somewhere
in the journals of life
a number was written—
was written beside my name—
a quiet prediction
made by statisticians
and the calendars of time—
my shelf life
seventy seven years…
seventy eight—
seventy nine perhaps
a tidy place for me
to fold my map—
leave—
and they close my door
but…
my door never closed—
well — never stayed closed…
instead
it reopened—
I stepped through
walking on
beneath fluorescent skies—
my breath again moving
in and out—
so I move on—
beyond my use by date
…day after day
…week after week
…month after month
…now a couple years passed by
I missed the announcement
to please exit quietly—
so I remain—
making my way…
like an old dog
that refuses to leave the porch
now
like an old dog
my bones complain
like old wood in winter
my stomach grumbles—
flatulence has become
an annoying friend
fatigue drapes itself
over my afternoons
the earth’s begun to wobble a bit
so I watch my steps—
which are fewer now
the sun still rises
with stubborn ceremony
clouds drift the same
as they did when I was twenty—
wind still moves
through the branches
high in the trees…
as if practicing nature’s musical—
birthday candles still sell—
I just sit here
wondering—
not why pain exists…
not why time carries on…
not about its heavy gravity…
not about angels on pinheads…
but why
my small flame of breath
still leans toward tomorrow
no answer arrives
only morning after morning
opening its quiet hand—
placing another hour in mine
as if it had always meant to
I feel my road should have ended—
I now travel borrowed miles
I suspect
there was once a ledger somewhere—
a neat column of years
of miles
allotted to me—
my expiration date
a careful estimate
drawn up by invisible clerks
of probability
that column must’ve ended—
but my road
has not
it keeps stretching forward—
through ordinary days…
through their fluctuating length…
through season upon season…
through rain tapping upon the roof…
through the soft blue television light
of insomnia’s midnights
my body still carries
a caravan of complaints—
bones creak—
my recall is at times
a lost distracted child—
energy wanders off
like a tired guest
still
my heart—
that stubborn drummer—
continues its slow dirge…
sometimes in irregular rhythm
inside its quiet cavern of ribs
I walk unsteadily
very carefully now
through each morning
the air tastes the same
as it did in younger seasons—
cold…
bright…
intoxicating
birds continue crossing the sky
without consulting any statistics
light spills through windows
flooding across my floor
day after day—
increasing and decreasing
with extravagant generosity—
time continues
upon its relentless way—
but I realize
these extra miles I enjoy
are not owed to me—
they are only
borrowed distance—
in borrowed time
unexpected road…
beyond the place
where my map was meant to end—
where my journal was meant to close
so I move on—
…gently
…gratefully
…awkwardly
…and most curious—
like every human
who has ever
walked this beautiful earth—
wondering
—just how far
my road ahead
is willing to stretch—
how far the horizon
is willing
to keep stepping back— …when does my journal finally close?
the veins of powerful
fresh rivers thread
through my vital wilderness—
the mountains and forests
my pure wild waters
rush like red blood
through green arteries
rapids quickening
the steady beat
of my strong heart
powerful waterfalls
spill like silver breath
from my lips
crisp lakes lie deep
as quiet chambers
of a living chest
see here my fir and birch—
proud sentinels
of the rivers and streams
for ages I have nurtured
the the life giving elements
of clean rain…
fresh snowmelt…
and I have breathed
unsullied winds
then you arrived—
thin of spirit…
tired of lungs…
after long decades
among the gray arteries
of cities run rampant
you came from lands
where the pulse had weakened—
where fields and streams
once healthy and breathing…
…now wheezed beneath concrete
…now choked on industrialization
…now strangled by the grip
of over population
I felt the fatigue
inside your bones—
the slow dimming
of a spent human tide—
so I opened my wilderness to you
which you eagerly embraced
like a flagging body
welcoming oxygenation
from new blood
and my rivers entered you
like bright transfusion—
their cold clean currents
reawakened your dreams
clear waterfalls revived
your world weary heart
you drank from my mountains’
moving lifeblood—
your spirit responded
to my welcoming call
now your breath carries
the scent of fir and birch…
salt ocean air…
and intoxicating petrichor
your pulse echoes the rhythms
of my wild nature’s drums
I am the freedom of that wild
I am the power of rushing water
I am the energy of the winds
then the earth itself
might begin to shine differently
its cities bright
not with power—
but with understanding
with knowledge
yet…
if we reached such a moment
how would we guard it
peace cannot truly be locked
inside treaties
it survives only
when those inner lights
P
are tended daily—
when people remember
how easily darkness grows
in neglected corner
even in that careful world
adversaries would linger.
not a nations
not an ideologies—
something older
the restless appetite
that sometimes rises
in the human spirit—
…the desire to possess
…to dominate
…to believe one’s own story
is the center of the earth—
and even then
one truly critical danger would remain—
…not an army
…not a border
…not a cult or ism
only the old shadows
waiting in the human mind—
…envy
…fear
…the hunger for power—
…for more—
resentful covet
restless winds
chaotic winds
winds capable of
extinguishing the small lights
we carry within us
so a peaceful planet
would never be
a finished work—
impossible
Last night the sky over the Pacific Northwest felt unusually clear, as if the brisk night had polished it. I stepped outside with my cane and let the reach of any ambient light fall away, giving the dark its full authority. The night set its gentle embrace upon me. Above my head was a cacophony of lights.
I noticed the stars held solid in their spacing — they endured their endless rank. Somewhere beyond their patient burn, beyond even the thin milk of the visible galaxies — something held everything together. It knew perfectly this brilliant scatter. I sensed an aliveness, felt a breathing presence. I was awed by the essence of the enormity. But save an occasional perceived twinkle, or streak of shooting star, or the slow lit slip of something manmade — all was still.
In Life on Mars, Tracy K. Smith writes of dark matter — the unseen force that keeps galaxies ordered. They say most of the universe is made of what we cannot detect. As if embraced by an invisible hand. I think of the quiet forces in a life — love, joy, sadness, anger. These are all unseen, but they add weight to life. We are held more by what we cannot see, than by what we can.
dark matter holds true galaxies spinning in space the unseen balance
there once was a ski jumper — Stanley McGee
who leapt with a holler of… “hey — look at me!”
he shot from the ramp like a sneeze from a cold—
then into the heavens untethered and bold
he skimmed over treetops — clean outta sight
like a rocket achieving suborbital flight
he sailed on the thermals — both arms outspread
and tickled the clouds with the top of his head
the judges kept watching as upward he rose
is he ever comin’ down again — nobody knows
parents grew nervous — young children cried
“helluva jump” they said — “can’t be denied”
so if you pass through when the north winds begin
we’ll point to the sky with a frost-bitten grin
“he hasn’t come down yet — and he left long ago—
we think he’s in orbit — not really sure though”
this probably happened — ain’t spreadin’ no jive
though my mem’ry is spotty — its mostly alive
as Kurt Vonnegut said it in Slaughterhouse-Five
“…all this happened — more… or less”. 😉
Original DDE™ art: “Ball’s In Our Hands” — by: rob kistner © 3/14/26.
Original DDE™ art: “I Wonder…” — by: rob kistner © 3/6/26.
Original
