Tag Archives: poem about aging

Substandard in My Dotage

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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

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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

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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

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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.

Desire

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Version 2

Desire

All those nights of passion, those years spent in desire,
we were tightrope walkers, balanced on a wire.
We never knew from day-to-day which of us might fall.
Never knew for certain if we’d both be there at all.

Desire in the meadows under shelter of tall grass—
in our youth we never knew that it could pass.
We had it firmly tethered. It could not slip away.
It curled in loosened coils around us as we lay.

Desire in the morning or in the afternoon,
each time we fell into it, was over all too soon.
Then life leaked in to wash the passion from our day.
We balanced, raw and vulnerable, wishing it could stay.

Desire in the darkness was easier to hold.
Something in the shadows made us wild and bold.
But when the morning beckoned, we left each other for
all the business of the day that lurked outside our door.

Heartbeats built the passion that footsteps cruelly bore
away so pulses of the night became the stuff of lore
as our desires migrated into memories
just beyond our fingertips, too distant now to seize.

Note: If sung to the tune of Suzanne Vega’s “Gypsy,,” as per okcforgottenman’s suggestion, sing the following two-line chorus after every verse: (Anyone want to think up an original tune for this?)

Oh, tomorrow, wrapped up in today.
we never know the dreams that we will throw away.

 

The prompt today was desire.

Where Time Goes

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 Version 2

Where Time Goes 

They have not vanished without a trace.
Past years are written on your face.
They web your skin like finest lace,
its former smoothness to efface,
and write a story in its place.

The prompt today was replacement.

Ode to Father Time

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Ode to Father Time

What have you taken from my life?
Some of the sorrows. Some of the strife.
Drinking and dancing with my friends.
In youth, the party never ends.
Morning alarm bells, up at six.
Papers to grade. Coffee to fix.
Some nights of pleasure, some days of pain.
Then all of it over all again.
That midnight passion, brief morning touch,
fire of the engine, slipping clutch.

Trying to sort our lives out from
life’s busy energy and hum.
So very young, so very dumb.

When we grew wiser, we found the one—
a milder comforting type of fun.
Dependable like a well-worn glove.
a thirty-something sort of love—
not only heart, but also mind.
We ‘d finally found one of our kind.
Moving closer to ourselves,
picking new parts off the shelves
of all those selves we had inside–
out from where they used to hide.

Living life from day to day,
spending life along the way.
Not knowing we would have to pay

Now two-thirds gone, life prods us still—
a bit more slowly up the hill.
Support of friends, support of canes,
support hose for our varicose veins.
Blander diets, switch to red wine.
(Medicine grown on the vine.)
Earlier hours, newer friends
as the old ones vanish around their bends.
All of life is still a dance
that we’re still in by luck or chance.

So seize life by its swinging hair.
Pull it to you. Risk and dare.
Always changing, but it’s still there.

img_1510Take a vow to dance at least once in 2017

Today’s prompt word was “gone.”

Everything Shall Fade Away

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How cruel of life at end of day
that all of us should fade away,
one head going hoary white,
ready to give up the fight
while all around it, fresher shoots
sturdier and less hirsute
push upward in the dawning morn,
the meadow to freshly adorn.

The prompt word today was “Faded.”

Time Is Generous in its Offerings, but Has its Limits.

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Petitioning Time

The day first blooms, then flowers and fades away to night;
and though I’d choose to slow its progress if I might,
no part of nature sympathizes with my plight.
It is a futile undertaking trying to seize light.

Time feeds upon us all—the ultimate parasite.
There is no way to sate her appetite.
No clever words can save us from her cruel bite,
for she feeds with equal favor on dull and erudite.

Though we might flail and struggle, it does no good to fight.
If we try to outpace her, it is a futile flight.
All our human efforts to stay her just incite.
Time always is the winner, feeding on our fright.

Though we might choose to hoard our time—to hold it close and tight,
or hope that pills and potions might hide us from her sight,
no rituals or magic words that we might recite
can keep our fading colors perpetually bright.

No matter what initiatives we choose to expedite—
no matter what our efforts are to reignite
the light so quickly fading from our sight—
we cannot defeat time through acts of plebiscite.

The prompt word today is “Generous.”

Fragile

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Version 5

!!!Fragile!!!

Just as I’m becoming less agile,
all of me is turning fragile.

Flesh on flesh and bone on bone,
Nature won’t leave me alone.

Bruise more easily, skin tears easier.
Looking up now makes me queasier.

Can’t be trusted on a ladder.
Larger hips but smaller bladder.

Lips are thinner, bones are brittler.
And suddenly, I’m two inches littler.

If Nature’s bound to fold and shrink me,
Really, now, wouldn’t you think she

could leave me with my height and lips
and do her shrinking around my hips?

The prompt today is “Fragile.”