66 // via Strange Neural Pathways: Bucketlist
I recently confessed on local radio (WFMD) during a discussion about New Year’s resolutions that I had entered my 40th year.
This is somewhat astounding to me. I’ve done a lot, and achieved some things, and even incrementally grown as a person. I have a full life. Really, if I get taken tomorrow, I can’t complain (not that I’m advocating that. Universe, are you listening?).
But four decades, whether I like it or not, as forced some self evaluation, some stark reflection, some philosophical macromicrointrospection. In short, as good as life has been to me, I have a couple of to dos. OK, more than a couple.
A few months ago I started writing a bucket list, that is, a list of all the things I’d like to do before I kick the water pail. And this year, damn it, I’m going to tick two of those off that list. And the next year, and the next year. These are things that I want to do for me. They won’t supersede the important stuff, like family. But I will elbow aside a few of the more minor things to make time.
So, when the radio show host asked me what was on my New Year’s resolution list, I had a ready answer.
I’m going to write and draw a comic. That’s the first one. None of your super hero stuff; I’ll leave that to the experts. But it will be a story that has meaning for me, that I’ve wanted to write for some time.
And come Dec. 31, I want to have accumulated a book’s worth of poetry. I know. Poetry. If you know me, you probably won’t believe I’m a poetry appreciator. But there you have it. I may not be deep, but I am broad. Never mind the quality. Feel the width.
I don’t ever mean to publish the book. I just want to have it. In that regard, I’d like to share an entry now and again, if I may, and if you’ll indulge me. This is called … Ah. I got stuck here. Nerves. Performance anxiety. Which one, which one? Now I intend to reveal one to the world, none of them seem good enough. My poetry, like the human condition, is a work in progress.
Take a breath.
All right. No one’s reading this anyway.
Speaking of depth, this poem is called “I am not deep.” It’s among the first I wrote, but still a favorite.
I am not deep.
Depth takes time
I do not have
For attendant thought, reflection,
or a period of calm,
To consider, to contemplate,
To move and swell in the tides of consciousness.
Instead I chart slate waves,
Tack crashing water
That threatens to sink my boat,
drown my sails and
show my keel to the stars.
Maybe one day
The sea will calm at sunset,
revealing the world’s curve.
Then I will scupper my vessel
and sew myself
into my white sail.
(The formatting is a bit off, but it’s supposed to have three line stanzas.)
