I turned 50 on February 24. The fact that I haven’t gotten around to mentioning it until now shows, I think, that I am completely fine with reaching this arbitrary milestone.
As with Mr. Trump, everything is in perfect working order.
We grow older every moment. It’s nothing to get excited about.
Life is like a circle, my friends.
You have to grasp opportunity with both jaws, and not worry if it has a bit of a funny taste.
The older you get, the more survival strategies you master.
I like to think I’m getting mellower with age,
and I’ve learned one or two things along the way.
My dreams have become more realistic and achievable,
and I fancy that something resembling enlightenment may still be within reach.
The trick is to remain young at heart,
ignoring that little whisper that says that life has passed me by.
To be a poet, I continually remind myself, is to be a valuable member of society—nay, an “unacknowledged legislator of the world”!
Poetry is essential to our individual and collective mental health.
I mustn’t measure myself by others’ standards,
much less by what I consume
or the company I keep.
I need to keep a good head on my shoulders, however white it may turn,
and keep making things that people value.
With that kind of attitude, how can getting old be anything but an adventure?