Another year living, another day gone,
The past isn't giving the wisdom I want.

I'm searching for answers, I lay in the rain, I stare at the moon while I'm begging for change.

My face is now creased, from years of worry, I laugh at my young wish to grow up in a hurry.

The right answers never come, I grieve over wrong choices, I'll stay in my bed berated by these voices.

And it's October, but the leaves are still green, the seasons aren't seasons and I am not me.

Twenty seven I might be, but fourteen I still feel, I look at the life I've built but none of it seems real.

I once laid in my bed content
With mama’s prayers tucked in,
Listening to trains far off across
River trestles on rails stretched
To places I could only dream of.

Beginner’s luck the magic strong;
Reality and dreams synonymous.
Early the seeds of wanderlust
Planted.

Talents forged of
Large cardboard boxes and
Old trunks in the attic
And of games with friends
In woods and streets.

Old Mr. Robling’s eyes looked
Beyond . . .
Child’s play would end
Someday.

That day eventually came in
Linear time
But much longer to this
Wandering mind
That thought beyond the grade
School desk when my adolescent
Peer’s noses were buried deep.

Wander and travel lust left this boy
Rootless and restless when time
Came to stop chasing mirages
Of greener pastures.

He then looked up and saw
His little one’s growing up
With a somewhat similar
Bittersweet taste of chasing
Elusive islands of emerald green
Seen as lush vivid images
On their built-in larger-than-life
Mental GPS screens
Programmed to ****** the
Wanderer into the delusion that
They can take extended or even
Permanent excursions far from

The
Great
Gray
Banal
Sea.

Not very long ago this ageless
Boy was forced into settling for
Stark reality.
But he is slowly growing a bit
More comfortable in his own skin.

The grass is still a bit green
But parts are a bit dry
Patchy and crabgrass ridden.

At least it fashionably matches
His soul--
Poetic justice for trading
Most of your life for
The elusive
Obvious.

I still cling tight to my childhood  
In my own non-linear time of
One hundred years ago;

But far too young in linear time
To be residing in
A tired body
Which many define age as
Value was once
Measured by quality not
Quantity

And as those running the track
And roaming free over
Thousands of acres
Of wide-open
Plains as opposed to those
Put out to pasture or waiting
In line

At
The
Glue
Factory

The summer was always so much fun
-- When we were young --
We'd jump fences and run through backyards
-- when we were young --
Boys were icky and really gross too
-- when we were young --
Best friends were forever and ever
-- when we were young --
A pinky promise was sacred
-- when we were young --
and now in my 60s I want to go back to
-- when we were young --