Having reached an odd stage in my life where all the things I want to do seem both bound up in and mutually exclusive of the things I need to do, I sometimes find myself very conflicted. Worse yet, it’s getting really hard to tell the difference between the two. I think I’m starting to understand how Dolittle’s pushme/pullyou must have felt.
For me, conflicted feelings nearly always give rise to poetry. On the upside, this generally keeps me from doing anyone serious bodily harm. On the downside, I have to post it somewhere, so, here ’tis. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Summer tosses threads of adventure but
I’ve lost my depth perception and cannot
catch what she throws my way.
These days it’s less about what I should
do and more about what I would do;
except that it isn’t. And I hate the frustration
that stalks my waking moments, prodding
coals of resentment in a heart that wants only peace.
Inverted desires stalk me with pent up aggression.
No to sunshine, yes to 60 watts of hard work;
no to pool side margaritas, yes to editing, posting
poems and publication of a life’s work that was
started late and may never be
finished. That’s the fear.
That I’ve left it too late.
That there isn’t enough time on my clock.
The specter of a missed horizon makes
everything else a pale shadow of itself
and leaves me afraid of being
doomed to chasing ghosts
of what might have been possible if
I had only had the courage
to start on time.