Blast from the past (not as clichéd as it sounds)

When I was a teenager, I thought I was a poet, so that's what I wrote: poems. On old receipts in panyards, in used copy books late at night. I even entered a competition once and won. I was 17. And I called it Celebration Time.

Celebration Time

An aged man rocks gently

with gnarled hands

and slippered feet

that softly brush

the floor.

The creak of wood

against wood

can easily be mistaken

for the movement of tired bones

and ancient memories.

His quiet visage is framed

by time-worn eaves

looking out beyond the now

unconquerable porch steps

and into the bejeweled night sky.

He can still hear the laughter

of happy people

and their joy seizes him

with a fire to rise and join them.

But when he closes his eyes

he cannot tell if his legs are there

and he cannot remember

the last time they carried him.

The spirit within--

the spirit of the man

who once trod--

will not be sated.

And with the palsied grip

of an old man possessed,

he clutches the hardness beneath his hands

and fights for the strength

he had long believed lay dormant.

The surge of divine power

and of sheer will

flows in him and through him

into the Earth.

And like the sun rising

steady and true,

the deadened limbs

that had failed him

so many times before

had become the pillars

that held him so high

above the ground.

As he faced the world

upright and strong,

the first firework

bathed the night with

a burst of burning embers.

For everyone else

the celebration of independence

had just begun.

For him,

each victory over time

brought new hope

and quiet celebration.

But tomorrow was a new day

and the struggle

would always continue.

Image from Corbis