Be gone, you bastardly bully, vacate the youthful frame that lives inside my mirror.
Deliver me from your hostile embrace, evil talons digging into my right shoulder.
Seize not my knees. Don't peck my neck, and let my back unkink silently each morning.
Harass me not (you punitive punk) with twisted fingers or crunching toes.
You rude interloper: Do you think you own this joint and all the others?
You vault from limb to limb, dispersing pain, rabidly and randomly.
Observe the dancing branches of the lovely maple tree until the creaking sounds of winter come.
Just watch me swing from the rafters with Cirque du Soleil (in my mind).
See me soar toward the stars, light the sky, blast a tune; I'll email you often from the moon.
Taunt me, curse of age. This is war - you will not win.
The raging winter storm killed the power throughout the town,
plunged us into darkness with swirling snow and silence (save for
savage sounds of wailing wind.) I wish our stove were gas and I
could cook in Braille, that melt-free ice had been invented, saving
food supplies from spoiling. Hot buttered rum would sure taste
good if I had any hot water, rum and butter that wasn't rancid. I
wish for heat – from gas-powered electric blankets, battery-heated
gloves and socks, but my most fervent wish is for Johnny Carson's