Tag Archives: poem about aging

Gingeritis

 

Gingeritis

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.

Leavening

daily life color178

Leavening

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

jdbphoto

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:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2017/02/10/first-steps/

The prompt today was glorious.

Substandard in My Dotage

Well-dressed-older-women
     

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.      

Lazy Bones

Lazy Bones

The greater portion of the day
had already passed away
by the time she raised her head
and deigned to quit her lonely bed.
She fed the cat and fed the dog,
then hit the button and fed her blog.
The words poured out like kibble, then
she went back to bed again!
It’s true she is a lazy bones,
ignoring doorbells, texts and phones
until it is her choice to rise
to face the possible surprise
that the night might still present—
wondering where the daylight went.
‘”Here sleeps,” her epitaph  will say,
“one who slept her life away.”

In case you are wondering,

(This is not me. I’m up at eight
to answer pounding on my gate.
It is my alter-ego, perhaps—
that side of me that I let lapse—
that draws me into daylight naps
and tempts me to ignore the phone.
That asks for afternoons alone.)

 

The prompt today was portion.

On the Precipice

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAjdbphoto

On the Precipice

Toes peeking over, eyes cast away.
I do not want to look today.
Time enough when time is over.
It’s true I’ve ceased to be a rover,
for though I’ve seen the Nile’s beginning,
I can feel my chances thinning
for ever standing at its end.
I’m feeling too close to the bend
to chance the risks travel might take.
I’m living less for living’s sake.

My house and garden fill my world,
increasingly. My life is curled
fast on itself more frequently.
“Becoming” has turned into “be.”
It is not giving up on life
so much as drawing back from strife.
Surely, now’s the time for this,
as I approach that big abyss.

Those of faith are sure they know
the glorious ending to this show
we’ve seen via nature’s invitation;
and yet the minister’s oration
you must admit, is speculation.
That’s why as I stand toe-to-air,
I have no need to see what’s there.
Whatever’s written far below,
it’s where at last, we all will go.

The prompt word today was “precipice.”

Grandpa’s Lament

Version 3

Grandpa’s Lament

Oh to be nimble, unfettered and young––
heedless, with yesterday’s breath on my tongue.
Scuffed shoes unpolished and hair all awry,
with nary a reason for white shirt or tie.

Chucking small stones, shooting rubber bands.
Gritty black fingernails, scandalous hands
sporting sand from the sandbox or silky black loam
from digging for earthworms or sliding on home.

I’d like to be lithesome and agile and spry––
a long life in front of me before I die;
but my years are numbered, my life’s nearly over.
Gone is my past as a rambler and rover.

I sit on my porch and watch younger men
take off for those places I’ve already been;
knowing my wild years are too far behind me.
I’m an Energizer bunny with no one to wind me.

Maddeningly, although I know I still dream, I forget them the moment my eyes open. Instead, I usually wake up with the first line of a poem on my mind. In this case, I used it as the second line of this morning’s poem.