Tag Archives: poems about aging

A Marital Discourse on The Subject of Light Exercise


A Marital Discourse on The Subject of Light Exercise

You breakfast, lunch and tea and sup,
hardly ever getting up.
I say that we should take a ride
just to get us both outside,

and thus do I precipitate
a lively marital debate—
you flummoxed by my rude suggestion
that interferes with your digestion.

So I employ another means
to distract you from your franks and beans.
Feeling youthful and impulsive,
I chance your finding it repulsive

and suggest that we go dancing
and perhaps do some romancing,
whereupon you rise and shriek
that your demise I surely seek.

Dancing at our advanced age?
You spit and sputter, in a rage,
and since for minutes you don’t pause,
at least you exercise your jaws.

Prompt words today are precipitate, flummoxed, shriek, impulsive, employ and ride.

Mr. Universe in the Old Age Home

Mr. Universe in the Old Age Home

His life was lovely and bucolic
prior to his anabolic
stage wherein he played the game
of dosing up to gain a name

and a media barrage
descended on the small garage
where he went to lift more weight
than once he could anticipate.

His life became a mad mirage
of barbells, steroids —a barrage
of contests wherein he competed,
going largely undefeated—

a staircase leading to that time
when he, unchallenged and sublime,
ruled without apology,
a miracle of morphology.

Everybody knew his name.
A survivor, fit, top of his game,
in time his will began to flag
and everything began to sag.

His muscles gone to atrophy,
he is not what he used to be.
His bod of steel reduced to puddle,
he is more comfy now to cuddle,

and so he finds at an old age
that happily, he’s still the rage,
for the old ladies that he hustles
still want to feel his former muscles.

 

Prompts today are game, apology, survivor, bucolic, staircase and mirage.

Keeping Up

 

Keeping Up

Celebrations in one’s seventies require an appointment
with your favorite doctor for a painkiller or ointment

for sprains or aches or bruises from one’s excesses of being
a good sport about camping out or ice skating or skiing.

What once you took for granted may now be an act of will
to engineer that final run or execute that hill.
Trying to be a kid again may put you out of touch.
The x-ray that they’ll take today will indicate how much.!

 

Word prompts today are celebration, x-ray, appointment.

Expired Lothario


Expired Lothario

A veritable heart-swoon in those days that he was young,
handsome, dashing, fleet-of-foot and, rumor says, well-hung,
these days when he ogles, it’s sorta through a mist.
It’s been so many years now since he has been kissed.

Just at the point when long ago he might have been gripping,
it seems as though these days it is more likely he’ll be tripping.
Whereas once he wooed at leisure, his romancing days are done.
His smoking pistol hasn’t fired for years. (Pardon the pun.)

 

Prompt words for today are mist, ogle, gripping, veritable and leisure.

Member of the Pack

Member of the Pack

It’s a pretense that I’m lonely, for as I look back
I do not miss existing in the raffish pack.
I do not miss the barrooms or parties tightly wedged
between the other partiers—those memories I’ve dredged
from a corner of my mind where they are a reminder
that once my world was fuller if not exactly kinder.

We were all examining the people we could be.
Trying on our different selves to see what we could see
in the mirror of our cohorts’ eyes and how they treated us,
riding in the joy car ’til we jumped down from the bus
to thumb a ride to try to find a different part to live in—
a part where all the rest of us wouldn’t have to give in.

All the various sides of us have their own times and spaces
that are all a part of how life puts us through our paces.
And now in maturity, I hope that we’ve all found

that comfortable part of us for which we all were bound.
And that’s why I’m not lonely as I wander back
in memory to when I was a member of the pack!

 

 

Prompts today are pretense, lonely, reminder, raffish and pack.

Dressed to Kill the Blues

Dressed to Kill the Blues

If you’re feeling washed out like your blossoming’s through,
feeling less than capricious and aged and blue,
why not ransack your closet to find something gaudy,
colorful, crazy, a little bit bawdy?

Don’t nurse a depression that you can dress up.
Why be a sad dog when you could be a pup?
Wilder clothes make you happy. Put joie in your vivre.
Tight clothes and stilettos—a  trick up your sleeve.

That impulse to give up is something to hide.
Folks will respond to what they see outside.
So when life deals the doldrums, why give in and mess it up?

You will feel better if only you  dress it up.

Prompts for the day are washed out, nurse, capricious, ransack and  blossoming.

 

Lest you think this is how my friends and I always dress, I’ll reveal that this was a Poor Taste party I threw one New Years Eve. Friends were to come dressed in the worst possible taste and to bring a dish that was tacky but delicious. It was a fun party!!!! 

I’ve Been and I Am

I’ve Been and I Am

In earlier days, I’ve been cursed and rehearsed.
Been nursed for my fevers, relieved of my thirst.
Dialed and aisled, exiled  and trialed.
Filed and riled and even profiled.

I grew tired, retired, and my interest was fired
to try moving off to a place I’d admired.
Fate guided my steps, waved her magical wand

and found me a house by a beautiful pond,

Surrounded by greenery both flower and frond,
 I’ve probably formed my ultimate bond.
What we were we still are, for that is our core,

but if we have courage, we can be still more.

Life isn’t over when we’re retired.
We may be at rest but we needn’t be mired.
The flame of our life has not yet expired.
No circuit’s so old that it can’t be rewired!

Prompt words are tired, wand, thirst, negate and profile.

Story Lines


Story Lines

I’m enlivened by my lineaments. They show where I have smiled.
Without them, I am sure my face would be too bland and mild.
It surely would be awkward if I had no tracks or lines.
A face would be so boring without channel marks or vines.

Wrinkles liven up a face. They show where it has been.
They tell what’s happened in one’s life, but don’t tell where or when.
They leave up to mouths and hands to embellish the story
with details more specific—more romantic, funny, gory.

Your face is the epitome of how you’ve lived your life.
It shows the tracks of pleasures, of sadness and of strife.
Without the stories that they tell, there’d be no place to look
anywhere on your body to read you like a book!

 

Word prompts today are lineament, epitome, awkward and liven.

The Duchess’s Hair Comb

The Duchess’s Hair Comb

In a very strong wind, in a leap of confusion,
a grasshopper staged an act of intrusion.
His leap took him higher than ever before
just as a visitor opened the door,
and he rocketed high over carpet and chair
to land in the dowager’s snowy white hair.
His illegal entry unplanned and unwitting,
he clung to her coiffure and he ceased his wild flitting.
As friend after friend arrived at her door,
each was given to say, “I simply adore
your new hair ornament. Is it vintage Lalique?
and they came a bit closer, the better to peek
at the grasshopper clinging within a stiff curl,
sprayed liberally so it wouldn’t unfurl.

The grand dame, a bit dotty and splendidly vain,
said over and over and over again,
“Yes, it is,” and bent over to pour out more tea.
Then she  settled again, with a cup on her knee.
As the gossip flowed on with nary a bleep,
the grasshopper settled and soon fell asleep.
By this means, he avoided a swat or a squashing
as all of the ladies continued their noshing.
They murdered each sandwich and cookie and cake,
never once taking note that her comb was a fake. 
And when the tea ended, he took a small ride
as his patron accompanied her guests all outside.
Then he took a great leap and was finally free
to luxuriate in his new liberty.

Not one person there knew the truth of the matter.
One guest told the tale to her favorite hatter
of the fabulous jewel the dowager wore
and the hatter relayed it to more and to more
of his customers, then asked the lady who wore it
if she would show him, so he, too, could adore it.
So she raided her vaults and her jewelry case,
but the jewel had vanished—was gone with no trace.
And the lady, known lately as vague and forgetful,
imagined great loss and grew angry and fretful.

She questioned her servants, then called the police,

but since she could find not a trace of the piece—
no receipts or photos or proofs of insurance—
the police could not give her any assurance
that they could recover it, and soon departed,
leaving the dowager so broken-hearted,
now convinced that this hair ornament was her favorite,
mourning the fact that no more could she savor it.
Thus goes the story that was handed down
among the servants and all over town.
It went down in history as a grand theft
that left the grand duchess sorely bereft.
While down in the garden,  hearty and hale,
her purloined jewel calmly munched on her kale.

Prompt words today are carpet, rocket, garden, intrusion and illegal.

Empty Windows

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Empty Windows

When it comes to neoteric, it is something that she’s not.
Way back in the fifties she’s permanently caught.
Travel to new countries? Definitely no.
She won’t have other countries profiting from her dough!

She has no curiosity about the human race.
Her interest in humanity ends in her own face.
She sits before her mirror like a window to the world.
Is her lipstick even—her hair correctly curled?

Bravery to her is answering the door.
She walks out to her mailbox, but further? No. No more.
She boils all her bed linen, lest creatures linger there
to creep onto her body and nest within her hair.

All the wounds her life will bear long ago were healed.
She’s a preserved specimen of life, hermetically sealed.
She’ll face no other heartache, no risks of being hurt.
She will not chance a world of germs, bacteria and dirt.

Cats are unhygienic and dogs an equal threat.
A goldfish in a bowl is her single lonely pet.
No companion goldfish to fill its tiny bowl.
Its full attention trained on her seems to be her goal.

All those empty windows with their draperies pulled tight.
All those single bedside bulbs burning through the night.
Behind each building’s blinded eyes, how many just like her—
sealed inside a bell jar, safe from the world’s rude whirr?

 

Prompt words today are bravery, window, travel, neoteric and boiled.

I’m leaving in 15 minutes for my writers’ retreat with eight friends at a resort across the lake so probably won’t be blogging until next Friday. Although I forgot to ask him ahead of time, perhaps Forgottenman will once again be my guest blogger. If not, see you Friday, and if you miss me, go back to some of my earlier blogs from 5 or 6 years ago or any year prior to your following my blog. I’ll miss you all. See you Friday with some new tales. Now, I’m off!!!