Tag Archives: poem about aging

Twilight For The Sunday Whirl #663

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Twilight

Our turtle years are speeding up as though there’s sparse time left,
distorting all our reveries and leaving us bereft.
All that vanished life that fades into the mist—
those pearls of perfection like the first time we were kissed—
all the names and faces of those we once embraced—
dissolve into the air as though they’ve been erased.

All those former altars once bedecked with flowers,
garlands of celebration that vanished with the hours,
days and then the years now gathered in our past,
all those lives we built, not engineered to last.
Soon we will just be a name carved upon a stone,
to join with other spirits in the twilight zone.

Twilight

 

For The Sunday Whirl Wordle # 663  the prompt words are:air embraced pearls perfection turtle altar garlands reveries vanish name built mist

Road Map as Quatrains

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I answered a prompt for a quatrain about maps on dVerse by submitting a poem I’d written entitled “Roadmaps.” Although no one objected, it bothered me that I’d just fulfilled half of the prompt, so I decided to transform the poem into three quatrains.  It only meant adding  a few words to each stanza. Here is the rewrite. I don’t know if I like it better, but at least it follows all the rules:

Road Map

I’m held captive by your wrinkles, dear, enraptured by your ripples.
I love your freckles and your moles and all of nature’s stipples.
They are sacred landmarks. When I find one that is new,
I give thanks to nature for adding more of you.

Sometimes, dear, with the dark night around us rich and deep,
my mind goes on a walkabout as you lie asleep.
The road map of your body is the terrain that I pace—
the slight knolls and the gullies and your face’s fragile lace.

Some folks bemoan the changes that nature brings about,
and they bring a different beauty. It is true, without a doubt.
But as I trace each special feature of your body and your face,
I am sure that nature’s carving instills a deeper grace.

To read the original poem go HERE. Which do you prefer? This illustration and the original poem are from my adult coloring book entitled When Old Dames Get Together and Other Confessions of a Ripe Old Age. Available from Amazon HERE.

 

For the dVerse Poets prompt. Go HERE to read other poems to this prompt.

 

Intimations of Mortality

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Intimations of Mortality

Though I am still active, for sure I’m not my best.
Whereas once I boogied, now I find I’d rather rest.
I know I’m winding down for sure but I feel I must
achieve those things I said I’d do before I bite the dust.
While I’m waiting to be cancelled, I’ve agreed that I’ll  be wise.
My finale bears no stigma, for everybody dies.

 

Prompt words today are  wise, agree, finale, stigma, active and cancelled.

And for NaPoWriMo

Ruins: The Sunday Whirl Wordle 581

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Ruins

The walls of my world are numb to touch.
Split with longing, they stand alone,
the only light inside, my own.

That burning flame that lit my youth
reduced to ashes, has left a gap
to which this poem is a map.

For The Sunday Whirl Wordle 581 prompt words are: walls world numb touch spilt longing own burning flame gap light ashes. Image of burned house by Hans Isaacson on Unsplash.

Old Bones on a Long Hike

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Old Bones on a Long Hike

Traipsing along under vanilla skies,
the splatters of rain came as little surprise.

Then the spray of the sea salt blew into my eyes,
providing my tears a means of disguise.

Climbing the hillside, away from the surf,
my ancient legs struggled with the rough turf.

Once I tripped lightly whereas now I trod
with difficulty over each giant clod.

But then a companion looks down from the view
and points out it’s wild ginger we’re struggling through.

Regaining my humor, I start to have fun,
always a sucker for a corny pun,

for without a clue and with no way of knowing,
I’ve been gingerly coming and gingerly going.

 

For the dVerse Poets prompt, we were given a list of spices and asked to include at least three in our poem. I couldn’t find a picture of me hiking lately (for good reason) but could only find this photo of me in my twenties, perhaps imagining how I’d be fifty years from now ????

Brutal Truth

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Brutal Truth

Fresh as they come, you’re the pick of the litter.
Though too young for pathos and too soft for bitter,
how can I describe what fate has in store
later in life as the innocent lore
of your earlier life is exposed as just part
of what might affect your innocent heart?

Prompt words are soft, describe, pathos, later and young. Image by Alex Gomes on Unsplash.

Working Out in My Seventies

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Working Out in My Seventies

I badly need a product that will make me indefatigable.
I have not the energy to blow, and less to bat a bubble.
It is just unfathomable that I ever walked
twelve miles through the jungle and barely even balked!
At the high point of my youth, adventures were my thing,
but lately I feel much deprived of energy and zing.
Swinging in my hammock is now enough for me.
It seems to mark the zenith of my energy!!!

 

Prompt words today are  zenith, unfathomable, indefatigable and product.

Everything

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Everything

After all the rushing, the extremes and the thrills,
After all the ups and downs, declivities and hills,
I’ve shot enough wild rivers, forded my last rill.
I do not mind the still life, that cup that I must fill.

Ghosts need not be ghouls, I’ve found, except at Halloween.
In dreams and poems they visit me, recalling where I’ve been.
Temporary comfort are what they provide at best,
promoting hopeful hunches that death is just a rest.

Does another life exist somewhere beyond the mound,
and will its joys exceed the present comfort that I’ve found?
No past love gives an answer, so I wrap my queries up
and abandon pen and daydreams to stir my brimming cup.

 

Prompt words today are still, extreme, ghoul, declivity and brief.

I think I have finally lost it. I woke up this morning, picked up my computer from the headboard shelf in my bed, and found the beginning stanza of this poem. I worked for an hour or more completing it, posted it, then posted it to Facebook, but when I did, I found another poem entitled “At 74,” that had the same illustration and opening line and several comments and likes, but when I tried to open it, it said it was no longer available!  It was not in Trash or Drafts on my blog, but people had commented and “Liked” it, so it must have been published. I am totally clueless as to what happened. A case of the entire world having deja vu? The only thing I can think of is that an old version of “At 74” was on my second computer and when I picked it up and finished it, it erased the old version which had been posted on my other computer. And the old version vanished forever. I have no idea what it was, but to all of you that liked and commented on it, thanks for reading. Does anyone remember how it differed from this version, other than by name? Can senility be far behind?

So, the mystery continues.In yesterday’s drafts,  Forgottenman found the previously published poem with the same beginning stanza but a different second stanza!  I rust republished it, but it went back to a yesterday posting.  If you want to see it, HERE it is. To avoid confusion, I changed the photo, which was the same as this one. Ha. How  futile is that–trying to avoid confusion at this late date? It must be my fault but I can’t for the life of me figure out how this happened.

Eaten Away

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Eaten Away

Now that my skin’s been exsiccated,
I think it could be debated
whether now I’m liable
to also be more friable.
Pounds drying out and crumbling?
If so, I won’t be grumbling.
I’ll be real glad to lose some mass
from upper arms, tummy and ass.
If so, aging could be a treat,
for no matter what I eat,
my fat would crumble and fall away.
Naughty eating with naught to pay.

Prompt for today are exsiccate, real, kin, friable and treat.

 

A Woman Alone: for the Sunday Writing Prompt

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A Woman Alone

I am airborne in the hammock,
the small dog on my stomach,
but patting the bigger dog
on the ground below us
to assuage his jealousy.

I watch this week’s brand of butterflies
popping like popcorn
above the audacious flowers
of the tabachine bush,
and that confused hummingbird
that has mistaken the Soleri bell for a flower.

I eat pizza at midnight
and swim naked in the pool at 2 am.
My cats know my sins
and like me better for them.

When I talk to the air,
it is unclear whether I talk to the cats
or to myself.
Who might the neighbors think I am talking to?
Some new lover?
Most probably not.

Those of us who live alone
are never really quite alone in Mexico,
where private lives
are so easily shared
in spite of walls.
It is as though
sounds echo more easily
in the high mountain air,
and we become one large family,
putting up with each other’s secrets.

But, no responsibility
for husband or children or roommates,
we sink into the luxury of selfishness.
Sleeping at odd hours,
wearing our pajamas from bedtime
to wake-up
to next bedtime,
calling out to the gardener from behind curtains,
accustoming the housekeeper to our sleepless nights
and long mornings of slumber.

No one to explain the junk drawer to,
or the large accumulation of toilet paper rolls,
for which you have a definite purpose
that you never quite get around to.

The luxury of a nude body
no one else short of the doctor
will ever see.
The back of your head
where snarls can exist
unchallenged
until the next trip to town.

The Petit Ecole cookies
you need not share
with anyone.
The unmade bed uncensored.
The best hammock always your own.
An internet band unshared.

Only your toothbrush in the glass beside the sink.
Every leftover cup of coffee
sitting on surfaces around the house
one you can sip out of
with no fear of any disease
other than the ones you already harbor.

Alone.
What you always feared.
That fear now behind you.
You were so wrong.

 

For Sunday Writing Prompt: The Quiet One