Notes posing as poetry at 65

by 

Noel Ihebuzor

 

If the road be straight

not all who walk
on it at this hour are
each year on it
adds  a lead weight
even flowery ribbons too
are not without weight.
The road is rugged
Ije uwa, ije enu
The road is sweet
Taste buds say sh*#
Tongues whisper – ashi, karia, iro…
tread the smooth road
with care roars the sage
flat surfaces are often twisted
and can derail
Ije enu, ije uwa
hate love, counsels the one
wounded by love
Love, not hate, advises the poet
for though love may hurt,
hate corrodes and kills
Give me a clean slate
to state that which
pains, gains and baffles
Life makes little distinction
Between 65 and 56
At this age
rage as you fit
strong is soft
and weak is strong
At your won’t and life’s will
Each year is gold
even those with ear and nose
dripping blue cold
howling hoarse, breathing hot
like the exhaust hose
of a cooling system
Years are measured
not on even scales
nor days by perfect metrics
Some years weigh like uke
some like butterflies
unevenness marks the even,
even some days are often 25 hours
and longer
numbers are not
always what they seem
nor do figures always say
what is on their minds.
figures with juicy curves,
you may soon learn to distrust
for when you embrace them
they are often dry and wrinkled
ages with repeated numbers
are no good either.
The mind is an alchemist,
with time it makes gold
and silver of the coldest years
when we shivered the most
eyes may receive and deceive,
deceiving more, “screeded” surfaces
give up multiple sectors
looking twice in  the old gives
double vision, so look
once only but with eyes open
for if dead fish
keep their eyes open,
why not you who choose life
struggling as feet grow heavy,
some eyes grew weary and watery
while the mind rebels, soars and floats
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