The Picasso Years

by

Phil Pochurek

The finesse of time
Slows us down physically
So that patience replaces competition
As we enter a new genre of living
In our farewell to youth.
It’s a long journey to arrive at wisdom
Through experience with our bodies and spirits in tact.
Mentally, physically, or both, lets say whole.
Life is a short game.
We drive for show
And putt for the know.
We all start out with the same ingredients.
Add our own unique flavor and style
To the person we become
And hope when we reach the finish line
The soufflé doesn’t fall.
Some times the clues are hidden
But mostly they're conspicuous.
A shirt tale left out, sleeping till ten.
Glasses lost on top of your head.
Only one shower a day, maybe.
Topped off with a nursing home shave.
Just close enough to keep the crumbs
From sticking to your face.
With a few random hairs left showing
That you missed or grew misplaced.
It’s the things that don’t show
That are hard to find.
They’re the hidden out of sight ones
Deep in the back of you mind.
Your phone number forgotten, the car keys misplaced.
Names and faces people and places
The day of the week, all erased.
It’s merciless sometimes
When your own mind plays hide and seek.
But for the most of us
There’s someone around to help us remember
To help us be found
When we get lost in conversation
As we wonder and wander
Down the long road home.
In snapshots we’re reminded
Of where we’ve been.
The things we’ve done and that we’re not alone.
That the children we’ve raised
And our next of kin
Have been with us all along the way.
In memories we all come home.
They take us back to lead the way
And help us remember
How we got to where we are today.
From our abstract thoughts, doubts and fears,
To our random points of view
We start each day over
Carefully planning everything we do.
Trying not to get lost or stuck in the past.
Trapped in another lifetime
And the shadows that it casts.
The fading colors of the day and
The sounds and smells of everyday life
Are all reminders of how important each sunset is.
Are all reminders of how much sand is left in the glass
How much water is left in the well.
How important it is to tell someone you love them.
In our Picasso years it all goes too fast.
And as things begin to blur
Into one thought one memory
We finally learn that nothing lasts.
We try to color our good byes with grace
With each stroke of the brush
As we put our lives in place.
Rejoice with us and save you tears
Someday you’ll understand
When you reach the Picasso Years.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Natural Beauty
by: John William McGrath III
from: Mesa, AZ, US

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