High Horse

I love your love and value your respect
but honestly, your vehemence is dire.
I need your ears and heart – I don’t expect
defensive bold assertions, and your ire
becomes a force that forces me to pause.
It’s like I never own my own complaint.
I want to judge my kids – they give me cause,
but you reduce my words to quiet feint.

The soapbox isn’t tall enough for you,
but legs you up to mount the highest horse.
The wrath young you suppressed is overdue,
but not on my behalf. I was a force
indignant, all my childhood and youth;
with anger I don’t need your help, in truth.

This entry was posted in Aging, Cognition, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s