Maybe all songs have been written
Maybe all stories have been told
At least I got enough books&music
To keep me from boredom as I grow old
Gene G. McLaughlin 2015
Tag: Aging
Bathroom Mirror
The measuring of ones self in the bathroom mirror
In the early pale gray morning
Does not become easier over time
The weight of actions and estimations
Grow ever greater
Like roots of trees intertwined
Becoming ever closer together
Facing the toothbrush and razor
The white stubble of the beard upon the chin
The plaque upon the once near white teeth
There is knowledge that this is yet another day
Full possibilities
Maybe redemption
Maybe failure
In the tasks that lead to that which one desires
To become
To represent
One day at a time says the addicts sponsor
Yet in truth it remains the same for all whom
Walk a path in conscious direction
Toward some specified or worthy goal
To thine own self be true
Said the aged character in the play
And in the bathroom mirror
This estimation
This evaluation
Is true
We are days and decades and sons and fathers in that mirror
Women we have loved and hurt and men we have killed or maimed
We are not our own gods nor can we ever be
Yet in the early pale gray morning with water running
The steam upon the mirror
We can look up and see through their divine eyes
Gene G. McLaughlin 2015
Postman
Doorbell rings who is it?
It is the postman once again
Postman what do you carry?
I bring you complications
And the dawn of a brand new day
I bring you salutations
From the voices of yesterday
Did you not expect it?
My deliveries are always on time
Could you not deduce that?
I would arrive at mornings chime
Looking at the postman
I can see jest in his eyes
He knows my years are more than a few
And I can see through his guise
You bring me what I did not expect
Maybe means to fill some needs
Or something from a past once wrecked
Maybe new growth from a bag of seeds
Mr. Postman I know enough of fate
To approach all things with doubt
I know there is never a clean slate
Nor a risk less route
But I shall not fear the unknown
That is just the same as being blind
Or disregard paths that are shown
Out of fear that they are not mine
Mr. Postman what speaks to you?
Tell me not I know it is pain
Mr. Postman you are not alone
And in each moment there can be gain
Bring me what you will sir
I am not afraid
Bring me what you will sir
Without calligraphy or masquerade
I know what you deliver:
Spirit always questing
Spirit always true
Spirit never breaking
Spirit always renewed
Spirit blind with sorrow
Spirit bound with pain
Spirit gently borrows
From the hearts small and subtle gains
Gene G. McLaughlin 2013
Long In The Tooth
There is no approval left to seek
No desires left to sate
No stone left unturned
Or fiery fetish left unburned
You are alone
With yourself
To your bone
Your no-one else
The hungers dissipated
To find your place
In the mirror situated
Is your true face
Oh please mama
Should I mourn?
Oh please mama
Where is my scorn?
Son you are older
And still alive
Son you are older
And still you breathe
Don’t be guilty
There’s no turning back
Don’t be guilty
There’s no turning back
You are whole
As a man becomes
You are lucid
As the lucky become
You will lose things
You will still fear
You will miss things
Things you hold dear
It is the grey
In you beard
It is the wrinkle
Under the eye
Its neither blessing
Or curse
It is never better
Or never worse
Only years passing
Only years gone by
Times never lasting
Son don’t you cry
Mama I see your beauty
Mama I see your youth
As we both growing weary
And long in tooth
Gene G. McLaughlin 2006
Winter 1989
Listening to the Replacements
Rain is coming down
Yellow Walkman in hand
Mud and dirty ice crunches
Under each tired stride
There is no pleasure in this today
Only the comfort of routine
Yet it gives little respite today
Searching for something
In between the rain
Looking for the cold
To bring true words
To my frozen lips
In youth we struggle to find
The simple paths
We run down cold roads
Hoping to lessen the burden
Of our uncertain futures
Where little is clear to us
And we have little guidance to
What we are or what the blurred
Images of our future selves
Off in the distance represent
In later years our burdens
Will be concrete and have numbers
Solidly affixed and attributed to them
The finding of the paths
Are no longer romantic runs of longing
In the cold winter rain
But carpools and commutes
Cubicles and colonoscopies
Where we know where our path takes us
And do not have a longing to find the way
But to leave it
Gene G. McLaughlin 2012
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