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Created on: May 09, 2011
Hands of Time, Hands of Mine.
Years are hard to hold when they begin to multiply
Yet every one has had to pass through these hands
Slow but sure they have all passed on by
And only now am I beginning to understand
Like the swirling prints on each fingertip
That seem to have no reason or rhyme
There is a pattern to the chaos even as the days slip
Marking undoubtedly the remnants of passing time
The valleys and grooves look happy occasionally
Like the months and days I look back on here and again
And I wonder if it's really haphazardly
Or if each beginning already had its scripted end
Fingernails bitten simply all to much
From panic and worry founded and forgotten
Like the memory of the softest touch
That drifts away as another year descends
Blisters and callouses decorate my skin
Proof of decades of earning and making my way
Everlasting mementos of where I've been
Though I know, even these things won't always stay
The crossroads of wrinkles look now like hash marks it's true
A score card tally of everything I've ever held so tight
A love, a loss, passion or regret, all have slipped through
With every passing minute, busy day or lonely night
The lessons I carry are the only things that haven't gone
As these withered hands can surely show
And though I've tried forever to hold on
I know now, all I have left, is to let go
Learn more about this author, Lou Ruggieri.
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Poetry: Aging
by Bri Mark
As I sit here dithering, I think, I’m getting old,
My bones are aching my hands are cold,
It’s making me bitter
Years slowly settle on us, like the dust
In layers first invisible, then white
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must
Upon
You ask, "How are you?" Before I answer, let me say:
I have always had a vegetable garden - for over fifty years
I have watched
Aging doesn't bring just wrinkles and gray hair
But wisdom and experience - a powerful pair
When I look in the mirror as
What is lost, what is gained
As our years now near the end?
Plan for tomorrow, not beyond
No future 'round the bend
Dreams
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