Sweated palms holding on

to a ballroom staircase

jerk along a wobbling banister

testament to an old building high-held

once laughter-filled with great music

rising towards a tin-embossed ceiling.

It is a good match to knees

that meet each step with trepidation

anticipating a crumbling destiny.

Distant from a child

whose fearless legs fly 

from top stair to bottom.

It is hardly part of one’s memory

hardly stored in the cells of bones

now bowed and softened

no cushion for a fall.

I long for the spirit body of health, 

of strength, no pain, no disintegration

and aim to live this day as if 

I am in heaven. 

Sweated palms holding on

to a ballroom staircase

jerk along a wobbling banister

testament to an old building 

high-held

once laughter-filled with great music

rising towards a tin-embossed ceiling. tin embossed ceiling, such a perfect detail, it makes the poem and that it appears early on is so much the better

It is a good match to knees

that meet each step with trepidation

anticipating a crumbling destiny. Would you consider “crumbly”?

Distant from a child

whose fearless legs fly

from top stair to bottom. on stairway, top to bottom

It is hardly part of one’s memory I don’t know if you get much value added from the repetition of “hardly.”

hardly stored in the cells of bones Could you substitute “partly of one’s memory … hardly stored in the cells of

now bowed and softened bones”?

no cushion for a fall. The fall for a fall?  Totally different, but just wondered if you considered it.

I long for the spirit body of health,

of strength, no pain, no disintegration

and aim to live this day as if

I am in heaven

Wow, this is nicely done.  I have only a few little suggestions and they mostly relate style and emphasis and just a few thoughts for the poet…a very good poet…to consider.  I enjoyed reading and re-reading this.

An editor friend of mine once told me about her aging grandfather and how one day they came home to find that, after battling alzheimer’s for many years, the old man was in the back yard with a shovel, standing next to a little pile of dirt where he’d buried his favorite felt hat.  They decided to put him in a “home” that day thinking that he’d finally “lost it.”  My comment was that he’d decided to make a final statement, assert some control, and create a memory (ironically) for his family.  Then I wrote this poem and gave it to her.  I’d forgotten about it until I read “Failing.”   My thanks to the author for that.  I would say that “Failing” is the perfect piece to end the Pantaloon section.

(I finally figured out why you planted your felt hat in our back yard.)

By Kenneth Karrer

I wonder still at how

It could catch up

To you.

You always took such

Giant steps

And yet its shuffling

Overtook your gait

Your absolute lucidity

Fell at last it seemed to a

Stumbling, slurred, then quiet fate.

But what I hated most 

Was how it

Wrapped,

Entwined,

And seemed to squeeze the 

Brightness

From your mind.

It was as if it took you

Down

A hole

Into

A den

And to a place from which

They said, “He won’t come back again.”

And in the end it was not with

Suicide,

Or rage,

Or resignation

That you fought back

You stood your ground

(And in point of fact dug in)

With simple

Dignity

And sense that was

Uncommon

In the face of such insidious attack.

And I’ll always think of you and smile

When I look back

And

See the memories that play

Around the place

Where

You planted your favorite felt hat

In our back yard

That day.

#####

Kenneth Karrer grew up just outside of Austin, Texas hauling hay, working on oil rigs, pumping gas and playing football. He received degrees in English, history, and education and worked as a teacher, coach and high school administrator for 32 years. Ken lives in Austin and now works for the Texas Education Agency. He is a musician and an avid car restorer. His poems have recently been featured in vox poetica and Caper Literary Journal.