Video: Wooden Wheel | A Filmmaker’s Tender Tribute to Her Seafaring Father
Grounded by a sailing injury, Arthur still finds solace in the Irish Sea.
Doug Anderson: Ghost
The old man finally just went away
to live in the mountains. Two goats,
a dog for company. The wind
made a harp of the pines.
Michael Gregory: Third Day of Christmas | Earth Air Wood Water Fire
Too many missing from this year’s mailing list.
Looking back I’m humbled to remember
how many stupid things I’ve done and survived
Anonymous: I Get By With a Little Help From Depends
Some of the artists of the ’60s are revising their hits with new lyrics to accommodate aging baby boomers.
Dennis Patrick Slattery: Aging in Body, Eldering in Spirit
Our culture is hungry for voices of elders to share their wisdom with us, to counter the fierce energy of adolescent flames that insists on “my” and “me” to the exclusion of “us” and “we.”
Neil Shepard: Local Freeze
Flat lines of black clouds
rolled over the Everglades, pelting the land with cold rain,
then, briefly, almost impossibly, hail, over the wetlands and dredged
fields, reminding us how fragile the grapefruits and oranges.
Barbara Hamby: The Tawdry Masks of Women
and when I see myself
in bus windows or store glass, the shock never wears off,
for I recognize myself and see a stranger at the same time
Michael Simms: Portrait of Unknown Couple
He sketched in charcoal
the arch of a shoulder
the movement of a hand
the woman’s head
turned and tilted slightly
toward the man
Robert Frost: Provide, Provide
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag
Was once the beauty Abishag,
The picture pride of Hollywood.
Louise Hawes: My muse at seventy-something
My muse is fast; her legs, long, relentless,
churn like propellers. She seldom stops to
explain where we’re going.
Barbara Hamby: Letter to a Lost Friend
There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened
between us, like ostyt, which can be used
for a cup of tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room,
and return, it is too cool
Paul Christensen: The First Chill Air of Summer’s End
The village bar is still serving lunch on the weekends, which is welcomed by us as a way of entertaining without having to cook the food, lay in some bottles of wine, find a dessert or make our own pastries. We just come in, sit on the terrace, order whatever is the main dish of the day, and slurp some cold rose or white wine while we amiably chat with our invited friends.
Tom Engelhardt: The Decline and Fall of Everything (Including Me)
I find myself experiencing three versions of that ultimate story: that of my own fall; that of my country; and that of an increasingly overheating planet as a habitable place for us all.
John Lawson: Two Dreams
She is one of that generation the heroes fought
And died for, inheritors of prim suburban homes
Purchased by the drowned
Vox Populi 