I shook off the house like a hooded cape,
And came out, free, into the March-blown street…
At a lash of the gale, at a sight of the cloud-tattered skies,
As a coat discarded,
I shook off civilization
And became wild,
And my naked soul raced the clouds,
And the flavor of the Earth was fresh and primitive…
—James Oppenheim (1882–1932), “March Night,” War and Laughter, 1916
I swing like a kid
and fall like an adult;
cry tears of gratitude
and pray in smiles;
hug and love, and later
hide under the covers—
wildly and humbly living
from dawn to the stars,
and ever back again
We mature in knowledge and wisdom but never leave the playground of our hearts.
My wrinkles are a playground of happy memories.
Somehow, I got old
before really learning to be young
the old in my bones is calcified
the young in my soul is still growing
her smiling girl-heart danced
behind the grey, grey hair
scrambled blackout poetry created from Enid Bagnold,
Comfort is — buying an XL
flannel jacket for the winter
even though you’re only a medium
because it reminds you of your daddy —
and on that first chilly day
cold seeps in though the gaps —
but really you don’t much mind
because in your little girl memories
he’s keeping you safe and snuggly warm.
When most people see an adult skipping they assume it must be on the way either to or from the asylum.
the years sprint, sail, drift, fly —
days melt into sleep
decades we no longer know
by taste or smell, yes
but hard fast memories tend not to keep —
youth lives on — yet, is long gone
birds chirp each spring anew
but our hearts sing the same shades
of childhood colors we once knew
Jogging is for those who don’t have the guts
When you were a child, on a summer afternoon,
Did you lie in tall grass, listening to the crickets
Foreshadowing autumn, listening to the small
Infinite sounds of earth? Did you press your cheek
And your short brown body furiously down
Into the grass, so loving the narrow roots,
So loving the hard wild flanks of hills, and summer,
That when your slight strength broke at last, you cried…
Then rising in the slow wind, cried no more
But stood and gazed with grave young eyes upon
The brief, unburdened hours lived and gone,
Yourself, the child, abandoned in the grass,
Yourself, the man, earth’s lover, who would follow
The strong years deathward, aching and possessed?
—Frances Frost, “Year of Earth,” These Acres, 1932
Sliding down the banister of life is so much more fun than ambling down
i can muster up
some pretty good
grace & elegance
if need be — but
when it comes to
chocolate, crayons
or playful animals
i always become a
bumbling giggling
messy little girl —