Turing 60’s a bitch, but it’s better than the alternative. Check out longtime postcard fest participant Amy Miller’s fest wrapup. Excerpt:
Serial and random
I started out the Fest bent on seriality. Weeks earlier, I knew exactly what I wanted to write about: I’d turned 60 a few months earlier, and it was weirding me out. I just could not believe I was 60. I know lots of people in their 60s who suddenly got hernias and prolapsed bladders and tumors. When I think of 60 I see washed-out gray, stooped, moving slowly. Possibly shaking a rolled-up newspaper at a kid riding a bike too fast. 60 has moved in like a houseguest I didn’t invite and will not leave. I guess I’ll have to make my peace with 60; in the meantime, I plan to kayak the hell out of it.
So the first few poems of the month were all about 60—puns and visual images of the number, free-associated strings of maladies and misery. But by about the fifth poem, I could feel that I wasn’t making any peace with 60, and not even very much sense. I’m not sure any of those poems are keepers. So I moved on to other ideas.
Amy, I’m 61, life is good and I love your inspired participation in the postcard fest. (Dear reader, don’t miss out on the fun Amy has every summer. You can register for the 2023 today and have 56 days to write 31 poems!) Thank you Susan Kay Anderson for the heads-up. & check out our 2019 interview with Amy: