" While There is Time, I will Dance and I will Sing "

“ While There is time, I will Laugh and I will Sing “

32 Free Verse Poems celebrating

the joys of growing Old Gracefully…or not

♣

A Timely Collection by Asia Rachael Cohen as:

A.R. Koheen

The joy of the Sabbath is mine to cherish

it wraps around me in promises

I am too replete to fulfill until dusk

tomorrow sets my idle fingers free

and the tasks which I nurtured

as they lay curled beside my heart

will carry me forward yet another day

in winged promise

of eternal flight.

But while there is time, I will laugh

…and I will sing!

There is so much locked up in me

that when I sit down on my chair

with Shiloh finally content to sleep

in ‘his chair’ beside my writing desk

that thoughts and ideas, verse and prose

pour out in lieu of laughter

or of tears and I rejoice

despite the subtle wonder and doubt:

‘ What were all those people doing

inside of my head?’

It seems that I hear the crackle and pop

of the coffee maker

reminding me I need to stand

and stretchy

and shuffle over by the edge of the

desk to turn its heat off

while I allow my assets

to cool and refill with blood

but my mind is a separate entity

it does as it will, and ultimately,

I do as it wills….sigh…

Cold was the order of the day

as I woke to Cat’s urging

lazed, crazed, and dazed I lingered

in bed till eight o’clock

resenting the need to rise

and leave the warmth of the

sheets and blankets

but when he got up and walked away

I reluctantly.

After all, I was awake now.

“Meow? He complains eloquently

“ Meow “ I reply

and he watches me intently,

I do not harass him with the

“Silent Meow”

that’s a night time tour d- force

I’m not awake enough to match wits

With my cat,

I’ll lose!

I play until my art show

resenting the implication

I need to work,

I putter around, do my ‘numbers’

Open cupboard doors and sigh

Waiting listlessly

For something to throw itself at me

and failing that, I make toast

and sip at my coffee until

I can catch up with the day.

It got an early start one me!

Continued on next page

# 7

Autumn is seeping under the doorsill

it pools around my naked toes

it creeps into my bones

and chills the marrow

but as I dilute it with coffee

I find it a unique comfort

Paradoxically

because its known.

outside of my control, but

known.

I couldn’t sleep so I came out here

and turned on the computer

the keyboard lacks

the satisfying click of efficiency

of my old Corona

but it doesn’t disturb the neighbors

as much,

maybe that’s what I miss?

And scanning the publisher’s list

I saw the firm notation

Unseen till now

that there HAVE TO BE fifty poems

to a book submission…sigh …

there goes half of mine!

There is such freedom in prose or poetry

flights that doesn’t require

full body scans or probing hands

where destinations near you

instead of requiring you flee to them

where people can be as charming as

you are as you want them to be

and warts hide

but sometimes, so do the very things

you seek and you can’t just arrive

and expect them to be there

travel broadens

but at least it never bores!

#10

My heart is dancing with joy despite the silence pressed

against the darkened windows as I wake to realize

I am not dreaming this time…it is real,

I have been contacted by a publisher for a book

I have yet to write-and yet

There is a confidence within me as I lie down

And command the Dream Machine to review

All of the needs of the script I wish to write

For only my heart can feels theirs

Beating

And allow me to move them

At a pace consistent with their desires

And not my own!

#11

There is such unusual quiet and gray

this Sunday morning

that I listen intently for the coffee maker

to make sure I haven’t lost

my ability to hear and the loudest

I hear is the silver ‘shush’ of blood

In my ears, the soft click of the keys,

the occasional reminder from the coffee pot

that I haven’t turned it off yet,

but a cup of hot coffee requires I stand

and I’m not ready too yet,

this silence is too wondrous to risk

offend it and it may disappear

with the quiet expectation

of what might yet be

this solitary Sunday morning.

#12

I yield to the inevitable as a unseen car

moves on the empty city street

and Cat changes his position on ‘his’ chair

all else in life is rising to the challenge

of five fifteen…and beyond

yet I linger,

feeling the chilled wind brush

the back of my neck where

my hair is now cut short,

a promise inherent yesterday

the cannot deny the yawn that

accompanied to the front room this gray,

quiet, respectful day as my main character

waits with a smile for me to finish

my daily routine and step into his world,

to share it

again

for a little while. For,

while there is time I will laugh and I will sing

and I will dance in slow circles of joy

and allow my Spirit’s Voice to rise

in soft ways of gratitude and purpose.

#13

The warm coffee rests against the back of my throat

it warms my blood as I sit in a solitude

neither sunlit nor cloud filled,

timeless,

as Time swirls past me and lingers to

touch my cheek tenderly,

as if in regret,

for it will pass while I continue

and even this hour of early morning solitude

seems to take an eon to creep by,

pausing,

to look over shoulders

as my fingers write

and my mind rests

timeless,

as if in regret,

for it will pass while I continue

and even this hour of early morning solitude

seems to take an eternity to creep by.

#14

The sound of the Greyhound bus paused at the light

seems to add quickened pulse to the chill light

the arrival of someone new, the awaited departure

of someone yawning themselves awake

at the terminal at the top of the hill.

I envision the station sleepy and empty

with low lights and lit vending machines

being about all one can see by

even though the sunlight will soon send

the silence to hide in the shadowed crevices

of the national rock formation placed

by a human hand as sculpture imitating Nature’s

sure hand at art

and I wish I could pause but I am awake

and once awake I must justify

this pleasure

by having something ‘to show for it’

in the Puritanical, Calvinistic nature of

my upbringing, that unlike Nature.

Who is because she exists,

I am because I exist,

And I have no other mountains

or other monuments to show for it

as she does,

and so I yawn myself to work

and I am a better person for it-

aren’t I?

#15

What is the nature of love?

Does it swoon with joy at the beloved’s face

or does it curl up contended

to be near the object of its affection

like a small white ball of fur

with his nose warmed by the tip of his tail

with his back pressed in friendly manner

against his stuffed Cadbury Bunny

with whom he shares ‘his’ chair near my desk.

allowing me the joy of watching him,

of seeing his show of affection

without slowing my hands

in their restless search

across my computer keyboard

while the overpower stench of the static air

fresher sends nauseating waves of sugared scent

into the still air and the sunlight creeps in

between the silences, pushing them apart

as day breaks, and I begin

again.

# 16.

Excitement tugs at my sleep

as hapless as an eager child

and I, I turn to embrace it,

carefully,

knowing how fickle the Muses

may be, but then I turn my face away

and make it clear.

as stern as any mother with a wayward child,

if it is to remain it must conform

to the limits and demands of the book

now occupying my soul and mind

and to my delight

it proves an agile

contortionist.

#17

Hope lingers as I rest

sipping at cold coffee and trying not to sigh

away the remainder of the quarter hour

I’ve allowed to indulge my sense of pleasure,

I fear to stray too far from

the western city holding my people.

holding my thoughts in place,

keeping me returning to this chair

this nondescript time machine

which shuttles me between centuries

between genders and assumptions of

gender as I wrestle

with issues

displayed in old fashioned clothing

having a real relevance

to the lives I am living today-

in both worlds!

#18

I walk among the strangers in the park

simply having walked the two blocks here

demanding so much of age thickened muscles

and the curious need to be alone

in a world

populated by more than a dozen people

as the sounds of music and vendors,

of high school bands, and

the pleasant hum of human conversation

not of my own making

wraps around me with the promise

that I have returned to the world too

where I am welcomed as a smile

not needing a name, simply the willingness

to be at peace with the pleasant energy

flowing around me,

# 19

“Pig-out In the Park”

marks the end of summer, as the cold did,

but here the warmth comes

from the sharing with strangers,

the eating of homemade chili and spice

as Life makes room for my brief appearance

and doesn’t rebuke me

when I sit to one side,

content to watch,

to listen,

to hear

before I return to my apartment and Cat

and the ‘other’ world I left behind briefly,

the better to share both,

while there is time

before Winter’s chill embrace.

#20

As I wait in the Lobby downstairs I am touched

by the depth and range of emotions locked

inside the faces I meet, someone happy

proud of what they have already accomplished

this early in the day,

and I cheer inwardly,

someone locked inside with grief

as the one they love is locked away

in a hospital where they are forbidden to go

and I ache inwardly,

someone faces another long day

with nothing to do.

And I ache inwardly,

I fume at the lateness of my ride

Until they pull to a stop at the front door

visible from the broad windows

that allow us to look outward

as we look inward,

and I cheer inwardly

even though I know I will take these

with me wherever I go.

How much shopping can one do?

#21

I rub my eyes, I ease my aching head, I thrust

but the object of my attention retreats,

I plead, but it stays aloof,

I cajole but it ignores,

I turn my back, and find myself

Facing it.

Writer’s Block!

I try to make myself laugh,

saying that I have to be a writer

to have Writer’s Block in the first place,

but it is implacable,

unyielding,

until,

I dust off my clipboard, filled with

lined paper,

filled with half formed rhymes,

illusive truths and there I linger

until it no longer matters

that what I write isn’t a Tome by a sigh

a thoughtful expression of where I am.

#22

As I look across the great dark void

to where I will be

when I may write freely again and live

while there is time, to dance, to sing,

to dream, to hope, to chirp

or not to chirp—

No,

Shakespeare had it wrong! THAT is the question

at least for this Dane!

#23

The sunset drapes itself across the visible horizon

conforming itself to the roofs of the buildings

blocking my view of the distant mountains

with a nearer, more intimate view,

the Clock Tower,

the edge of the Opera House,

the edge of the new Convention center,

the shared parking lot,

the shared camaraderie of daylight events

which seem to echo like memories

of unseen high school bands beginning the march

the Lilac Parade, the twilight Parade,

honoring our veterans.

honoring our yearly participation in rites

that link us with the generation before us

and the one we’ll leave behind

as day yields gently to night’s instance

which, while repeated,

will never come again

and I savor its passing

as day gently to night’s instance

#24

My Muse sits cross-legged in Levi’s

as often perched on my windowsill with Cat

as floating gently in the air,’

strumming her harp,

sometimes she comes on the piercing whinny

of a drunk post-adolescent

thinking sex will buy intimacy

as easily as she bought the drink

that fills her and the night so

completely and utterly that I must get up

and shuffle into the living room half naked

remembering not to turn on the lights

until I’m away from the exposed doorway

where I find escape, as she did,

in the sweet velvet of the night

but at least this time,

her noise and wants will fade

while I find escape

by the light of my computer screen

and wish she had laryngitis!

#25

I grump, I frump, I whimper and I whine

~ but Cat will not be deterred!

Nor denied!

He is the voice of generations yet unborn

who demand my attendance at the keyboard

but only after I feed him,

and watching with an angel’s eat,

his belly full of ‘wet food’ gravy,

his sense of kingdom restored

because I obeyed his summons

and opened the jar of most cat treats,

he grants the majestic privilege

of his royals self draped

across the cushion of ‘his’ chair

and having done my ‘numbers’ and my

insulin shot as I yawned awake yet another

day too early

but too late to crawl back into bed,

I can only hope the Legacy

is worth the sleep I’ve lost

obeying le Chat!

#26

I go for a second cup of coffee

grateful I planed out the room

so no barrier stands

between me and the coffee cup

but that also denies me

any excuse for wandering away

neither to the door to the right

outside into the hall.

nor to the door to the right,

the Fung Shay abhorrent mix

of bed, bathroom and converter box

I go for a second cup of coffee

grateful I planed out the room

so no barrier stands

between me and the coffee cup!

I can only hope

my Muse didn’t become bored

in my prolonged absence

and leave me to find my own way back!

#27

The Spirit moves me, and I am filled with awe,

I pause over the keys having glimpsed

Something beyond me,

Something alluring and distant,

as I shrug off the clamor welling up

of personal demands I need to attend

I stand transfixed and watch in playful joy

As scenes merge from my introspection

from what I have considered in my

sightless flights to distant galaxies

where imagination dominates,

and I watch

the poetic mix of water and wind and rock

struggle with the words of psalms and Scripture

The Spirit moves me, and I am filled with awe,

Something beyond me,

Something alluring and distant,

as I shrug off the clamor welling up

of personal demands I need to attend

I stand transfixed and watch in playful joy

towards the day I may participate

sans pain, sans doubt

in Something alluring

and distant,

as I shrug off the clamor welling up

and I know I am loved.

#28

Poetry is the sum of what we experience

of what we hope to experience

the sum expression of what lies within

even without our knowledge,

or consent.

The consent of Celestial, eternal.

ethereal precepts and cogitations

willing to be housed in the fleeting ether

of human clay.

#29

Shiloh sits by the gold fish tank now returned

to the center of the table and the fish

he once tormented.

sitting on top so he could reach down the sides

at will

he now seems to be keeping company

since the antique Cat he used to sit by

was knocked off the table and broken

I guess we all have some level of need

for companionship,

except fish,

who shuns Shiloh

the same as he does me

unless he’s dancing on his tail

for supper.

If he keeps eating and growing at the same rate

he’ll soon be coming for dinner

okay.

but he won’t be the one staying!

#30

The breeze through the window touches shyly.

It doesn’t call for attention with the rattle of the blinds

like a saber’s rattle calling for war,

the way I’ve been waken in the middle of the night

more times than I care to recount

but the sounds it carries are stronger,

making up the difference

and I wait for the music from the park

to come our way… a pleasant reminder

as if the sudden cold didn’t do it,

that summer has spent its time of reign

and soon warm rain will melt into snow

and snow into ice

to keep me happy prisoner

in the room here with my Cat,

my computer…and my dreams!

#31

The month of September, 2010, is nothing

like what I might have expected,

even on my best days;

the dreams of being a publisher author

again,

vindicated by a professional

from dreams so vulnerable they lock within

now poised

to be shared with the world

as October smiles benignly

for the first time since the accident

and the loss of my dreams.

Big Ed was right!

When one door closes, another opens,

when one dream ends, another begins,

and if one is lucky and wise,

or lucky or wise,

you have someone of kindred spirit

with whom to share the journey.

I have Thee…

And I have Cat…

And I have the hope that soon I’ll see

The ones I loved so dear

when they towered over me,

but with so much more to say

than even I had dreamed!

#32

One thousand and one bookmarks over-night!

I may have to Deaconess to get my jaw wired!

This happened the last time I worked

on a Paul L. McWhorter Western,

which makes it all the sweeter as I share

the covert memories I have of my Dad,

as if the world is proving what

what my child’s heart already suspected

the true gentleness, true humility and love

is so compelling

if only because its so rare, so necessary to life

that as I write people and places I have never been.

I am them, for that little while

and as I drift to sleep at night,

I am less that crotchety, crippled old lady as

Big Ed’s baby,

knowing he will guard the night as I sleep,

and make sure God’s promises are kept ~

by the sun rising in the morning,

by never making a promise he wasn’t sure

that he could keep,

even one made to a stuttering six year child

with big blue eyes and a wide streak of anger

the size of Texas,

that someday…she would share a story

and this time

she would be believed!

The End

Original Poems by A.R. Koheen presented for your reading enjoyment by the author without cost or obligation

This site The Web

Site hosting by Web.com