My breasts are round, still firm.
White threads intertwine with
My hair of night. My thighs
Are no longer slim, but
My pubis still fires up, a
Volcano of flesh, erupting at the
Right, rhythmic touch.
And It’s not easy, oh no, this song
I have so much hunger
For things yet to be done,
So much longing for what
Has come and gone.
And there is so much that I wish.
I want an electric
Tricycle. With a basket, for a dog.
I desire to be the weird lady riding it
On the high street and London Road.
I wish to knit hats and gloves for babes
Smelling of candy and new skin.
I want to tango with a 30-year old
With a great moustache and
A shirt of silk. And I wish
For a weathered hand holding mine,
As we watch the sunset at summertime.
I desire to wear flowers on my head,
And bring fifty-four years of experiences
As an offering to the temple of life.
I want to dance all night
And give half of my stuff away.
I wish to rest and just be in the now,
At the top of the hill from where I can see
Until forever. I want to drink wine
And eat cheese on the beach,
And just smile. And stop worrying
About achievement and success –
Whatever I do, let it be done
From a place of joy and peace and
What the heck. Oh, easy is not,
This song of fifty-four. And yet
The more I live it, the more I feel alive,
Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with
The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds
Of brothers and sisters singing the same
Song. The song of us, the unfinished
Master works, ready for one more chip,
One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.
Let us then sing the song of us,
Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,
This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.