Men Who Still Cry at Age Thirty

Gone are the days of old,
of thriving warrior spirit,
of ankles not yet weighed
by the iron shackles of society,
of men who once lived free.

Gone is the time of passage rites,
of free flowing blood,
of boys prepared at fourteen
to earn their prize of manhood,
of hearts hardened into stone.

Here are the days of aged youths,
of glory lost and broken will,
of parents and teachers and pastors
mixing ideal with being,
of spirit lost to myth.

Here is the time of shiftless souls,
of softened skin and mental woe,
of insurance and taxes and bills
all waiting to be paid,
of men who still cry at age thirty.

That Was Then

We used to run the fields together
not a care to imagine
boys and girls alike
laughing shouting playing.

That was then.
Now rigid rules exist.
We're strapped down
and clothed in protocol.
Like jewelry we wear our friends,
not for company, as accessories.
It's always about seeming,
it used to be more being.
Who could've imagined
our sad state today.
Always a stiff hello,
no more laughing together,
no more shouting together,
no more playing together.
And nobody blinks an eye.
Just as I thought.

Sunday

A day of customary work
to clean a week's worth of mess.
A day to do whatever you
haven't been doing
the laundry, perhaps?
A relaxing day, maybe
in your wildest dreams.
Sit outside, yes, on the patio,
read a book
and breathe that musty air.
Yes, constantly think
of that promise you made
to your mom.