January 2018
Michael L. Newell
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
I have led a peripatetic life, spending one-third of it outside the United States in thirteen countries.  In this country I have lived in thirteen states.  I retired three and a half years ago to a quiet life in a small town on the Oregon coast.  My poems this month reflect my travels, and my looking forward to retirement.  Two of the poems, written about fifteen years ago, are amazingly prescient about my life in retirement.  The other poem, written about the same time, is a product of having friends all over the world who were once colleagues, and who came from many nations, in this case Russia.
 
AGING GRACEFULLY


A room stands open. I enter.
A chair rocks slowly in a corner.
I sit in it, accept its motion.
 
The world slows. Nothing is
quite as important as it was
a few minutes ago.
 
Children’s voices float through
an open window. They chant schoolyard
verses. I smile and sleep, wrapped
 
in a garment of memory and delight.

Previously published in A Long Time Traveling (Four-Sep Publications, 2004)
 
 


TESTAMENT
 

The bald patch on the crown
of my head widens;
like rings of bark round a tree, it
proclaims my years to the observant.
 
Where once I rose to talk,
arms waving like a mad conductor,
now I sit, gestures economical, like an old
blues guitarist who suggests rather than indulges.
 
Not long ago I dove into life’s hurly-burly--
today I ease along its edges,
careful to avoid bumps and spills, although
chuckling at much of what I see.
 
Ah, for a rocking chair with a view,
and a slingshot to annoy the unwary.
  
Previously published in A Long Time Traveling (Four-Sep Publications, 2004)
 


FOR DARREN, MASHA, AND HANNAH TREBEL
 

A photograph flies through virtual space
to enter my mailbox. I do not know
the man or baby. The woman, though,
I know that face. It is a bit rounder
than four years ago. The eyes
are now an adult’s eyes, not a girl’s
on the threshold of becoming a woman. Ah, Masha,
 
your baby wears your sceptical expression.
The father may be American, but that look
is pure Russian -- doubting whatever is
to come, but unafraid to face it. Her left
hand is attached to your face, making certain
mother is within reach. Only the father smiles. Typical
American. Doesn’t he know life is dangerous?
 
May Hannah grow into Masha, unafraid
of the world’s horrors. May she grow into
Darren, certain there are things worth
a smile, knowing there is a future
which will welcome her. May your family grow
into an orchard which nourishes all who know you, may
winter’s winds never harm the sap within your branches.
 
Previously published in A Long Time Traveling (Four-Sep Publications, 2004)
©2018 Michael L. Newell
Editor's Note:  If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF