Two Poems

What the French do

The French have this peculiar obsession
With meaning. They search for it.
Then they get lost on the way. They
Soon realize that their searching is
Futile. Nothing has meaning. Life
Is but particles spinning in space.
The way that they spin doesn't last,
But they do, and the French ask
Again what that means.


No Sign of a Compensatory Increase in Wisdom

My gathering frailty's begun to annoy me.
My muscles ache earlier. I have to nap.
My breathing is labored. Sometimes,
I can't swallow. A walk with my wife
Seems a death march to me. Will I soon
Be some poor old guy, dressed in a
Sweater, who staggers at snail's pace
Down streets with a cane? Will I
Sit in a chair and then suddenly die,
Having been inert so long that
Nobody notices? “Mommy, I'm
Pretty sure Grandpa has died.”
“He may just be sleeping. That's
What he does most.” I'd prefer
To be able to act out my anger,
To show up the young guys
Around me at work, and to do
With my granddaughter, who'll
Be here soon, what I did with her
Mom, toss her high in the air,
And then catch her, of course,
As I did long ago, before I began
To feel frail.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 70 times
Written on 2016-09-14 at 23:58

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