Archive | Aging

I Don’t Do Old

there are things to do,
lilies to grow.
Stella d’ore’s blooms
are my galaxy.
irises’ blue . . . fill
my eyes with
ecstasy,
i don’t do old
i do global warming
with Suzuki, Schindler
and Al Gore’s concern
with climates
in crisis.
my affinity is with
the arctic – ice, melt, water,
polar bears
drowning –
i don’t do old.
god’s creativity,
and ideas light
my spirit.
art, literature
can fill me
with awe.
life is sweet,
never, i will
never age out,
i don’t do old.
kindness spins
my web,
altruism, a.i.d.s, h.i.v.,
world poverty
are my bonds . . .
entanglements of
laughter are the gossamer
threads that
tie my connections together . . .
i won’t do old

– sterling haynes

Visiting Day

Yesterdays
thin out
in crumbling light
of blue veined years

bone-lean survivors
cocoon
twiddling
their thoughts
marooned in lapses

speech is sidetracked
by spillover words
and people plots

On visiting day
we laugh together
at scattered perceptions

hug
loose – wired
memories

wheres and whens
rebound
for brief hiatus . . . .

– Adele Kearns Thomas

Chimney Sweep, November

A colonoscopist of brick, he’s come to ream us out,
clear winter’s cinders, summer’s flying squirrels
and young raccoons with Santa fantasies.

The traditional top hat, but iridescent plumes, hawk
and cock, sprout from the band. A dandy’s eyes
and crinkly beard are gray from ash and age.

He decries our fireplace doors – trickster glass leaks heat –
ignores the mismatched andirons, adjusts the damper plate,
says pine logs are okay if dry, saves my pitched manuscripts.

He wears the leer of men who peer up more
than sooty shafts. I pay no mind, for like the hearth,
I know: when we no longer burn, we die.

– Elisavietta Ritchie

Fallow Fields

Sterile times, barren
as shriveled stalks
flattened by ruthless winds.
Yet something stirs
beneath this emptiness.
New growth sprouts
when all seems dead.
A hint of greening amid
the gloom – there is yet
life in these dry bones.

– Barbara Mayer

The Forester

He scans his face in the mirror, counts the spots
he measures the vigour of an ever more feeble body
he analyzes the odours and humours of the night
that consigns him to the morning
and reads the writing of his blood
under a skin
ever more transparent
They are notches the forester
carves as he passes on the trees
which next season he’ll return
to cut down.

– Diego Bastianutti

The Shell of Age

Oh could I crack the rigid shell of age
And softly swell in each unfettered limb,
Disperse the adamantine cast of thought
And burst apart restriction’s boundaries.
Now let me glide in any plane I choose,
Maintaining it at any pace preferred
And for as long as fancy pleases me,
Delighting in the freedom of the young.
May all my senses glitter diamond-sharp.
To smell the lilac bushes and the rose,
To relish Louis playing West End Blues,
To capture every nuance of Monet.
May I regain the rosy mind of youth,
The certainty that life is full and fair,
That time brings greater wisdom, little else
And those I love will always be at hand.

– Adrian M Ostfeld

Late Summer Love

Tangy with flower scented breezes
and lemon colored skies
late August tastes of early autumn wine.

Cured by summer’s heat
the cask of love fills quickly
with its ripened harvest of desire.

Nightcaps of pungent air
bring seasonal closure
to familiar sunny beds

as frosted arteries
highlight change
along the corridors of night

where youthful urges once
brought needs for refills
the glass of summer slowly empties.

We raise our goblets to the winds
savoring the rich dark flavor
of our aging lives. Embracing life.

– Peggy Fletcher

A Page Turner

I am in the winter of my life
but I continue to revel
in the autumn of my being,
vibrant, colorful leaves
reflecting my spirit . . .
or I the leaves . . .

Choosing to gently take
one leaf from a tree
I loosely place it in my
book of winter pages,
not as yet having read that far,
more caught up where my bookmark is. . .

When I finish the book
I am hoping for a sequel that
goes beyond my then pressed leaf
new pages to keep reading
new chapter upon new chapter . . .
But in this time, this day

the exhilaration of Fall
fills my senses
and I take delight in the joyous
‘hanging on’ of the leaves
before I gather wood and
read by the winter’s warmth

– Lois Batchelor Howard

Change

My attic has changed.
For fifty years we stored our treasures there,
my mother’s wedding dress
great-grandfather’s solemn face in ornate frame
love letters from high school days.

Change. My house is sold.
I return grandchildren’s drawings.
My brother’s wife cherishes letters from war-time years,
My daughter has my mother’s dress.

The attic is bare,
but my heart is full
of what has been.

– Naomi C Wingfield

Waiting for the New Hip

I watch my feet and miss the world.
Sheer plod to get somewhere. Or nowhere.
Gulls fling themselves into the gale.
A stained mattress slumps in the lane.
Chasing the sunrise,
the brightest peaks the highest.
Get yourself to the music store.
Step into a sea of sound. That’s transport for you.

This slow motion, like watching a tree grow.
Patience Impatiens
I am that cottonwood, heavy,
motionless in the fog.

– Barbara Wild

Blossoms on an Aged Tree

Its trunk is bent;
Its bark is scarred and seamed.
Its broad, green canopy
once spreading grateful shade,
has vanished with the years.

Instead of once-abundant bride-like lace,
shedding abroad a fragrance to entice a thousand bees,
only a few small branches bear scant bloom.

We, in our bent and wrinkled age
no longer fit to shade the young from scorching heat,
or yield much nectar, sweetening our world,
can only flower now in tremulous laughter
and kindly words
and the shared fragrance of a memory.

– Marion Wyllie

Lifetime

It is eleven o’clock
Etta is a small woman,
stylishly dressed.
Her smile enrobes one.
In Paris Etta taught English to Chanel.
She talks of trolleys pulled by horses in Manhattan.
She chats in lively fashion
of today’s events and mores.
Her spectacle lenses are fishbowls.
Her eyes, magnified, dart and glisten
in their depths.
She sees very little
and takes in all.
At one hundred,
Etta is au courant.
Her watch talks to her.
It is eleven fifteen.

– Carrie McLeod Howson

To Me

Dear T., take pains today to have some fun,
Because today’s the last day you’ll be seventy:
Your age tomorrow will be seventy-one
– Unless tonight you go to heaven, T.!

– T Melnechuk

Time

Time is a river, the song says,
and just like birthdays you never
step in the same water twice.
At my advanced age time flows
faster, so I capture it with my watch,
the clocks on my desk and walls,
calendars and diaries, preserving
my slice of eternity, an atom among
a universe of atoms, a grain of sand
on all the world’s beaches – a candle
with a disappearing wick.

– Don Gralen

She or I?

She pushes her shopping cart
All she possesses – precious old shoes,
A sweater, a blanket, half an old sandwich
No soap, no toothpaste, no make-up –
All things I need – but she’s not me
I’m not her – except in my recurring dream –
She could be me, I could be her – why not?
What would I need from the cart?
Toothpaste, soap, friends, relatives, a life.

– Viola A Jaffe

A Lot Like Me

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
Your eyes are clouding over
And your hair is turning grey
Your legs, they kinda’ wobble
They ain’t what they used to be.
A lot like me.

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
You don’t greet me anymore
With your joyful puppy glee
When I come home worn and tired
I’m just glad if you don’t pee.
A lot like me.

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
You just stand there with a stare
When I let you out the door
‘Cause you can’t remember what it was
You wanted out there for.
A lot like me.

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
You curl up in your easy chair
As peaceful as a pup
But snap and growl at anyone
Who dares to wake you up.
A lot like me.

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
You burst out with excitement
When I take you for a walk
But you come home, tail draggin’
After once around the block.
A lot like me.

We’re gettin’ old, you and me
Ain’t we?
Your needs in life are simple
Just a quiet place to be
A gentle touch, a soothing hand
A loving family.
A lot like me.

– Libby Simon

Gravity has gone physical on me

Gravity has gone physical on me
Some things I won’t let you see
It started on the top of my head
That’s why I dyed it red
And then the eyes – not a surprise
Now the face – not a disgrace
But difficult to erase
The neck!
Oh, the neck!
That’s where you start to look like a wreck!
I won’t mention the breast
And all the rest
I just cover up
It’s for the best.

– Lottie Pincus

how different inside the dark

my dogs leap into daylight barking

in the pearly light of moon
their gentle breath upon my neck
speaks of need to go outside
i open up the door
in silence pepper sniffs the air
in silence joey waits behind
single file they glide down steps
into the silver dark of nearly dawn
looking not so much on tiptoe
as if floating in canoes through fog

now in the dark of my life
i too peer into shadows
certainties turn amoeba
changing shape as we pass by
silent and listening
passion turned watchful
i travel through the kingdom of the night

– june mitchell

Encounter

Two old faces
our eyes saying what wasn’t said before
as we sip green tea
too late our hands touch
then let go
let go

– Patricia Brodie

Mirror Mirror

I am frightened
By my image.
I face a mirror
That doesn’t reflect, but predicts.

Boney hands
Can’t pick a flower,
Can’t raise a glass
To make a toast, to memories.

I’ve lost my touch
And don’t know
Whether it’s better
For tomatoes to be green or red:

To be innocent and sour
But have potential,
Or to buy one delicious
Moment In the sun, then drop and rot.

I don’t see well up close
And distant things are blurred.
I am wounded by the shift
From clear to dim, and friends are gone.

– Bennett Gurian

This is not my body!

This is not my body anymore,
just foreign territory, invasion so total now,
there’s not one organ nor patch that I control.
First, minute infiltrations
of well disguised spies, those pseudo
friendly beings were easy to accept,
just small accommodations made to allow
sharing this joint or that crevice.
Giving over local governing of some minor
jurisdictions: sagging skin, blurry eyes, acid reflux,
was just lessening the burden of running my carcass
that was always in for servicing.
For awhile, I ordered a wrist,
an ankle, the odd spare rib
to behave, but soon even these minor offices
were removed from my regulation.
Wayward guts and rebellious lipid deposits
did their own thing.
I don’t really inhabit this body,
maybe just need the idea of having head,
heart and limbs; so mingling with others
I sometimes visit this shattered shell,
stuck together with stitches here and there,
with some semblance of upright posture achieved
by space-age designed and out-of-this-world priced
underwear and underwire.

Now I don’t even recognize myself
on occasional drop-in appearances,
just to see if improvements have happened –
to try out a dance step or two,
sway side to side, even a deep knee bend,
as opening jars and doors befuddle me,
hands can hardly clasp each other
– except in prayer.

– Bernice Lever

Records of My Life

Stacked and scattered,
tall and tumbling,
mounds of records,
each a thought, a feeling,
or a melody.

Ceaselessly, the needle touches
this, then that,
jumps around at random,
cuts deep into the groove
of a memory, a pain, a plan.

Whether smooth or grating,
can I ever slow the tune
long enough to catch my breath,
hear the silent little spaces
in-between?

– Sigrid Kellenter

Life in the Fast Lane

Somehow butter slips off a dish, then
the dish slips out of my hand and shatters
into tiny pieces mixed with butter on the floor.

If a neighbor knocked at my door right now
to ask if I needed some help,
I would instantly believe in miracles.

Look at it this way, my younger son would say,
at least you didn’t fall.
It’s true, I didn’t.

And when you think about it,
isn’t it a miracle that the universe
bothered to exist at all?

It probably wasn’t for you,
but here you are,
and you can enjoy things like

Baker’s unsweetened chocolate baking squares
made into a sauce –
the recipe’s on the side of the box.

If you don’t drive anymore,
which is a drag,
that sauce is a great morale booster.

And those grabbers they give you at rehab
are pretty good for picking things up –
but not butter.

– Lynne MacDonald

Old Women

Where was it written
That old women are mute.
Silent and wrinkled, invisible.
Gave away their voices long ago
Out of fear that no one listened
And silence had, at least, a bit of dignity.

Where was it written
That old women are not invited
To the table?
Must sit in the kitchen
Shelling peas and shining silver
So they don’t intrude on serious conversation
Ladled into fancy plates
Along with artichokes and escargots.
Too rich for old women
The language indigestible.

Where was it written
That old women can’t stomach complicated texture.
They, who wrote the very recipes
And sang the family history
To soothe those in the dining room
With lullabies.

– Frieda Feldman

Retired

I am not a lazy person.
I just like to sleep in late.
Not really, really lazy,
it is housework that I hate.
I have to sleep my sleep
so my blue eyes won’t be red
and I really get so much done
sorting out my thoughts in bed.
I don’t think that it’s lazy
when I don’t get dressed ’til two.
I haven’t got the time
when there’s so much I want to do:
the poems that I have to write,
the letters that are due,
the little things I have to knit
in yellow, white and blue,
the pictures that I love to draw,
soap figures that I carve,
the children’s stories that I write,
crocheted table scarves.
And who would call it lazy
when the phone is off the hook,
the fire is burning brightly
and I have a good new book?

As you know with housework,
you don’t ever get it done,
so why not do things worthwhile
like walking in the sun?
like walking in the pasture,
looking at the trees,
watching ripples in the creek,
listening to the breeze,

count the daffodils in bloom,
check the violet bed,
let the calf eat from your hand
And toss the ducks some bread?
It doesn’t matter when I rise
Just so I get things done.
And if I haven’t found the time,
There is tomorrow’s sun.

– Edna Selthon

Have I Ever

Have I ever dreamt of
a home by the ocean
a rock
to sit and view
the endless waves
and feel the gentle breeze
a beach
to walk and chew
my thoughts
my toes embedded in the seas
a storm
to wash away the stains
of aged hurtful pains
Have I ever dreamt of
a home by the ocean

– John Jansen in de Wal

Poem Written on a Wednesday

An older kid on our block
Tom went long ago . . . in his 80s
and Lukey went a year before him
in the bathroom middle of the night
found him next morning . . . cold
staring at little holes in the ceiling tile
all three of us joined the army on a day
that now seems so long ago and
got rip-roaring drunk that same night

Now Harry he was shaking
moved his jaw the way old folks do
and Ted had Alzheimer’s and
couldn’t remember my name
same class with me all through school
both of them gone now . . . and me?
here I sit in my 93rd year unto heaven
wizened by the tincture of time

I get up every morning
you know the old body check
before putting her in gear for the day
this morning my fingers came to ten again
three days running . . . nothing wrong with me
last week I had a nine, though
this is Tuesday isn’t it?

– Frank Young

Macular Degeneration

Some rusty pipe inside
bursts, spilling spent blood

upon the macula,
blots out the light.

Neither time, nor space,
nor mass, said Einstein,

are true constants;
only light.

Why then this black
hole? Sure,

God, like yeast,
transforms by corruption.

Yesterday I was indestructible
eighteen, the sea

was deep; today
decaying in the shallows.

– Kilian McDonnell

Gracious Lady

My grandchildren think I am old.
My children think I am older.
I think I am ageless!

I remember loves, sadness, triumphs, and defeats.
I remember little dogs, gardens, and the smell of oil paint.
I remember moonlight, dances of butterflies, buzzing of honey bees,
the laughter of children splashing in water.

I remember the pounding of the surf, the smell of salt air,
the crunch of sand under my feet.
I remember cries of newborn babies, delighted eyes when
tummies were filled.
I remember Christmas, I remember snowfalls, I remember
strong arms around me. Sadness, defeats, even triumphs have moved on.
I am too old to carry them, now – happiness sustains me.

– Barbara White

Opening the Cottage: June 2008

Now 70, they open the cottage
Slowly
On a hot day in early June:
Daybed to the porch, then sit a while;
Kayak by the dock; weed eating can wait.
He cannot remember
Where he stored the clothes line
Or how to change the battery
In the smoke detector,
Chirping, like the goldfinches
Eager for thistle seed.
Breaking through the skin of pollen
On the pond’s surface,
He lets the glacial waters
Refresh his aching joints;
Not as cool, though, as he had hoped.
Through the porch screen, the clothes line,
Which she had found, of course,
The Adirondack chair, the bird feeders
Now in place:
Things where they belong,
The world as it is supposed to look.

– Robert Demaree