Like the time we made eight dozen swords
from scraps of short-term fences
like gardens grown in backyard troughs
require all five senses
like smells of Summerfest behind,
of corn dogs, sweets, Budweiser
like sounds of Glory up ahead,
of laughter, song, advisers
like sights of Gateway Arches,
woods, a Florida beach in winter
like tastes of dandelion wine,
of sawdust, sweat, the splinter
like feelings unrelated prior
to the time remembered
like stories told by fireside,
the zappers, s’mores and embers
are eighty thousand moments forged
of laughter, zeal and fable.

We’re here to lap it up with you
as long as you are able.

}{

For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three.  Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.

These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24^th birthday on April 30^th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.

Who was I kidding?

Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.

(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”