination, the price we pay,
For wisdom gleaned along the way.

Gaining clarity through trials we face,
Learning from each stumble, each embrace.
What we deserve is painted in our minds,
But what we keep, the heart defines.

In the echoes of joy and the lessons of sorrow,
We find the strength to greet tomorrow.
Life is a journey, winding and vast,
A precious path that shapes our past.

Today arrived with winter’s grace,
A blanket of white, a soft embrace.
The world transformed, so calm, so still,
Yet alive with laughter, the morning's thrill.

My grandchildren, bundled, faces aglow,
Trek their path through the fresh-fallen snow.
Side by side, their footprints trace,
A journey to the yellow bus they face.

I watch them go, their giggles fade,
Through snowy trails their steps are made.
A fleeting moment, yet it lingers near,
A memory etched, so bright, so clear.

Those tiny prints in the snow remind,
Of life’s great treasures, so sweet, so kind.
And as I stand, watching them say goodbye,
I know deep down, I’m one lucky guy.

Perhaps all that frightens, deep down inside,
Is something helpless, longing to be alive,
A silent call for warmth, a plea for care,
In shadows, there is more than despair.
Beneath anger’s surge when I feel hurt,
There’s a softness buried in the dirt,
A child’s voice, tender, raw, and small,
A gentle part that’s learned to stall.
The happy mask, the painted smile,
Hides a world so vast, a hidden isle,
If I approach it with gentle grace,
It shows the truth behind the face.
Those thoughts I find repulsive, disdainful, too,
Are fragments of me, yet not all I pursue,
They’re whispers, hints, but not my whole,
Not the essence of my core, my soul.
For I am more than fear, than hurt, than rage,
More than masks on this life’s stage,
In meeting these pieces with love, not shame,
I step towards wholeness, calling my name.

There's something about when you're near or far,
A silent ache, like a distant star,
Your absence marks each line and page,
Where words fall short, unable to engage.
Actions falter, where courage should bloom,
Bravery dimmed in the quiet room,
For only you, with presence pure,
Turn scattered thoughts to something sure.
Near or far, a constant theme,
The unseen thread of a waking dream,
No spoken word, nor scripted rhyme,
Can bridge the space or fill the time.
So here I wait, where courage lies,
In the shadowed echoes of goodbyes,
For you, the light, both near and far,
To guide the path, my steadfast star.