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?
Last six photos by Rachel Rawlins on Flickr.
6 Replies to “50”
Happy 50th Birthday, Dave! Loved this post. Something about well aged like wine and cheese… it just keeps getting better.
I have loved every minute of getting older. If I rely on my experience so far, the hardest part about being 50 must be containing the beauty of it all, and if this is the case there are singular advantages to being a poet.
Happy birthday. I look forward to your notes on the next decade.
Thank you, Dave and Rachel. This has made my day! I love the interplay between text and image. Oh, and happy birthday! It gets better. Life is still an adventure at 70.
Marvelous! Many blessings in your new year! May the adventure continue!
Thanks, you guys. the hardest part about being 50 must be containing the beauty of it all If only because we mostly have yet to deal with life-threatening illnesses, yes. On the way home on Megabus, all along I-80 in northern PA I couldn’t shake the impression that the scarred and tragedy-filled landscape was the text of a vast poem.