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Sad Retirement Poems | Sad Poems About Retirement

These Sad Retirement poems are examples of Sad poems about Retirement. These are the best examples of Sad Retirement poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Dementia

He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
Tough.
Independent.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died, 
he has not been the same.
Sad
Lonely
Empty.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
Mind slipping, 
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it, 
until now...
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain, 
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Oh well...
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best, 
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows 
what happens next.
Sedation
Medication
Anger
Hurt
All results of
dementia

Copyright © Laura Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.

He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.

His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.

Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.

Copyright © Mary Guckian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Acrostic | |

Reflections: Midlife Crisis

P     aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A     cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N     othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I      nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C     hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace
!!

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Questionku | |

Retirement of my beef

Horse who won in Yorkshire
Last year how come
To be a  beef in my menu  this year

Copyright © Sallam Yassin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse | |

One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.

He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.

His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.

Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.

Copyright © Mary Guckian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Bio | |

Solitude: To Yoda, An Ode

Green bark a prism creates,
Feel the pull of earth, you must.

Rotates, a slime of endless hates,
Can hold me not, this world’s crust.

Friendship’s ties, isolation Deflates,
Succumbs, my spaceship, to bitter rust.

Mist, my soul forever permeates,
Lift-off, booms the rocket’s thrust.

My spirit when light returns, elates,
Swamps swell, swallowed hope’s swirling dust.

Trapped, I am, until student from fate
Arrives to learn; Cloud City or bust.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Couplet | |

Numbed And Exhausted

Just like closing a book without reading a page,
Or as to a child who is tired of being a kid;
Like a preacher that won’t stay in a pulpit so long
Or to a sprinter who leaves from the running throng.

No time for laughter or for returning a grin
Or consoling oneself for the pain deep within;
No self-pity or pride to be felt by the heart
Yet reserved and reluctant for another start.

Sleep is precious and so desired by the mind
Having no urge for a smoke or for the spirit of wine;
No more is the longing for a kiss or embrace
When the will of a man only needs its own space.

Like a rooster of the dawn that would be cackling no more
As the dew that would dry without wetting at all.
Or a poet who used to spend some long sleepless nights
For the mind is now stalled with nothing to write.

No more rhyming lines or a tune for a song
Though the art for the craft is still able and strong;
But to rest and to rest is what the soul ever wanted
For the spirit that is numbed and so exhausted.

Date & Time of Writing
November 19, 2011
1:32pm – 2:05pm

I had a sleepless night and feeling the pain within my heart up to the time of this writing. I am simply getting impatient of my own patience. I feel that, for such, I become vulnerable to exploitations and blatant lies. Albeit, I still strive to be fair by keeping the pain within myself and hoping that at the end of this particular writing the pain I have inside would be just a driving force of coming up another piece of a candid poem.

Copyright © Jecon B. Nadela | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme | |

Retirement Time

“a little time to give... a little time to live, time always means so much” Before I knew it, I could retire, everyone said it would be so great, Having nursed for 37 years I got full pension so I took the bait. The first few weeks I slept in and did things I never had time to do, Then I found those things got boring, the time no longer flew. First I did the self-help thing, got into exercise and joined a Gym, Started a new diet, lost 65 pounds, boy I actually looked slim. Got a new hair cut and colour, went out and bought new clothes, Thought I’d become a better human being, but then who knows. Signed up for a watercolour class to improve how I painted, This transformation somehow made me feel somewhat tainted. I expanded my horizon with broadway shows and art displays, Yet my retired life felt empty, I seemed to be wasting my days. So I sat down and thought about what it is that I truly love, What fulfills my soul - I had to give my brain a little shove. Returning to basics, at the bedside is where I want to be, I decided to volunteer at a hospice, palliative care is for me. Supporting dying people and their family, to be caring is all I want, Listening to their struggles and life’s stories always continues to haunt. Working at Day Hospice we provide support for the respite stay, In addition I visit patients at home, so the caregiver can get away. The touch of a hand, the warmth of a hug is so very little to give, These people have limited time, only a few days or hours to live. Often unsettled before the person dies, they need to tie up loose ends, So I do whatever is required, for the person who wants to make amends. If I can make a person’s last moments, ones that are filled with peace, Comforting the family, sitting quietly as the person’s last breaths cease. My life will not be wasted and I no longer have the urge to read MacBeth, My retirement and work at hospice allows me to love my patients to death. Written by Lee Ramage August 30, 2011 For A Rambling Poet’s contest “A Poem- Please” Placement- 4th

Copyright © Lee Ramage | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse | |

MAGICless

It's early November '91, 
and I quite can't remember, 
ever, 
feeling this humbled, seeing
Magic stumble, 
off his shiny crown, 
and the little boy
Who once glared at 32, 
fixated by a dribbling
Rhythm,        so compulsive, 

    so majestic, 

so unattainable, 
by his own standards, 
that he had no choice, 
but to glare, 

It's different now, 
A leather cacophony, 
dribbling dissonance, 
laymen lay-ups, 
Leading us to believe
it was a mere illusion, 
but I believed in Magic.

(1/22/92)

Copyright © Suburban Lovechild | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

ECHOES OF THE HEART

The distant past
whishpers across
the lonelly valleys echo 
with fear and distrust
It captures the heart
And takes it to a ride
Their echoes sre heard
In that distant past
The valleys listen
And bow down in honour
Their red tears
Afraid of wiping them
Reality hidden far away
Far away in the distant past
In heart muscles they align 
Just above reality
When the echoes open their heart
We get dismayed 
Lonesome bewilder our hearts
The hearts that soon crumble
They soon meet with the ancestors
Who in a rude shock wonder
How soon and young we join them
The echoes remain still
Untill the valleys 
Stop whispering
but our hearts are a battlefield
Where emotions fight
the fight of unending battles
 untill soon we depart

Copyright © john ngugi | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse | |

Miracle on 44th Street

Lyrical On 44th Street
 

The argument started at the table
 
He was too soft,
 too timid to quote Gable
 
She said ,"Your dreams aren't keeping the lights on.
 
If I see you writing again, your son and I will be gone."
 
 
 
 
He said, "I been writing this book for ten years.
 
 I  got a letter from the mayor. I won a certificate."
 
She said, "It's just paper. We can't eat it. It aint worth shit!
 
   For six years you haven't been a father at all.
 
You got a son who can't even catch a damn ball.
 
You're worth a nickel as a husband.
 
As a father, not even a dime.
 
Where's a boy going in this world
 
Writing stories and rhymes?"
 
   She tossed his unfinished poems on the kitchen floor
 
His bound manuscripts out the back door.
 
She said, "Horace, I'm warning you.
 
Get this work out the trash
 
You'll find a wedding ring in there too."
 
   For three days those dreams festered in that trash
 
Covered with Pasta, cooking oil, Marinara sauce
 
Everything he had ever written was lost.
 
   
 He watched the Sunny Hills Sanitation Company
 
Turn down 34th street and make a left at the corner.
 
One last time he tried to warn her.
 
He could barely hide his tears with his hands.
 
She said, "Now you can grow up and be a man."
 
  Then that truck turned left on 35th street
 
Then it turned right
 
And just like those dreams, it disappeared from sight
 
   
     Twenty years later
 
He sat in the Sunny Hills Convalescent home
 
Sick, lonely, old and alone
 
He couldn't even hold a pen
 
Or dial numbers on a phone
 
    He had forgotten nearly every simile
 
Every rhyme and every metaphor.
 
And every few weeks the Reaper
 
Carried one of his friends out that door.
 
   And though he couldn't remember
 
 His favorite color or baseball team
 
The one thing he couldn't forget
 
Were those lyrical dreams.
 
  
In the dining room of the hospital he had a guest.
 
It took two nurses to get the feeble man dressed.
 
A nurse said, Mr. Horace, this is your son.
 
Twice he had to be reminded that he had one.
 
He tried to reply, but his words failed.
 
  The young man said, "Dad, I have a writing degree.
 
I graduated with honors, from Yale.
 
 
 
But what the old man didn't know
 
Happened late in the night
 
Twenty years ago.
 
A young child
 
Went into that garbage can
 
Sorted through the pasta, salad, and uneaten bones.
 
And made those lyrical dreams his own.
 
And now those dreams live on.
 
                                                     -Michael Ellis

Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016