A write for the aged

write a poem about the Elderly

They are wonderfully interesting people
who have lived through many things: good or bad.
The subject matter is up to you

Rules: one entry per writer
No novels

Here's something to get you going http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNyD5jWYpjE&list=UUIPT2tnbP9mkDjbaDwG2pWA&index=2&feature=plcp

In the mirror
I see the pale reflection of my face
Once handsome
Now covered in wrinkles
Spots and pimples
I stop and stare at the young
Full of life and strong
I catch memories of better days gone
Things I love to do that I can no longer do now
A third leg to carry through
My whole life behind me
strength dissipating
Weary and waiting
For the end of this Earthly sojourn
After which I'll rejoin
My peeps long gone

Thank you.

A nice start

The Gravity of the Situation

Poor gravity gets the cursing,
while only trying to be their friend.
For if it wasn’t for what it is,
they’d all go tumbling off the end.

But failing eyesight conceals
the more obvious things it may affect.
Like varicose veins and receding hair,
too many chins and turkey necks.

Strange places will sprout hair
and those few extra pounds,
will render some helpless
after falling to the ground.

Ending up in special homes,
unable to drive their cars,
shuffling down long, strange halls,
wondering where the hell they are?!!

Smelling of Mentholatum and Bengay,
putting someone else’s dentures in their mouths.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg
when considering what’s up down south.

Nothing’s stiff or tight,
they’ll wonder if the nuts are all loose.
They’ll say it’s all normal,
“Now drink your prune juice.”

Wheeled out into the sun
with a warm blanket for the breeze,
wouldn’t be quite so bad, if certain dangly bits
didn’t sag down past their knees.

The director says they’ll make lots of friends;
perhaps one they’ll call Doctor Bill.
He’ll have a nephew on the outside,
who’ll score them those little blue pills.

Outsiders will whisper, “they need it for the sex”,
but they’ll know that’s really not quite true.
For you see, they seek only half a dose,
to keep from peeing on their shoes.

Nice one Tornado


Thank you

Last Song of Dusk


i.

The cream rug
of the afternoon years ago
with psychedelic patterns
of blood and semen

A seamless vista of life
or the usual result
of fornication

Torn membranes
and surging pain

Heavy panting
and light heads

Watching the spectacle
of diurnal carnality
unfold from which
trees would sprout
robust

as the tides of time
curl-unfurl

ii.

The limited edition
Paradise regained
from a cursive hand
saying anonymous

or the desolation
on the first anniversary

An old flame
or the ghost of the dead wife

Ageless love or
limitless, uncontained lust

Unanswered questions
hang like naked swords
as the smell of a paperback
fills the room
and a fulfilling emptiness
gives company at crossroads

You reflect-regret-relate

iii.

The large beaker
of crystalline water
and an oscillating daisy
with radiant petals
filling its cells with
nourishment
and inspiration

A large drop of crimson
makes impact
followed
by a flow-

continuous
generous

from the fresh cut
on the wrist-
clean and precise

Two eyes stare
at the stigmata of love
seep out to a medium
of lesser viscosity
sparkling now
with poisoned blood

The dripping sap
of an oddly poised life

insipid-irrelevant-


iv.

The silhouette of
a wiry old man
sitting on the terrace
shaded by the adjacent banyan-

majestic-content

behind the thick foliage
and intricate designs

hides the secrets
of a life less ordinary

of an unconsummated marriage
sleepless nights
joyless days

and the times of a recluse-
chosen by will

memories having been rendered
intangible-fragile-seemingly galactic
bring the familiar sense
of nostalgia back…

that fills the profound emptiness

till the eyelashes droop

For a while.

Thank you Summit!

I Almost Cried

Who is that person looking back at me,
as I passed a mirror today.
I saw a reflection of what used to be.
I said to myself who is that old woman,
looking back at me?
Lo and behold that person is me!

I asked myself what happened to my youth,
it is gone cast aside no more can I use it.
I almost cried.
I looked at my hair it is all faded and gray
it use to be so vibrant in a blonde color.
I said to myself, what is the use?
I almost cried.
I took a look at my face, those wrinkles around my eyes,
that wasn't there last year,
to my surprise.
I almost cried.

I will not lie to you, time is our enemy.
Time has hated me for quite awhile now.
My skin on my arms that was so taunt and strong
now no more than wrinkles.
I almost cried.

I am 61 years old

Thank you :)

An Ex Pub Clock  

When you went from this dimension
you left behind
a council , toilet extension .
where you did reside ,
all alone
in this so called home
I couldn't abide ,
it had this dull , drone of sombre tone
now worse that you've died .
 .
A plate on the wall
the poem true in it , not tall .
A china cabinet
with whatever you'd find
to put in it ,
with gold painted , hand decorated ,
aesthetic swirls  
all rebated and glass plated  
from the eastern world ,
a jewellery box
a couple of , ex pub clocks
and a few , fake pearls .

Chairs of orange
that glared
sitting short changed ,
at the Constable copy
fake golden framed
askew and stained  .
about ready for dropping .

An old side board
where images of yesterday were stored ,
a pension book
impossible to cook ,
a bus pass ,
donated garden grass .
and a musical , pianist girl ,
you twisted her so she played
a turning of sad twirl ,
this is what I'm sad to say
is left of my grandmothers
world .

does it have to be a new poem?

No. Just a write, new or old  :)

Closed Doors





First off, don’t read pity  
Cos this isn’t that  
   
Rowed out to the mooring-ground last week  
To meet an old bloke who has his yacht out there close to mine  
   
I’ve had a yarn to him a few times, shouting across the water from my boat  
But he’s pretty deaf, so it was never easy going  
   
I pull up alongside him in my dingy, throw him a line, and swing up and over  
   
His handshake is weak, thin-skinned like a chickens claw  
   
Never seen him up close  
   
Little stooped bloke, in a big hat and speedos  
Skin cancers all over his shoe-leather brown skin  
Bowed skinny legs, dodgy knees  
Swelled-up ankles, from heart medication for sure  
No strength in his arms  
Loose skin where the muscle used to be on his shoulders  
He must have been built once, back in the day  
   
His balance must be pretty fucked, going by the way he stands; wide footed and almost crouching  
His eyes are cataract cloudy  
His ears big flappy old-man ears  
And he’s smiling  
   
“How you going Kev?”  
“Oh I’m all right young feller. Bit shaky today. Always like that after my heart medication”  
   
I look around, sailors do that on another mans boat  
I see a million jobs that need doing  
   
“Hey Kev, you need a hand with anything while I’m here?”  
   
We worked a couple of hours, cleaning and tightening  
   
Then we had a beer, and I smoked, and he did me the favour of not calling me on it  
Old men know plenty of smoking stories  
   
“Hey kev, when was the last time you sailed this old bus?”  
   
“Well, I never have. Had her two years, but my health has never been right, and now I’ve got this thing. Going in to the hospital tomorrow for it. Bit touch-and-go they reckon, growing into my brain”  
He takes off his hat to show me a cancerous lump the size of my fist on his head  
   
I had nothing for that  
   
“Feel like a sail Kev?”  
A long pause  
“Yeah righto young fella, if you’ll help me”  
I rigged his boat for him while he talked, sitting on his own deck in the sun, telling me stories of his time in the airforce after the war  
   
We sailed off down the harbor, Kev at the helm, dipping the lee rail in the sea and making spray  
Not a cloud in the sky  
Could have been sailing to anywhere  
   
I called him skipper the whole time and he must have grown about 4 inches  
   
It’s none of our business, but I’m pretty sure he cried, at least once  
We spoke nothing of it  
Crying doesn’t always have to be talked about  
And I know medication can make a man weepy  
   
So can closing doors  
   
I haven’t seen Kev since, and that old blue yacht sits out in the harbor, rocking her own songs  
   
I call out to her every time I row past  
“Hey old-girl…where’s your skipper?”  
   
I think we both might know  
 

So I could have a favourite word

My favourite word; Dearest
It has always been, maybe,
and I didn't know.
I had to lose you, maybe,
so I could have a favourite
word, to call and feel
my own.  

† to my Dearest 22/2/2010

Does reality slap you
when you look in the mirror
when you finally see
old age
in your eyes
and wisdom
shakeing your tree