Poetry by jim bourey

      Paul VanDerWerf CC



​
An Observation on How the Passing of Sixty Years Has Changed the Social Dynamics of the Class of 1964


I’d like to tell you that as we walked 
down the path to the park pavilion, 
where the reunion attendees gathered, 
I was following the musty spoor 
of those ancient bodies.
But that would be a lie. 
My tracking skills died 
by the time I was seventy
so I was just paying attention 
to little signs showing the way.

The class of ’64 has diminished 
by a third. My own diminishment
is harder to measure, and I’d rather not
know where I stand. I do stand reasonably
upright and my walk is not aided
by crutch or cane. When I arrive
at the gathering my classmates huddle,
talk loudly, old cliques break off,
rebuild their alliances. I look for loners,
those of us who often stood aside
observing, criticizing, hoping 
to be noticed. Today I’m surprised

by our numbers. Perhaps being an outsider
is healthy. And today, with strength 
in our numbers, we have become a faction. 
And our watchfulness back then
gives us credibility now. We are the keepers
of our collective memories.

We have the power of the Shamans,
those who hold the magic and mystery
of stories. We wield them willingly
and we are heard with appreciation.

​
​

jim bourey is an old poet who lives on the edge of the Adirondacks. His books include Out There and Back Again and The Distance Between Us, both from Cold River Press. He also co-wrote Season of Harvest with poet Linda Blaskey, published by Pond Road Press. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies. He can often be found reading aloud in dimly lit rooms. jim lives in Dickinson Center, NY with his wife Linda.
​