I turned 50 today,

Which means I’m halfway to 100.

I’m still arguing with my knees

About whose great idea it was

To chase my dreams barefoot on concrete.

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I woke up this morning

With a wrinkle, I don’t remember meeting.

A grey hair in my beard that calls me ‘sir’,

And a back that negotiates before it bends.

But I woke up… and that, my friend,

Is poetry in itself.  

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50 is not a finish line, it’s a flashlight

In the second act of the play.

A reminder that youth is a whisper.

And that wisdom is a megaphone made of memories

Of all those ‘almosts’ I survived. 

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I’ve learnt that scars

Are simply tattoos with better stories.

That joy doesn’t always roar, 

Sometimes, it hums 

Like the laugh of someone who has seen the storm

And still dances in the drizzle.

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I’ve buried dreams and planted new ones in their place

Watched time blur, like a Polaroid,

But I’m still here, heart thumping like a gospel drum

Voice steady like a bridge over breakage. 

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See, 50 is not over, it’s open.

It’s the part of the novel where the protagonist 

Finally stops apologising and 

Hiding their light away.  

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So here I am, 50 candles deep,

Each one a sun that dared to burn

A little longer and brighter than expected.

And I’m not done… Not even close

I’m just better at knowing when to rest,

And when to rise like thunder, with a purpose. 

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Call me vintage.

Call me classic.

Call me middle aged.

Call me right on time with 

Who I have grown to become.

I’m Bob. Pleased to meet you.