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Punk At 61 (Poem-PouncePunk Art Challenge)

Newer Docs now and grayer hair.

The attitude and a flash of swagger still there.

You don’t like my clothing? Or perhaps what I write?

I really don’t care…and I’m being polite.

Now my marching is done on largely virtual streets

Where connections are formed with astounding speed.

(We relied on the mail once to distribute zines, music, and merely to FIND one another.

The underground owes homage to the U.S. Postal Service.)

But we continue and intermingle with those who followed,

Still able to sing and draw and write.

Make it loud; make it subversive; make people think.

Question authority and question yourself.

Be who you are without fear, rocking on to the rhythms of change!

Where do I find my home?

If external and anchored to a particular place, persons, or circumstance,

I always live in a temporary abode, a shifting unstable shelter.

Eventually I will be homeless, as will we all.

If internal and built with sturdy foundations shored by constant reinforcement,

I have a much different type of dwelling, a flexible steady residence.

If you place your happiness in that which can be taken from you,

You will lose your happiness.

Love where you are; love those around you; love what you love, in any way.

I do so and find comfort in all of these.

They will change and even pass away,

So I cherish them for their fleeting presence.

My hearthstone is placed in another realm,

Connected to all around, until it crumbles also,

Impermanent as I am.

Here is the game:

I give you a rock, large and heavy.

You get to carry it up this mountain.

I’ll meet you at the top ridge,

Take your rock, and hurl it back down the mountain.

We’ll repeat this process over and over and over.

Are you tired yet?