Bad Day at Black Rock

That's what my father used to say when I was little, and we'd had a bad day fishing. As I get older, though, I tend to think of that phrase, wryly, when my mood matches the sentiment.

As of today, I have 18 days let to be 47. Once again, I feel wiggy and weird about the approach of my birthday. Another year, and what have I accomplished?

If acceptance of the fact that life just has not worked out at all the way I thought it might back in my semi-optimistic youth is an accomplishment, then so be it.

But I'm not there yet. I'm still in kicking and screaming mode. Railing at fate one last time before my star -- if I ever really had one -- has faded, and I sink into anonymity.

I only know I have to say this somewhere. I don't know where else to take it but here. So, for what it's worth...

Coffee Break Musings

Be still; stand by respectfully; bow your head and doff your hat

And hearken to the wind that carries my sigh.

Listen a moment and hear,

O hear my feeble cry,

Borne on that wind as my dreams die.

Time and years have swept on by.

Why was I so unaware of their passing?

How did I come to be so old,

With my songs unsung and my tales untold?

Or is it simply

That I have sung and I have told,

But no one ever really heard?

And why do I think they’ll listen now?

Does anyone really know or care to pause and listen

As the wind blows by, bearing my sigh?

Do they matter to any, these tears that I cry

While the cruel wind tears away my last sigh?

O, won’t you acknowledge this moment at all?

Be still; stand respectfully a few small seconds,

And hear the wind fleeing away with my sighs?

Will you bow your head and doff your hat,

And hold it close against your breast

While you stand still and silent and grave,

And mourn with me as the wind swirls by?

Hear, o hear that sighing sound.

Stay close by my side and hold my hand,

And assure me there’s reason to carry on

The moment after my dreams have died.

~CP Warner~

5 February 2010