Old Shoes

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How do we decide:
When is a shoe old?
When it’s worn in,
and nicely soft-soled?
Or is it when it’s
tattered and threadbare?
When its color
matches your head hair?

When is the time
of your shoes’ middle age?
When they’re broke-in
and your feet they assuage?
They still look nice,
and comfy, and fit…
They might be your favorites,
they’re loved, quite a bit.

Well, this, too, is life;
we are much like our shoes:
We’re not old ‘till frail,
battered, and bruised,
By the very air ‘round us;
air we enjoy;
When we’re far too mature
and refined to be coy.

Middle age is a cross
between comfort and fear;
A time when we long
to hold close what’s held dear.
And we look to the future,
and we feel some worry,
Our hearts are still big;
our sight’s not quite blurry.

We’ve gained qualities
of wisdom and hindsight;
We still look young,
but we’ve gained Grandma’s insight.
It’s a hard age to be,
but it’s also perfect:
In between young and old;
a time to reflect.

We’re far from worn out;
we’ve still got much wear left;
And we know what joy is,
and we know what is bereft.
We keep looking forward,
while we also look back,
And we seek our own place,
and we’ve learned our own knack.

Don’t forget where you are:
you’re not olden yet,
Those shoes still have
some good tread, I’ll bet.
And while the sun
glistens and shines,
You still have sparkle,
in all kinds of times.

~Amarine Rose Ravenwood

© Chrissy’s Creative Corner 2019

All images public domain

Liberation of Maturity

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In grace she walks,
As in a breeze,
And though she’s dreaming
Of all the seas.

Her windswept hair,
Of lighter gray,
Still flows as youthful
In her midday

As it did
When she was young,
Full of spirit,
Freshly sprung.

But now, she glides,
Above it all,
Beyond the raging
Wild call.

And flows her mind,
In wisdom’s loops;
Freed from, now,
Confusion’s hoops:

Self-finding done,
And in the past;
She goes on now,
Free, at last.

~Amarine Rose Ravenwood

© Chrissy’s Creative Corner 2019

All images public domain

Middle Age

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I’m not consigned
to old age, yet,
although my youth
has lost the bet.

I still have passion,
heart, and drive,
and in my inner soul
I thrive

Although I like
a rocking chair
as much as anyone,
beware

that’s not my forte,
not my place:
I’m not done
with this long race.

Don’t unsee me,
Invisible.
Don’t mark me off
predictable.

You don’t know me,
from what I’m made;
where I am opal,
you see jade.

I still have spark,
I still have fight,
I’m still willful,
with all my might.

and just because
I look an age,
don’t use it as
unfair presage.

I dream, I dance,
I fly, inside.
In my heart,
I’m still a bride.

You think you know,
Like age tips fate;
Like golden youth’s
the only trait

But I know me,
and I am strong
and though I’m not young,
I’ll live long

and this is nothing;
just the gate
to better things,
if I just wait

You think you’re young,
well, that’s just great –
your soul’s just twelve;
well, mine’s just eight.

The outside shell
don’t tell a thing,
it doesn’t say
what life will bring,

It doesn’t say
how sweet the soul
it doesn’t show
the endgame goal

All it does
is mark the years
the smile lines
the trace of tears

and shows I’ve lived
from here to there,
and shows I’ve learned
just how to care

but my essence
still remains
despite my losses
or my gains

unchanged inside me
my deep core
which will remain
forever more

and that was young
‘twill never age
no matter wrinkles,
what their gauge

for what’s inside me’s
like a bird
gentle, light,
a breath of Word

and though I am
no longer young,
my journey, here,
is far from done.

~Amarine Rose Ravenwood

© Chrissy’s Creative Corner 2019

All images public domain