Pebbles in the stream
water carves their jagged skins
grinding them to smooth
time's current erodes all forms
each grain spilled feeds entropy
Age carves us rougher—
wrinkles, fissures, furrows spread,
chaos marks the skin;
it knurls the gnarled into grips
that drags daylight into night
For a rock, a tree
disorder unfolds; same way
each form cracked to dust
on path worn to final ash
as time decays, all texture
Natural things are rarely smooth
or flawless as they appear on the surface
Smooth fur on skin and curve on wing
are rough and jagged underneath
Push back against the grain shows true texture within
reveals bristling hairs and quill barbs of feathers
It's the grit within that shapes us
A pearl is smooth but inside is a seed of grit
We need the bumps knurls and gnarls to grip and hold
Slick things slip through silky wet and wanton fingers
Most natural things are rough at birth
Stones and gold nuggets are fractured rough at source
They're smoothed by wear and tear of sand rubbing in streams
Babies are smooth at birth but age roughens them
Humans grind away all day at nature's roughness
seeking perfection in shiny smooth and faultless
Blissfully they're unaware that
it's the faults flaws texture and roughness within
that glistens shiny the pearl
It's the bumps and gnarls outside that knurls the grip
after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas
Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.
Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.
It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.
Grace can't grind away the wrinkled gnarls time obeyed,
Nor hide the snarls, ploughed as furrows in the brow.
It carves the knurls for grip that age has disobeyed,
To a shape what decrepit, flailing lovers can still avow.
Grace respects the knurled design that time has hewn,
That's not a flaw, nor fault, but a form that time engraves.
With old branches twisted, scarred, gone too far to prune,
Grace hugs the bumps and twists that life well-spent saves.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to rage
Against the blight of the coming of the night,
Despite the cranky snarls that ring on anvil swage,
As loved ones bare the brunt of frail days plight.
So let the gnarls knurl the grooves to grip tight.
To fight and rage against the fading of the light.
Age gnarls, weather beats skin to flaky dryness.
Wrinkles and lines, furrows, knots and blotches
Twist and contort the skin of babies and youths
to a knurled, rough, compliant easy to grip surface.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
Despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls and grumbles,
Can be gripped, manipulated and convinced to comply and yield.
For now there is little else to lose, little else to try anew.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to yield.
keep old frail weak trees
for scars knurls holes and wrinkles
birds and bees call home
Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels, yields, and compliances
reshapes the surface to bumpy, with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip, to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.