My future is amorphous. It has no shape or plan.
Up the creek without a paddle, I have no job or man.
My freedom? It is ludicrous. I’m well out of the chase.
All my time is leisure time. I live a slower pace.
Who named this phase re-tirement? There’s nothing that is tiring.
If they want to tire me out again, they’d best replace my wiring.
My memory’s in jeopardy of growing rather fuzzy.
I can’t remember punch lines like “He wasn’t fuzzy, wuzzy?”
Quips like “Betty Botter bought a bit of bitter butter”
used to fly right off my tongue, but now they sit and flutter.
It’s true my thoughts surround me but they won’t assume an order.
It is as though instead I have become a memory hoarder
with stacks of memories piled up in my halls of memory
where perhaps I could still find them—if I had the energy.
But as is, names aren’t stacked near where my face recall is kept,
so when I meet acquaintances, I’m chillingly inept
at sorting out the names to go with their familiar faces.
This trying to put face with name sure puts me through my paces!
Somehow the very minute I recognize a face,
its name flies out the window, so I hasten up my pace
to scurry ’round the corner before they might see me.
It’s not my heart avoiding them. Just blame my memory!
The only reassurance in all this memory Hell
is that lately I have noticed others scrambling as well,
so perhaps it isn’t only me who’s exercising guile
trying to avoid my friends in the grocery aisle.
Prompts today were memory, jeopardy, surround and fuzzy. Links below:
Incantation for the Rainy Season
I admit I’m taking sanctuary, waiting for the rain.
I really cannot help it that I’m foolish and I’m vain.
It’s lack of all humidity causing my hibernation.
This dryness is my scapegoat. I am needing rain’s hydration.
Once there’s water in the air, my cavities will out,
and all these ugly wrinkles are destined to fill out.
I’m praying to the rain gods, though I don’t like to beg,
for the wrinkles on my torso are spreading to my leg.
My hand backs are so furrowed they’re impervious to lotions.
My crepey neck defies even my most expensive potions.
I’m succumbing to my wrinkles. I’ve barely a smooth patch.
I think I’d be the winner in a “most wrinkled” match.
In the aging Olympics, I would surely win the gold.
I’ve passed from young to middle-aged and ended up at “old.”
I’ve given up on vagueness and modesty and pride.
I’m bluntly revealing the condition of my hide.
Yes, I’ve succumbed to wrinkles. and my only hope’s the rain.
Surely with humidity, I’ll plump right up again!!!!
Prompts today are regenerate, scapegoat, vague and sanctuary. Here are their links:
Prompt words today are coast, natural, aghast and venturesome. Here are the links:
The NaPoWriMo post is: Today, write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.
Tilting at windmills or slaying dragons is too retro for my taste. I’d rather just have a man who tickles my funny bone, or at the very least one who tickles my fancy. At my age, I am between vulnerable stages. I don’t need anyone to save me financially or ego-wise. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to house and feed myself for the twenty or so years I have left and unless I have a serious decline in mental and physical power, I will always have blogging to salve my ego–a few loyal followers who still want to hear what I have to say.
Whatever I have made of my life, it is a pickle of my own choosing. I have not been jinxed or done ill to—at least recently. What I have I deserve. What I don’t have, I deserve. I don’t look forward to that day when fate will serve me a bitter dish, but that part of me that has to binge-watch *”After Life” or listen to an Audible book to get to sleep at night knows it one day will. In spite of my niggling lifelong conviction that I’ve been left on this planet by some foreign species and that I’ll be picked up soon and whisked off to a life unending, that part of me that needs constant distraction knows that I am human and therefore vulnerable.
Those with partners may think my title here sad, but there is another way of looking at it. Those of us unmatched and “unespoused” have only one inevitable death to face. We need fear no phone call when parted or unwelcome discovery when together. The only death we need fear is our own. We have half of the dread that the happily paired must face as they approach a certain age.
With increasing regularity, when with friends my own age, after we have hurriedly (I hope) gone over the ills of today—knee replacements and hip replacements and intestinal disorders and the ilk—we eventually get around to discussing various methods of insuring the end we desire over Alzheimer’s or stroke. I have a high bridge picked out. Various friends have pill stashes. Everyone knows which friends, in spite of their obituaries, have already made this choice.
What we fear most is waiting too long and forfeiting the choice and spending the rest of our days in some repository for the walking dead—those antiseptic storehouses where they partition off residents unlucky enough to have not experienced a swift death—those cursed either with an active mind trapped in a body turned to stone or the reverse. What living hell is this, that so many of the aged are now preserved in part who in an earlier age would have been afforded a dignified death?
There is something about writing to multiple prompts that takes us into a part of our brain where otherwise we might have not gone. So it is with this seemingly pessimistic rambling into the dark side of my brain. Although nothing I say is fiction, still, perhaps the balance is wrong. Here is no discussion of the birds outside my early-morning sunlit curtains or the components of my morning smoothie that await my hand in compiling them. It does not mention friends that still stimulate and amuse, relatives that still fill my heart.
It overlooks those twenty potential years that I hope will lead up to whatever end I face. These are just words that I shed during a side trip through consciousness. Do not call me or consult with mutual friends, worrying about my state of mind. I am in no way suicidal. I am not morose. I am simply wandering through a few alleys where I think we must all wander from time to time, and as we grow older, where we wander more frequently. For in spite of my title, I don’t really think I wander here alone.
* “After Life” is a new show on Netflix, written and played by Ricky Gervais. A bit dark, but worth binge-watching if you’re in the right frame of mind. Along with the four prompt words, it is perhaps what put me in the mood to write this piece. I have a feeling it is more Ricky Gervais’s attitude than my own. Well, maybe a wedding of the two.
Prompt words today are pickle, retro, dragon and jinx. Here are the links:
Dining Out on Aches and Pains
Every day they exercise their God-given right
all of their various maladies and twinges to recite.
Over coffee in the morning and martinis after five,
they nod their heads with wonder that they are still alive.
Over pork with wine sauce, they whine about their bladders.
They complain about dizziness. They cannot ascend ladders.
Obstructions in their bowels and needed hip replacements
seem not to curb their appetites for listing such debasements.
From head to toe, they tell the rest each disease and malfunction,
discuss medicine and herbs, consider extreme unction.
They moan about their neck aches and complain about each corn.
This relation of their aches and pains amounts to senior porn!
As though proud of each new symptom, they relate them with some glee,
hoping to receive some newfound sympathy from me,
but in fact I’ve heard all of their ills time and time again,
and I think that it’s their telling that is a royal pain!!
Prompts for today are exercise, symptom, royal and rest. Here are the links: