On Turning Twenty-One <br />(the sound, the fury) <br /> <br />With today, twenty-one years <br /> has been wasted to make a fool; <br />all squandered years <br />and thrown away ambition <br /> and first hope as well. <br />My regrets for the pointless efforts <br />of parental prayers, <br />and the flesh-dancing bones <br />and the skull that smiles- <br />though trapped, though trampled <br />since that inward aspect <br />hates itself. <br /> <br />Yet even this hate is wasted <br />and the moment, now- <br />candles will flame away, <br />crumbles the cake and the years <br />like tears fall down. <br />All of everything <br />fearfully in mind- <br />as if so desperate <br />to stay alive- all fails; <br />and body's own self-tomb <br /> that first strains <br />with infant urge <br />to burden down a womb. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />On Turning Seventy-One <br />(signifying nothing) <br /> <br />Look in mirror <br />some old snow. <br />You were young. <br />Does it show? <br /> <br />Look in mirror <br />Is that you? <br />'Living's deadly, ' <br />Mirror's view. <br /> <br />(On reflection- <br />It's quite true.)<br /><br />Glenn Bagshaw<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-turning-twenty-one/
