Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts

Monday, February 27, 2017

Happy Birthday, Ayla!


         for Ayla Huguenot



Ayla! You are now 13!
Ask yourself—what does that mean?
Hear that noise, half-scream half-shout?
That’s your mom! She’s freaking out!

So what’s 13? It’s a trip!
Trust me—I served on that ship.
I was 13 once too. (Damn.
That was during Vietnam.)

I know—that’s ancient history.
But ancient is what YOU will be.
You’ll think your life is all but done—
Y’know—when you turn 21.

But until then—and even after—
Fill up your days with songs and laughter.
This is your time to take the wheel
And aim yourself at an ideal

And take off like a thunderclap
Down roads that only you can map
Full of great sights and cool rest stops
(And hopefully free of traffic cops).

And so, from one whose teens were mad—
I was protesting war! And fighting with Dad!—
Who’s lived till (drum roll) 64—
Here are some rules you will ignore:

Hold and hug, but never clutch.
Don’t be someone else’s crutch.
Make the time to write and play.
Live the now, not yesterday.

When you don’t feel, don’t pretend it.
When your heart breaks, Time will mend it.
When in doubt, be like Joe Strummer.
Never—ever—date a drummer.

Daring is your magic wand.
Always reach for what’s beyond.
When you see a challenge? Do it!
Trust your gut!—just don’t add to it.

Don’t do more than two encores.
Remember—looks will open doors
But they don’t furnish the room.
Always prepare; never assume.

Be a troubadour at heart.
Finish everything you start.
When your life’s attacked by schmucks,
Please give zero rhymes-with-ducks.

Grow a garden. Fill a hole.
Risk rejection. Feed your soul.
Stroll when others push and shove.
The heart has no sex—let it love.

Listen closely. Use your voice.
Guard your freedoms—speech and choice.
Never fail to right a wrong.
Tell your story. Be a song.


Love,
Matthew

Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Birthday Sonnet



It’s all about the movement, not the motion;
   There has to be a Where each time I walk—
A target at which I aim my devotion,
   Even when I just stand there and take stock.
It’s not just standing, but what I stand for:
   Steadfastness, faith, truth, trust and loyalty,
And always moving when I can explore
   What no one either can—or wants to—see.
I look out on the morning of this day
   And choose to be a verb, not just a noun,
And know that—should I move or should I stay—
   I will not ever once let myself down,
      For when I walk, I do not walk alone;
      And where I stand is today’s stepping stone.

 

Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells

 

Checklist






Let’s see . . .




GETTING OLDER? Check. 
 

LOSING MY HAIR? Double check.
 
MANY YEARS FROM NOW? I wish.
 
 
RECEPTION OF  VALENTINE? Don’t make me laugh. The last one I ever got was  6 years ago. And oddly enough, I just found it while I was going through some old notebooks. Talk about getting your heart punched. 

BIRTHDAY GREETINGS? Yes, but there’s always somebody I want to hear from who never gets in touch. 

BOTTLE OF WINE? Hell no—at least 2. And red or rosé please.  

STAYING OUT TILL QUARTER TO THREE? At least once a month. 

LOCKED OUT BY YOU WHEN I GET HOME?  There is no “you.” 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  Seriously—who the fuck is “you?” 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?  What are you, my mother? 

WHEN I’M 64? That would be today. So, a big N-O to all of that, okay? 

YOU'LL BE OLDER TOO?  Older? Hah! NFW! Seriously—do you even know me? (Cue “Stop dating millennials!” speech from Felicity.) 

COULD I STAY WITH YOU IF YOU SAY THE WORD? Sure—but only if you’re the WRONG you. Which means you don’t have to say a word at all, and I’ll stay no matter what. Because I am 12. 

CAN I BE HANDY?  Let me show you the bookcase I built. You can find it in the surrealist room at MOMA. 

MENDING FUSES WHEN THE LIGHTS BLOW? Not in my wheelhouse. And what, you don’t like the dark? 

WILL YOU KNIT A SWEATER BY THE FIRESIDE? You may be able to knit, but there is no way in hell that I am ever going to be able to afford to live where there’s a fireplace. 

SUNDAY MORNINGS GO FOR A RIDE? Sunday mornings go to Kips Bay for a half-price matinee. 

DOING THE GARDEN; DIGGING THE WEEDS?  Going to the Garden; in the weeds. 

WHO COULD ASK FOR MORE? Me. Remember me? The old coot who’s losing his hair? 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  If the “you” here is who I think it is, she never needed me in the first place. 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME?  She just fed me a line that she needed me. 

WHEN I’M 64? And when she found out that my salary was only 64K, she dumped me. 

SUMMER RENTAL OF A COTTAGE IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT, IF IT’S NOT TOO EXPENSIVE. Cape Cod, maybe—but the Isle of Fucking Wight? Who do I look like, Agatha Christie? 

SCRIMPING AND SAVING? Okay—yes—that I can guarantee. Because I’ll be on Social Security. 

GRANDCHILDREN ON YOUR KNEE?  Only if they’re from your first marriage. 

VERA, CHUCK & DAVE? Who names their kids that? It sounds like a Fifties folk group. “And now, here’s Vera, Chuck And Dave singing their top ten answer to ‘Masters of War,’  ‘Kitchen Of Peace.’ ” 

SEND ME POSTCARDS OR LETTERS IN WHICH YOU STATE YOUR POV.  Actually I’d be happier if you just returned my fucking texts. I’m not holding my breath. 

BE VERY PRECISE ABOUT WHAT YOU MEAN TO SAY?  Okay—that narrows it down—now I know EXACTLY who the “you” is. 

YOUR SIGN THE LETTER “YOURS SINCERELY, WASTING AWAY?” Not even a pathologically honest desiccated corpse would sign a letter to me that way.  

ANSWER REQUESTED? It’ll be no, right? I thought so. 

FORM FILLED IN? Ah, if you could only fill in that form the way you fill in your own. Ba-dump-psh-sh-sh. 

MINE FOR EVERMORE? The three most terrifying words a male will ever ever hear. 

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME?  What I need is a drink. 

WILL YOU STILL FEED ME? And some nachos.
 
WHEN I'M SIXTY-FOUR. I’ll take a shot for each year, please. Jamey shots for the odd years and Powers shots for the even.

HOO?  Me!