wannabe

noble quests for transient seasons

Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make it so, right in the middle of it we die,
lose a leg, fall in love, or drop a jar of applesauce. — Natalie Goldberg

i.
when morning comes
i wannabe with birds
on wings whose kite
songs dangle without words
above the dewy mountains through whose eyes
i glimpse the glory of earth’s newborn skies

ii.
while still a boy
i wannabe with girls
whose giggly heads
wont to expose their pearls
render the daylight hours a cupid nest
wherein frail fellows fail love’s stupid test

iii.
hence, as a man
consumed by thoughts profound
i wannabe
where subtleties abound
where chivalry, armchaired not by brusque pride,
makes fine men connoisseurs of blushing brides

iv.
post-interim
i wannabe at rest
beyond the singe
of mal-exuberant zest
a good old age with poetry and song
a centenarian fest where i belong

v.
at eventide
i wannabe with stars
a guardian of
orion’s deep memoirs
sharp silver trumpet tongues of ebon fire
piercing the heavens’ holy atmosphere

© Copyright 2022 July 19
by Clyve A. Bowen♫