Taking Stock @ 60

In our first 20 years, we're training.
In our second 20 years, we're aiming.
In our third 20 years, we're claiming, then
In our fourth 20 years, we're naming.

So, taking stock here @ 60, here's what I see
when I take a closer look at the one who is becoming me.

I'm a writer-downer, a recorder,
a summarizer and reporter.
A gap-filler, a needs-meeter,
On my best days, a finisher-upper.

Not a leader, really, not a future-seer,
nor a risk-taker or a way-maker.
More of a sag-wagon driver,
or a street sweeper.
But don't mistake me for a late-sleeper.

I'm a puzzle-doer, program coordinator,
A lost-finder, a good looker,
Avid practicer, not perfecter
I'm a ducker, mostly not a hitter.

More of a guest than a hoster,
A preparer, not a roaster,
I'm a greeter. Really, a welcomer,
Sketcher, chalker, and avid walker.

I'm a waiter and a seer
A fan and a cheerleader,
supporter, and attender
Challenger and contender.

Call on me as cleaner-upper,
A problem solver, a self-starter.
Yes, a spell checker and self-editor.
Explainer and a moderator.

Investigator, question-asker.
A tender and sharer, an appreciator.
Both doer and undoer.
A go-er and come to-er.

On Sunday I'm a pew-sitter,
an enthusiastic hymn singer.
Both practitioner and preacher,
an unfolder and a teacher.

Call me thinker, ponderer? you bet
A poet-er, yes, a poetess,
Also, a poet-mess
But I dare not be poemless.

I'm just a scribe, really a scribbler.
Get it all down before I forgit 'er
A builder, not a demolisher
scratcher of surfaces, dedicated looker under-er.

I'm a gatherer, not a hunter,
A convener, rarely a punter.
A playmaker, deal-breaker,
a truth-teller, reader and discover-er.

Def an un-waster, collector and keeper.
A news consumer and a news creator.
Only occasionally am I a spectator.

What I will be, we will see
Glad I'm still growin' at sixty.

About wlebolt

Life comes at you fast. I like to catch it and toss it back. Or toss it up to see where it lands. I do my best thinking when I'm moving. And my best writing when I am tapping my foot to a beat no one else hears. Kinesthetic to the core.

Posted on June 28, 2021, in poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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