Wild Birds and Nutsy
There still is beauty in the lengthy life,
Tho no longer glamorous corporate strife,
Grief and relief fall on first lonely days,
Staring outside at the wild life at play.
Beginning to guess what is that bird song?
What is that harsh screech that doesn’t belong?
The swish of a tail and the bark of a squirrel,
Capture the mind to find a new-found world.
Waking up walking in a wild feed store,
Buying seed, talking needs unknown before,
Naming each bird and “Nutsy” the new pest.
Challenges the same as those old ones now rest.
When wild life becomes a new family,
You’re hooked, they’ve won you, addicted, you’re free.
Copyright © Sunlite Wanter | Year Posted 2017
Strolling around town
At prohibited time
Ignoring the church bell sounds
While I see people hurrying
Down the sidewalk
On their way to work
Think maybe I'll find
Pen and paper
And have a coffee somewhere
Or maybe not
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen | Year Posted 2014
I woke this morning, thought, I might take a shower.
It's 9:00 am already, I'll eat lunch in a couple hours.
When I dust and make the bed, the chores will be done.
Maybe, I should check the ballgame scores, I don't care who won.
After my nap, I think I'll watch the kids play.
Wrote in my daily journal, didn't have a lot to say.
Almost time for the news, weather and that wheel game.
Don't remember who won yesterday, the prizes seemed the same.
Dinner wasn't too bad, I eat fast when dining alone.
Nothing is on the TV, nobody to talk to on the phone.
I might as well go to bed, it will be nice to fall asleep.
There's no reason to get up, I have no promises to keep.
Tomorrow, will be another day, I'll do it all over again.
I really miss old crazy Joe, he sure was a good friend.
Laying here, Listening to the siren, headed to the fire.
Now it's quiet, peaceful and empty, I wonder, why did I retire.
Carl Wayne Jent
Copyright © carl jent | Year Posted 2017
So much for my ideas of slowing down,
Taking it easy just sitting watching TV.
I moved to a peaceful seaside town,
Since then I have found a few things occupy me.
I play bridge at least three times every week,
Read poems with a group on Thursday afternoons,
For extra fun I can find anything I seek
And I can write about it and put it to tunes.
On Tuesday mornings I see my four men
In the U3A song writing group that I run.
They compose their music on my key board and then
I write some words and another song has begun.
The women visit Fridays. We have fun,
Writing rhymes, banging bongos, blow didgeridoos,
Each week there are many things waiting to be done
Bells to shake, guitars to play, so much to choose.
Hairdressers, library, lots of jigsaws to do,
Trips to town, trips to do weekly shopping,
Mah-jong, Scrabble, flower arranging, cooking too,
Tea dances, line dancing from foot to foot hopping.
Each week at the local coffee morning
I get to hear about all that is being planned,
There’s knitting, card making, keep fit and it’s dawning
NO TIME FOR TV I’m too busy, understand!
Copyright © Mavis Jackson | Year Posted 2017
I am not afraid of middle age Let the inquisition of cunning smiles begin My ambition is not conclusive yet My passion is not devoured by deliberation in the night For I know that I am the profit margin of my dreams And that my vices are as real as my virtues are strong No, I am not afraid of middle age For I have only just begun to rediscover this miracle That I am
Copyright © Michael Ainsley | Year Posted 2013
In my youth, I am sure I was slim,
a figure both modest and trim;
but now I am old, I'm frequently told
my features are wrinkled and grim.
As a girl, I was agile and quick,
my dancing was stylish and slick;
but sadly it’s gone, I just hobble on
now helped with the aid of a stick.
I attracted young boys by the score,
un-limited lovers, galore.
No more sex appeal, instead they all reel
and claim I'm a dowdy old bore.
In my prime, I would argue, roughshod,
Demosthenes then was my god.
But now I just drone, I mumble and groan
and gripe like a grumpy old sod.
All day I just look at the walls;
the clock on the mantelpiece crawls.
But is that a knock, a turn of the lock?
I do hope that somebody calls.
For Black Eyed Susan's 'Aging' Competition.
Copyright © Charles Clive | Year Posted 2013
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.
An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.
Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined
Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.
Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.
Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.
Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.
Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday
When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.
But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.
Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved
Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”
She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”
But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.
And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.
Copyright © Jack Clark | Year Posted 2014
Hard to believe I'm slowing down
Never thought this day would ever come
Merrily cruising along
Oblivious to all the small changes
Suddenly I'm forgetting things
Or how to do something
That I've been doing by rote
For too many years to count... I'm scared!
My mind goes wild thinking
Of what the future has in store for me!
When I was younger
The thought rarely occurred to me
Almost as if that final day
Was forever away... then WHAM!
It hit me like a ton of bricks
Started wondering, will it be tomorrow
Next week... next month
Don't usually dwell on it
But can no longer ignore it
Sadly, no one escapes
Even the most mighty and powerful
Will finally succumb
CRAP! POOP! And all that stuff!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014
An Advantage of Old Age
By Elton Camp
When you’re in the prime of life
Working to support child and wife
Others’ opinions are a valid concern
So, your faults don’t let them learn
Because you’ve got years to work
You mustn’t be known as a jerk
When you become fiscally secure
Caring what others think it’ll cure
It becomes an enormous relief
When people can’t cause grief
Your view you can freely express
And nobody else can suppress
If anyone says, “How do you dare!”
The response is, “What do I care!”
And even angrily you can shout it
There’s naught they can do about it
Copyright © Elton Camp | Year Posted 2014
“Birth day” is the actual day one exits from the womb, (thereafter, “birthday”, is but a colloquialism for the anniversary of that birth). Well … today is mine. I’m finally old enough to drive … (times 4.56!). Now, I’m old enough to vote … (times 3.476!). One of my sons, too, this month, will become a half-century old … which makes me realize: I’m older’n dirt!
It is truly amazing: Once you reach this age, it really, truly is incomprehensible that so many years have passed since taking that first breath – because our minds don’t allow us to think we’re “aged”! Our thoughts tell us we can still lift that couch … or a 100 lb. sack of seed … or a box of twenty books. But … the actual attempt proves our minds still have their roots in the concrete of yesteryear, while our bodies are entrenched in the reality of … today, (that’s easily confirmed by a quick glance in a mirror!) Contrary to popular belief … we are NOT as “young as we feel” … and to defy reality by allowing our minds to trump our body’s limitations, when it comes to physical exertion, is courting a hospital stay – or worse.
For those of us whose physical attributes have waned, we have great difficulty in accepting the fact that we now are relegated to the task of “watching”, not “doing”. That’s the final hurdle we, of necessity, must overcome before we can truly accept … aging. Our children, whom we used to tell and guide in what they could/should do, and when … have now matured. We’ve taught them as best we could, and it is now their turn to drive the carriage – and, if we’re lucky, and don’t try to “boss” them, we may be asked to become passengers.
There comes a time when our day in the sun becomes a rocking chair in the twilight. We need to prepare ourselves to recognize that change of circumstance and situation.
It’ll be difficult for some of us … because WE’VE always been the one “in charge”. If we are to survive with our dignity intact and retain relationships with those we love … we have to find a way to hand over the reins – and MEAN it – to the next generation which we ourselves have spawned.
Our remaining decisions will be: Whether or not to re-bait that fishing hook … or what channel to watch … any decision more meaningful will need to be made by … our kids.
Copyright © Jack Clark | Year Posted 2014
To live is to Learn.
To learn is to grow up.
But at our elderly Age that doesn't mean much....
AAAhhh... The choices and freedoms that age does bring...
They open the world of childhood again.
This childhood is filled with fantasy and such…
Including Dragons, and Trolls alive to the touch.
I wish, I wish, you could see them with me.
We could laugh at their antics, together you see.
To live is to Learn.
To learn is to grow up.
But as my body grows old, my mind’s still young.
My husband and I are like the two parts of the moon.
He comes from the light side to pull me there, too.
His reflections of love keep me there, each day.
To live is to Learn.
To learn is to grow up.
But never stop smiling, along the way.
It’s your reflection of love that’s given to the world, each day.
It makes everything brighter, and everything OK.
To live is to Learn.
To learn is to grow up.
To learn is to find how to give your own reflections of love.
For contest: Reflections of Love
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013
When I look into the mirror
What on earth do my eyes see
I can see an old man staring
At a young man that is me
How I wish that this reflection
Was not so truthful and so bold
In my mind I still play marbles
But my reflection says I’m old
Where have those busy years gone
That consisted of my life
Seems like only yesterday dear
When you first became my wife
Quickly now the evening shadow
Has fallen over youthful face
I surrender to my plight now
And grow older with some grace
Copyright © Robert Andrew Lyle | Year Posted 2014
No more faxes, no more phones
No more “It’s too early” moans
No commuting, shouting, tooting
No more shirts & ties & suiting
No service station breaks and bites
No toilet queues and car park fights
No CRUISE control or heated seats
No glovebox filled with fuel receipts
No more hotel revolving doors
No concierge, no polished floors
No battered cases, weary faces
Sleepless nights in far-off places
No bacon fat, no butter pat
No “Why have I been charged for that?”
No checking out or checking in
Or moans about the room you’re in
No ‘silly hours’ airport dash
No feeling for your foreign cash
No passport checks, departure times,
No Coke machines that don’t take dimes
No drinks or pastes, no sprays or gel
Lens solution? - banned as well
No plastic meals or plastic smiles
To carry you across the miles
No luggage queues, no business shoes
No funny, foreign, TV news
No laws by which you must abide
No driving on the other side
No local customs, scraping, bowing
Baffling greetings and kowtowing
No horrid coffees, tepid teas
No pidgin English; ‘Thank you, please’
Meetings, musings, tariff choosings
Hushed asides, so oft confusing
Remembering their children’s names
Tax returns, expenses claims
You’ve toed the line your whole life through
But future plans are up to you
Bin the laptop, scrap the email
Make time for your favourite female
Copyright © Bill Lindsay | Year Posted 2015
I hereby retire from this website, poetrysoup.
Thank you so much for reading my poems through
the years, and the awesome comments. I have fulfilled
my obligations to myself, I hope you continue to read these.
I have met a friend who writes awesome poetry on Facebook.
I will leave you with his, and my links.
and have a good day
be someone and make the most of it.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013
Rivers I traveled for many a year,
then wide and deep, now shallow I fear,
more narrow than I remember,
trickled to creeks of early December.
My boat, long rowed, leaks on the shore.
I stroll the banks, not too much more,
gaze down the hill to watch the waters widen,
strewn with young rowers charmed by Poseidon.
Copyright © William Coyne | Year Posted 2016
By Curtis Johnson
It seemed so clear and plain to me that those urges for repetitive behaviors and tendencies were hard to tame.
It seemed that there simply was no recourse from a life locked in “drive” on a one way street that always ended up the same.
Like a loaded locomotive headed across the plains, providing no great views of mountains or rivers; there too was a longing inside of me to stop and get off this fast train.
As our lives approach the setting of the sun, and the evening star appears, it seems appropriate to take a little more time to contemplate, meditate, and rearrange.
I thinks perhaps it’s true that there is sometimes less to be gained from vain repetition; and sometimes, I think that second opinions are required to relieve more pain.
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
The future looms so much closer now
no dreams weave a halo around its outcome
aspirations have dwindled to respirations
insistence on continuing the game of life.
Most all of what I’ve gone through
have been referred to as stages,
phases of life, periods of adjustment,
trials and tribulations to be overcome,
moved through, lessons learned.
Not so anymore. Those easy “lay-ups”
early in the game, though as important
as the “Buzzer-beater”, never seemed
as “easy” to execute. Seems life has
become a series of “two minute drills”,
no “hurry up” offense, just a plodding
“three yards and a cloud of dust”
dedication to the demands of the game.
To “show up, suit up and stand up”.
Now I know why there are empty pages
at the back of the play book,
why spontaneity and experience
conspire to overcome - not overpower.
I review the plays each day
knowing it is not the game that must change
but my relationship to the game,
to adapt, to undergo the metamorphosis
of living, accept the gradual changes
of a future that I somehow “outran”,
the present it became, and the past
that fades beneath the clouds at the
base of the mountain.
submitted to – Any Poem Written In January 2017
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2017
What Does Maisie Smile About?
(or A Tale of 3 Ladders)
“I wonder what Maisie smiles about,
when she stares out of her window?”asks Jane,
the new carer at St. Mary's, is curious,
about the aged figure watching the rain
Maisie is deep in her thoughts today,
“Maisie, Maisie”, her Grandpa cries,
“these ripe apples won't pick themselves you know!”
and up the long ladder her young legs rise (1st ladder)
Autumn, in the golden orchard of yesteryear,
the warm setting sun, the birds and the bees,
the grown ups, all so merry with chatter,
Maisie and friends, all playing at ease
Such happy days of Autumn sun,
of foraged blackberries and apple cake,
of sweet plum puddings and then,
apple with cheddar in the same bake
The adults, merry now, and all a dance,
the tree house ladder calls the young throng, (2nd ladder)
the boys scatter 'jacks', the girls make 'cat's cradle',
then all descend to skip in time to song
This is what I reminisce about,
and my time is far from past, you see,
I hear them, calling me, up that final ladder,
“Maisie, your young legs will soon be free!”
Not long now, as I grow so very tired,
I will shed my 'costume' of aged joints so sore,
and return again to the young girl that I really am,
and sprint up those ladder rungs once more! (3rd ladder)
Mrs Cheryl Darby 2015
Copyright © Cheryl Darby | Year Posted 2015
Do you ever wonder where the years have all gone?
The roller coaster ends and you hope to hop back on
We are older now and that thrill ride has passed us by
Should we cling to our memories or give it one more try?
Do we accept the achin' body and shortness of breath?
Our personal potholes are harder to miss near death
These are the physical demons we all face in our later years
Time is short now, being laid up for months is what we fear
When we're young, there is time to recover what's gone
When we're old, we're hoping to discover another dawn
We envy our kids because of their able-bodied youth
They care about us dearly, yet deny the senility truth
We never realize we're old until sickness or injury
It is at that very moment we picture life so vividly
The reds are redder, the blues are bluer, no reason to hate
Except the darks are now darker as we ponder our fate
We now question everything we have been taught
Is there a Heaven or Hell or is everyone just as lost?
When we get to this place, there really is no answer
It doesn't matter if you're dying from old age or cancer
The elderly are the new endangered life forms
Scientists creating drugs to combat our aging storms
We don't need drugs, we just want people to know we're here
Quit ignoring your elders, for we'll be the first to God's ear
Copyright © JJ Hammer | Year Posted 2016
I am very young in spirit, never weak: guess my actual age?
I keep a positive outlook by avoiding negativeness and rage!
Twenty years from now, I'll be wrinkly and gray losing more hair than today;
I'll spend hours in devoted prayer, molding real faces out of plaster and clay!
Anywhere in the lovely Italian countryside emotions seem to rise from inside,
I'll sit and paint those life-like images singing an aria from Madame Butterfly:
thinking of New York's friendly faces and that girl who never became my bride,
but staring at the ticking watch will increase sadness, minutes will not speed by!
Can anyone imagine how I'll react when all the hearts I've broken
will finally smile and feel some empathy, although vivid is their memory?
Time, distance and forgiveness won't allow bitterness to reawaken...
isn't this something everyone should reflect upon and think it thoroughly?
For now, any sad thought on being old must be put aside;
all I can hope for is getting there on the smoothest ride!
Written on 4/ 23/2017
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2017
He walks about in the night, with veined arms and blood stained claws,
Running from the ghosts haunting his past , escaping death's jaws.
The healing factor was his gift; made him live for ling,
Made him dwell in solitude while the telepaths and beasts were gone.
After these long days, of future past, redemption is all that he seeks.
Age is finally taking its toll on him; his skin old and muscles weak.
So he might be someone's worst nightmare or a hero for some,
But this is the end of Logan's legacy; his time has come...
Copyright © The Moustached Bard | Year Posted 2017
I may seem lazy, I may seem lame
I surely have myself to blame.
My past life a constant struggle
I shy away in my own bubble.
I don't do what others say
I might lay around and waste my day.
No matter what you think that means
We all have our own dreams.
I've entered through another door
but I remember how it was before.
Life had me in a busy bustle
kids, work, home my constant hustle.
Now as my body breaks and ages
I'm moving ahead in life's stages
My best is done, my kids have grown
Now I live here all alone.
I wonder if you may have guessed
I'm living life in an empty nest.
I find I have all that I need
I want nothing out of greed.
Constant hustle is over rated
Now love from family keeps me sated.
I may seem lazy, I may seem lame
But you see, I feel no shame.
Copyright © Lenna Walker | Year Posted 2017
It's another Saturday night
ending this week
I came here
almost two years ago
to my retirement hermitage
and often uncomfortably,
shared with my hurt kids,
mental and physical illness
adopted and then adapted;
an asylum for the perpetually incontinent.
Cars pass by.
Sometimes a loud motorcycle
or two or three or four
or even more
here on the southern boundary
of a county seat
in a State
where rural counties
have been disenfranchised
of political purpose.
Our largest employers
are two tribally owned casinos.
One across the Thames River
flowing past our backyard retreat.
Our second largest income producer
may be the County Courthouse
where attorneys and police
collude to extort voluntary donations
from poor young adults
red and yellow,
black and white,
guilty of speeding
and smoking medicine
without a license
in Great White Father's sight.
I have been listening and watching
for what this half acre is.
We are not as rural as I had hoped,
with State highway 12 too near my front yard,
but this place is also not urban
What it is not,
whom we are not,
seems more clearly articulated
than any positive definition,
refining our becoming quiet place,
shunned by healthier neighbors.
It's another lonely ending
anticipating yet another not new beginning
tomorrows stretching out alone
long retiring shadows
on this southern edge
of a Connecticut County Seat
without apparent purpose
or co-defining meaning.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017
OLD WEATHERED BIKER
Come sit by my side and stories be told
of bikes and good times on open road
Winding our way to destinations desired
under wind, rain and sun all mired
Nature reminding us of its command
take in its grandeur from hills to sand
Conversation with those who are there
living the dream with experiences to share
A beer, a laugh and a wave goodbye
we will meet again when the day is nigh
Old boots now sit with leather in strife
a revealing glimpse to a wilder life
Us replicas as dust gathers round
weathered old men riding wheels to the ground
Once young and full of passionate desire
now happy to reminisce by an open fire
Come sit by my side and I will reveal
life lived unabashed and truly real
Man and his bike forever entwined
till death do part and one left behind
Copyright © Di Shaughnessy | Year Posted 2017
He was left behind
He’s all alone now
And no-one remembers
A flippant thank you
From a hazy past
Wafts away in the wind
What is that he hears?
He strains his ears
And discerns in the distance
The sound of lively chatter
The clatter of self-absorbed applause
Youthful ambition speaks
And shares success stories
One of which is missing
The story we call forgotten
Copyright © Roy Smith | Year Posted 2017
Some days you wake up
You look in the mirror
You’re afraid of the fire
Afraid of the furor
Your heart skips gaily
Over each error
Like the bumps that curb your speed
You’re waiting for Friday
Waiting for June
That plan ‘round the corner
That golden moon
Cracks in the leather and grease on your spoon –
You’re the last of a dying breed
I used to know what
To say to my friends
Dusting off jokes
Or making amends
What do we care
which language offends?
The garden should welcome its weeds
But they’re retiring jerseys
And burning books
TV won’t age you
If you hold on to your looks
You’re a man called Horse
Swinging from their hooks
Yes, the last of a dying breed
Isn’t it strange?
We were here just a short while ago
The petals of sweet innocence
Immune to the wind
Isn’t it strange?
You forget everything that you know
And the altar of experience
Demands a list of your sins
Time’s a tilted table
Time’s a thrown fight
Time would have you go gentle
Off into the night
But time don’t bear in mind
Your deep appetite
And the force on which you feed
In the Army of Stagnancy,
It’s “don’t ask, don’t tell”
Just think of those ladies
at the poisoned well
And greet the humid weather
And bid fond farewell
To the last of a dying breed.
Copyright © Keith Dovoric | Year Posted 2017