Tag Archives: poem about aging


What happens to someone like her as she gets older?
–from Luck, by Joan Barfoot


She loses her balance, starts to fall.
Once in the kitchen, three times in the hall.
Finds it harder to remember, spends more time alone.
Speaks her mind more freely, less likely to atone.
She starts attracting cats that come inside and do not leave.
Wears frays in her clothing–hemline, neckline, sleeve.
Starts forgetting passwords–sometimes the names of friends.
Her search for keys and glasses never really ends.
Starts waking in the nighttime to contemplate her death.
At midnight, has to go outside to try to catch her breath.
Counts the years before her instead of those behind.
She could live to one hundred if fate is being kind.

Will she live her last years with sister, lover, friend;
or will animal companions help her meet her end?
Will anybody mourn her? Does she want them to?
Will she be remembered by a poem or two?
Will anybody read her after she is dead?
Will all her future poetry die here in her head?
Will her blog named “lifelessons” finally cease to be?
Will they give the name away for a modest fee?
Will they erase her blog spot, burn her files of poems?
Cause a glut on EBay of her leftover tomes?
If she sells a book or two every other year
where will Amazon send the money when she isn’t here?

One day in the future in three thousand two
will Zee, (some bored teenager, with nothing else to do)
go onto the internet connected to her head,
close her eyes and throw herself backwards on her bed
and stumble on an errant line that floats through cyberspace,
and Google it to try to find its author, time and place?
“What happens to someone . . . ?” are the words that Zee has found.
Her fingers start to twitch as she is driven to expound.
The printer prints the words she says without her further action.
Tied into her speech and thought–spontaneous reaction.
” . . . like her as she gets older?” is printed on the wall.
For there’s no paper in the world. No paper left at all!
Her face is flushed, her eyes dilate, her eyes first squint, then blink.
This random line floating in space has provoked her to think.
First she’ll finish cyber school, then link her living pod
with a blowout sort of guy with a gorgeous bod.
They’ll make links with other blogs and party with their friends
for a couple hundred years before they meet their ends.
She thinks back on the interbrain to look for thoughts and links.
Lets her mind go soft as into cybermind she sinks.
Looking for her future job. She knows it’s there to see.
Time being just a concept to wander through for free.
She plops onto a webpage from two thousand fifteen,
all the information still there and easily seen.
The line Zee thought jumps out at her. She sees it’s not her own.
It’s been used two times before and now it seems it’s flown
into her thoughts to sort her out and give her a direction.
As she reads on, she catches on to this writer’s inflection
in every word she writes and when she gets to the post’s end,
she goes on reading through her life and starts to make a friend.
After two days of reading, she winds up at the start
knowing every detail in this blogger’s heart.
Then she goes back to where she started and sees her doubts and fears.
It’s then that she fast-forwards to the blogger’s final years
and sees the truth of everything that’s going to transpire.
The failing health, the hopeful mood, the ad, “Wanted to Hire
an interesting friend to talk to while I fall asleep.
One capable of caring and thoughts that wander deep.
Someone to be there some nights when it seems that I might leave
for one last time this life that’s loosening its warp and weave.
No heavy lifting needed—a weighted thought or two
is all that I find necessary. Weighing thoughts will do.”

Zee zoomed back to the entry that had drawn her thoughts at first.
The very sentence that had caused her gloomy thoughts to burst.
January was the month and 14 was the day
The year 2015, when she’d been the first to say
those fateful words and now Zee, too, was thinking just the same–
moving to the comments to add her words and name.
“Dear Lifelessons,” she’d say to her, and then add her assurance
that everafter she would be her safety and insurance
that she would never die alone or be bereft of friend
for Zee was vowing here and now she’d be there at the end.
She’d looked ahead and so she knew that she would keep this pledge.
She’d known the center of this life and now she knew its edge.
She knew the dates that she’d be needed in the years ahead.
She made a list and filed it in a clear spot in her head.
And then she went on thinking what those words meant in her life.
Would she be a scholar, an actress and a wife?
Would she produce children and would they be there for her?
That sentence found in cyberspace created quite a stir.
But all her dreams it prompted came true enough, what’s more
she kept her date with Lifelessons in 2044.

                                                                            –Judy Dykstra-Brown, Lifelessons, 2015


A question posed by one writer can often serve to provoke an answer by another. So it is in this poem, which is an answer to a question asked by Joan Barfoot in her book Luck. This piece was first written three years ago. It is a long piece I had forgotten but enjoyed reading again so I thought perhaps you would, too. I would appreciate knowing if you follow the plot line and realize what is going on. Also, did it hold your interest?  And yes, the prompt word of the day is in the poem. The word of the day is provoke.

Morning Ritual


Morning Ritual

One pill, two pills, three pills four.
Five and six complete the score.
Then one rolls off onto the floor,
but knees are stiff and back is sore,
reclaiming it a painful chore,
so you just open up the drawer
and select one capsule more.
Swallowing pills is such a bore.
Can you remember what each is for?


Staying Afloat

Enlarge all photos by clicking on any photo.

Staying Afloat

The days my life is not erratic
are the days it is too static.
I need an leavening in life—
a lessening of loss and strife—
that doesn’t store me in the attic.

Retirement is not intended
to designate a life as ended.
I’d like some fun and some pizazz
aside from knitting and Shiraz.
I’d like my salad days extended.

Turn off the news. Turn up the notes.
I prefer hearing what emotes.
There is coverage enough
of Donald Trump and other stuff.
I’m tired of inane Twitter quotes!

Bring in the band and serve the drinks.
One’s only as old as she thinks.
I’ll move my body, move my mind.
(True, my brain  more than my behind.)
For what is static is what sinks.

The prompt today is static.




I find that my life is rapidly slowing.
I’m gingerly coming and gingerly going,
for if I move quickly in shower or mall
I slip and I stumble. I bump and I fall.

I eat gingerbread cookies and drink ginger ale.
I mince more fresh ginger over my kale,
thinking that once I have eaten a faceful
somehow I’ll develop a gait that’s more graceful.

Yet when I go faster,
with steps that are vaster,
I find that once more
I’m down on the floor.

So again I move gingerly, with great attention,
hoping that no one will notice and mention
that I’m also shrinking, and the lower I get
with less distance to fall, still the slower I get.

I don’t need a walker. I don’t need a cane.
I’m not yet in need of the handicapped lane.
Please don’t offer a wheelchair for boarding the plane.
I’m entirely capable, plus I’m too vain

to be labeled as elderly, seen as infirm
I have not yet contracted that “elderly” germ
that will render me helpless and feeble and fumbling.
I simply step gingerly, lest I go tumbling.

The prompt today was gingerly.


daily life color178


I’m not sure who should be blamed
for the fact that I’ve been tamed.
It was no parent nor any spouse
that made me tranquil as a mouse.
Thinking it out, I must admit,
no human was the cause of it.
The thing that leavened my aggression  
was simply time’s lengthy progression.

The prompt today was tame.

Patterning Sunset


Patterning Sunset

Nights out I once found glorious,
exciting and uproarious,
I now just find laborious.

Without a doubt,

it is more fun

when day is done
to mime the way the sun

goes out.

Instead of donning dancing gown
and going to light up the town,
to drink and dance, to get it down

’til I perspire,

I brush my teeth, gargle and cough.
My clothes I shed, my shoes I doff.
I find the light switch, turn it off,

and just retire.


For a bit of a contrast to this poem you may want to go here:

The prompt today was glorious.

Substandard in My Dotage


Substandard in My Dotage

My body is substandard, defective, under par.
It does okay for walking if I don’t walk very far,
but at jogging mile after mile I would not be my best.
My left knee hath a hitch in it and so it doth protest.

And as for aesthetics, it takes no art detective
to discover all the many ways that I am  defective.
My skin is pale and blotchy and will not stay in place.
It sags here on my underarms and here below my face.

My fingernails are ridgy, my toes starting to curl.
Everything is different from when I was a girl.
And though I have less hair now in places where it’s been,
When I go in search of it, I find it on my chin.

Gravity has claimed those spots where once I was most perky.
That neck so firm and regal now resembles most a turkey.
The pounds that all my life I have been struggling to lose,
as by magnetism have settled where they choose.

Some ladies age most gracefully. I fear I am not one.
Of all the charms of aging I’ve not captured even one.
So I guess I’ll just dress funny with a little flair.
Put shadow on my eyelids and feathers in my hair.

I’ll jangle all my bracelets and put on all my rings.
I’ll give away old lady clothes and wear more stylish things.
At least I’ll finish my last yard with a little dash.
What I lack in all the rest I’ll make up with panache.


Substandard is the prompt word today. Photo borrowed from the Internet.