Unprinted
Pete Freas, poetry
Pete Freas, also known as "The Mindworm", of Portsmouth is a poet, poetry promoter, literary review editor, retired high-school teacher, marathon runner, Vietnam vet, Kent State attendee and Ohio Northern University graduate ('65). Freas is the founder of the Chesapeake Bay Poets and editor of Skipping Stones.Growing Older Don’t want to be young and stupid any more or again.
Old and stupid’s fine, at least then you have an excuse.
Some things never change. the mindworm
When I was small, the world was big and never
had been small - except we kids - and life
was knees and thighs and reaching up forever
holding onto Momma’s hand. Still light
outside at bedtime summer evenings. Old
was something else - it meant they’re going to die.
Nana and her ancient cat were old and they grew cold
before I knew either of them very long. So I
didn’t worry over Mom ‘n’ Dad
for they weren’t old - just big - and that meant they
would always be there taking care of us;
their presence made us feel secure and loved.
We didn’t worry over Granma-Grampa
either - they were big, but they weren’t old . . .
except my daddy’s mom who died when I
was six, despite she really wasn’t all
that old. Eventually, Grandma-Grandpa
did grow old and died, though not together.
Across the years we kids grew up - both Bob and I
and even baby sister - grew up, got big
but never did grow old. and even now,
although I recognize that I will die
Someday, it’s so far off to count as damned
near never; though I’m over sixty now,
I’m still not old, for I will never die!
And look at you: you’re coming up on sixty -
afraid of death and can’t admit you’re dying?
You could at least accept you are not growing
any younger. It’s time you quit your crying,
embrace what you can’t change. Fully knowing
the years aren’t moving backwards, you were whining
passing thirty, going forty, making
fifty; ready or not, approaching sixty,
crying “Olley-Olley oxenfree!”
So celebrate as I did when I didn’t
want to take the crap I gave my brother
when he turned old. I never wanted sixty,
never wanted old. No one buys
that wizened elder trash - not here, not now.
Everything is zip time - go go go!
“Just step aside there Pop, you’re in the way.”
I celebrate because I will not self
destruct, my message done. I will live free
and independent, will not let my brain
decay, cells imploding, turning inward,
feeding self into oblivion until
I just fall off the earth, disappear in fog,
attended to by specters in unfamiliar
places occupied by strangers I
have known for years and cannot recognize.
I can’t remember why I must pretend
it’s really cool turning sixty. Is it
because in doing it, it’s become faux chic?
I can’t remember why we have to pretend
I can’t remember why we have to
I can’t remember why we have
I can’t remember why we
I can’t remember why
I can’t remember
I can’t
I can’t RETURN TO TOP
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