I like to think that even Stephen Hawking got the blues.
Did he rebel at the entrapment of his beauty?
Did he moan at his body’s slow decline?
In the deepness of a night spent thrashing
did he lament the love whom he sent packing?
Could he stand the awkward bent of his legs –
the uncontrollable draw of his arms –
the irritating whir of the machines –
the tortured rise of dawn behind his tangled curtains?
Websites burgeon with his pithy sayings
from which I admit to stealing inspiration.
I’ve used them even here on these rank pages.
But when the silence overshadows me
and I lay sobbing, plagued by unrelenting failure
I like to think that even Stephen Hawking got the blues.

P.S.  As an apology for my rather lame poetry, here are some lovely pictures taken during my recent retreat to the wilds of northern California.

It’s the twenty-seventh day of the fifty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF PAUL ORSO, WHO ENDURED ALS AND NEVER ONCE COMPLAINED.