When I Am Old

When I am Old when i am old, wrinkled and a bundle of bungled energy and nobody is interested in me i will learn to paint and will like the children do my apples blue, pink and white, in between of which i will doodle my tongue and eyes my elephants will have all their trunks aiming at the moon and my ants the size of cakes crawling across the paper to a distant promised land my birds will be graceful upside down threes scouring the clear blue sky for paradise and my house a brown box that smiles in red, its windows two eyes the size of matchboxes perhaps large enough to place world's peace A child is large as the freedom in the sky, the white of the paper for the mind to run wild the days i sprouted wings to span the world. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and everybody would fly and laugh with you and when i write my poems or paint i am that child returning to the man to nudge him from his muddled self the colour of the grey hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines it is in the heart that they are kept and there, over the white are the rainbow of a life remembered second version of the poem above. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - when i am old, wrinkled and a bundle of bungled energy and nobody is interested in me, i will learn to paint and will like the children do my apples blue, pink and white, in between of which i will doodle my tongue and eyes my elephants will have all their trunks up aiming for the moon and my ants the size of cakes crawling across the paper to a distant promised land my birds will be graceful upside down threes scouring the clear blue sky for paradise and my house a brown box that smiles in red, its windows two eyes the size of matchboxes perhaps large enough to place world's peace A child is large as the freedom in the sky, the days i sprouted wings to span the world. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and everybody would fly and laugh with you nobody would brand you insane they will just say, that's you a child.' and when i write my poems i am that child returning to the man to wake him up from his muddled self the colour of my white hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines either you see it or not does not matter it is in the heart that they are kept and there, over the white are the rainbow of a life remembered - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - rewritten from below; when i am old, wrinkled and looks a bundle of bungled energy and nobody is interested in me, i will learn to paint and will like the children paint my apples blue, pink and white my elephants all their trunks up my ants the size of my cakes and my birds a graceful upside down threes measuring the cloudy sky my house a simple box with an arch roof in red and windows the size of matchboxes when people ask me why i hope i dare say 'a child is the freedom in the sky. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and nobody would brand you mad. they will just say, that's you a child.' and when i write my poems i am that child returning to the man to wake him up from his muddled self the colour of my white hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines either you see it or not does not matter it is in the heart that they are kept and there, over the white are the rainbow of a life remembered hen i am old, wrinkled and looks a bundle of bungled energy and nobody is interested in me, i will learn to paint and will like the children paint my apples blue, pink and white my elephants with all their trunks up my ants will be the size of my cakes and my birds graceful upside down threes measuring the cloudy sky my house will be a simple box with an arch roof that is red and its windows will have the size of matchboxes when people ask me why i hope i dare say 'a child is the freedom in the sky. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and nobody would brand you mad. they will just say, that's you a child.' and when i write my poems i am that child returning to the man to wake him up from his muddled self the colour of my white hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines either you see it or not does not matter it is in the heart that they are kept and there, over the white are the rainbow of a life remembered second version from: when i am old, wrinkled and looks a bundle of bungled energy when nobody would be interested in me, because of my lines, and my hair which has become random tufts of white i will learn to paint and will like the children do my apples in blue, pink and white my elephants will have all their trunks up and my ants the size of my cakes my birds will be graceful upside down threes triumphantly scouring and measuring the sky and my house a simple dream box topped with a roof glazed in red the windows will be the size of matchboxes when people ask me about their deviations this is this what i would say to them - 'a child is the freedom in the sky. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and nobody would brand you mad. they will just say, that's you a child.' when i write my poems i am that child returning to the man to wake him up from his muddled self the colour of my white hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines either you see it or not it is in the heart they are kept and there, over the white, i tell you, are the rainbow of a life remembered third version: when i am old, wrinkled and looks a bundle of bungled energy and nobody is interested in me, i will learn to paint and will like the children paint my apples blue, pink and white my elephants will have all their trunks up and my ants the size of my cakes my birds will be graceful upside down threes measuring the clear blue sky and my house a simple box with an arched roof in red and windows the size of matchboxes when people ask me why i hope i dare say 'a child is the freedom in the sky. it is when you can fly your thoughts anyway you like and nobody would brand you mad. they will all be revved up by your your innocence that bless their world no end they will just say, that's you a child, not knowing how much that is for the father of the man.' and when i write my poems i will be that child returning to the man to wake him up from his muddled self the colour of my white hair will be the ink to paint the hurt lines either you see it or not it is in the heart that they are kept and there, over the white will be the rainbow of a life remembered