To burn - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

To burn

I am tired of poetry
About death and aging
Reflections of time passed
And people long forgotten
Generations of aged writers
Chronicling late life
With tired words and
Sour stomachs

Where are the young voices
The brazen fires stoked
By pompous, passionate youth
The kind of leaping syllables
And laughing wordplay
That made the daylight
Break instead of wane

I am not young anymore
But youthful
In a kind of median prime
Searching for the milk behind the masters
The delirious honeyed fruit of our fore bearers
Drunk with adventurous diction
And feelings made audible titillation

I want to write about generousness
Fullness, the roundness of life
When years are still in front of you
Like mine are now
A crammed wallet of coupons
For unspent decades
Burning a hole in my back pocket
My fingers itching
Nights spent contemplating
Endless possibilities for travel

Grand ideas for second or third careers
I still experience
Wonder without worry
The thrill of life in
The possibility of change
To remember these days
When my grandparents still
Greet me in the drive
And the friends who knew me
From childhood are still
Bright burning path lights leading me home

I go outside to feel the force of the wind
Not eating at times to keep the hunger
It’s varied experience that get scarce
Tiredness sets in for the constant
Gathering, harvesting of fuel for inspiration
But one must stay burning
Crackling, flaming
Alight with possibility for something new.

- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

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