Birthday Number 70

I haven't spent a second deciding what I would do or be in my 70th year, but that birthday arrived just the same on June 18. There is something formidable about those birthdays ending in 0. Expectations. The work, transitions of retirement, my first poetry book, all are part of a past decade. Gone. Forgotten.

Seventy could be the beginning of old age. On the other hand, each day we are all older than the day before. Reflecting on age, I believe we are as old as we allow ourselves to be. With plenty of exercise, good food, and lots of interesting projects, the seventies should resemble the sixties and the eighties. Perhaps just a bit more relaxed.

Thank God for good friends and soul sisters. I have been fortunate to belong to several writing groups. My poetry group had a fantastic birthday party for me at our last meeting. Below, a poem written for me fills me with hope and encourages me to go boldly into the next decade. I thought today that if I were to have an eightieth birthday party, it should be poems and readings--wisdom for the next decade.

A Toast to Maryann

First, forget everything you’ve learned
about turning 70,
about black sheep and cracked pots.

Just say “yes” to the glorious anatomy of a simile,
drawing friends as little circles of overlapping similarities.

Together, we drink from the delicate soup of your whimsy,
served with a sly wink,
savoring the morsels that nourish our being.

A toast to you, Maryann;
to the cook who follows no recipe,
but throwing mysterious spices into the pot
somehow transforms everyday ingredients, and
serves up such tasty, unexpected delights
to us, your hungry guests.

Suzanne Frey
June, 2010


Here is a poem written by another dear friend. Very clever:

Wow! With Today's birthday, Maryann becomes seventy.
Now some would say, these are years a-plenty,
But I say, "No," she deserves much more.
She should still brighten this world at one hundred-four.

Alan Axtell. (I hope he is right!)

Whacked

A gorgeous trumpet vine
winds around my front door,
dropping bell-shaped blossoms
on my door step. Everyday
I sweep their dead brown bodies
into a tan grocery bag, then
perform ritual dumpster burial.

Encouraged by persistent
spring showers, the vine
multiplied madly, sending
tendrils into gutters and cracks,
aspiring to the roof and skies,
snaking into the boxwood bushes,
and whacking my forehead
when I leave my home.

There are boundaries, you know.
Mr. Trumpet vine’s arrogance
begs a lesson. He must learn
his place. Armed with clippers,
tentatively a snip here,
cautiously a cut there,
until left balances right:
trim becomes prune and shape.

Today the green vine twines
round my door-—smaller,
decorous, and well-behaved.
Golden bright flowers
dazzling like sunshine gone.

Anomaly

She doesn’t understand me.
She claims I am different,
unlike any of their friends or relatives.
The cracked pot on the shelf.
The black sheep in the field.
The inexplicable picture on the wall.

Shy and introverted,
I had few friends in school.
The smart kid. The lonely kid.
The thinking “outside the box” kid.
Even mother complained
I wasn’t normal like the other girls.
She said her friends told her that.

There must be a right way
and a wrong way to think.
The perfect answer to life’s
questions and problems.
My replies are never
the anticipated response.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Are you serious?”
“Hmm.”

Despite rejection, disconnected
images and thoughts still rush past,
too rapid and numerous to sort
into “acceptable,” “questionable,”
and “more honesty then they need.
Some details are too poetic to speak.
How distressing I risk disgrace
if I share what my soul knows.