I used to be the black cloud,
now I'm turning gray.
Hands age, veins emerge,
wrinkles gradually set in
around the mouth and brows.
The back begins to ache,
the voice gets hoarse,
a charming quality to some,
the roughness of the age to others.
Today, as I strolled down Yonge,
I was suddenly pushed
by a careless teen
who rushed by me.
While regaining my footing,
I saw an elderly man
trying in vain to retrieve
his rolling oranges.
As he crawled after them,
I realized he is helplessly old
and I am helplessly young.
September, 2009 issue of Word Catalyst
To the Lighthouse: Leaping Tanka
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Leaping tanka is a subgenre of* leaping poetry as defined by Robert Bly as
“a long floating leap from the conscious to the unconscious and back again,
a le...