i am of an age ...

when hubris cannot be afforded
and perception is informed by experience
when a mind that is questioning is a turn on
yet healthy enough for primal urges

i am of an age

where knowing what i don’t know
fills me with curiosity and wonder
when i have time to look at nature
and think deeply of its beauty

i am of an age

when i know to curb my nostalgia
so not to bore the young
but have a rich past to appreciate
and the bold inspired moves
that made it great

i am of an age

when i can play with my grand daughter
with connection and joy
while seeing the wonder of learning
and the purity of innocence

i am of an age

when the worthy are quickly separated
from the time thieves
who are quickly dispatched
only to give to the worthy

i am of an age

when character and spirit are primary attractions
regardless of any other categorisations
when the soul of another can be seen
and be the most important thing

i am of an age

when i walk the dog
and feel like a boy
when kissing a loved one
makes me feel new

i am of an an age
when i can appreciate you

I mourned my youth with a thousand hearts; yet I embraced my maturity with a thousand blessings!

Hussein Dekmak

He’s got wrinkles instead of pimples,
That’s the way the story goes.
He’s outgrown growing
Except for his nose.
His memory works fine for things
That happened years ago
But what he ate yesterday
He doesn’t seem to know.

He used to sing and dance a bit
And now he just walks
For a couple of miles a day,
As he passes by folks
He stops and talks.
He catches up on how they are
And what is new with them.
But for what they said
His memory grows dim.

It’s not important to store the tales
They tell him of their lives
Of children’s accomplishments
And the health of their wives.
The important thing to him is more
To not be alone that day.
He passes time and smiles,
And enjoys life that way.

His hair has gone almost to white,
Without nearly as much pep,
His voice has gotten reedy
There’s a halt to his step.
But he has time for people and life
And he still writes his stories
That he tells to his friends
Who care to hear his glories.

It’s that time of year
when the air is unseasonably warm,
summer’s last push,
last bounce
on the trampoline,
before the street lights
come on
and her mother
tells her it’s time
to come inside.  

I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to drive me elsewhere,
back to the river streets
and cobblestone houses
of South Georgia
where my journey began.

The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing
and nostalgia
more than smoke,
and for a split second,
I’m there:

With the crickets singing,
and the salty spray of the ocean
from the thunderbolt islands
filling my empty places,
in ways
that no other person
ever could.

And I don’t feel
brave
or powerful,
or even beautiful,
I just feel
in control,
and that’s
enough for
me.


There is no wishing,
no hoping,
no dreaming
for a better tomorrow.

Just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the
understanding
that I am going
somewhere.

sparking up a joint i look out at the field where i spent my summers as a child
the fence where i tore my hand on the barbed wire
the greenhouse with the window
still broken from the baseball thrown a little too hard
it all seems so far away
as if it were from another life
and in a way
it is
no longer am i a child
awaiting recess and nap time
now i await my nightly smoke and another day of being heartbroke