Poetry Retirement Poems

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |
The alarm clock brushed my teeth and then forced me to drink orange juice.
As I looked out the window, a cement sky was pulling down the corners of my mouth.
The newspaper on my front steps was wetter than a spitball. Trying to read it was like trying to page through baklava, just not as tasty.
The coffee grinder handed me a bouquet and asked if I would like some help with the corners of my mouth. I cradled the steaming mug so I could feel the rays of sunshine in my hands.
As I headed out, the wind surprised me by throwing the door open and kissing me. Her lips were cold, but her breath was very fresh. I was mad at first, but must admit, it did feel good.
When I got to work, the building was talking trash to me, and I talked trash right back,
reminding him that I was close to retirement. That shut him up! I paused and then tightly grinned, knowing full well that someday I will miss them all.

Copyright © Luke Irwin | Year Posted 2012




Details | ABC |
New Future Of The
Internet


Cable cost are up
too high
You turned to the
internet and so have
I

My Youtube channel
is the way to go
Now I can even make
video shows

I group the videos
to make a show
To bring you the
best of where I go

For kids the mower
and stove videos
I also have vehicles
and some scarecrows

Kids can watch from
morn til night
with lots of things
for a kids delight
							
Light houses, ship
building, and horses
too
Antique barn yards
and tractor pulls
just for you

Aviation, taxidermy,
and crafty wood
works
Viewwithme Youtube
has all the quirks 

The historical homes
make a great tour
Contest and oxen
pulls are never a
bore

Animal friends, I
haven’t forgotten
you
I have horses, dogs,
cows and sheep too

Plenty of petting
pens and milking for
you
And a simple click
is all you have to
do

A lot of shows with
a mix for all
Like demolition
derby or a stunt so
tall

So if you dropped
the cable and you
have a need
I have three
channels for you to
see
 
By: Doris Anne
Beaulieu
     
https://www.youtube.com/user/Viewwithme

Copyright © Doris Beaulieu | Year Posted 2014

Details | Verse |
The carpet's paid for; God Bless the TV
It keeps us informed.
Cosy in our little room with the curtain drawn
one thing's for certain, we still have
our window on the world

Slowly we've slipped
into 'couch-potato-hood'
Rarely, we fight, over which shows are good
You hold the remote,"It's understood."

Flip, flip, you change channels, searching
for a show with some meaning to you, while
I with books piled high beside me, sit oblivious-
searching for meaning in poetry
I battle with inadeqate words against
the TV's droning tune

Some night I'll write one that 
shoots holes in the moon.

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013




Details | Light Poetry |
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Tall Grass
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/2014


Some folks 
like
Beverly Hills -

But,

Beverly Hills,
ain't 
for me -

I prefer
a 
place

on 
the open 
plains,

where
Silos,
and
Windmill's

paint
the scene-

Where
Tall-Grass
is
green -

Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
The Show Must Go On....

The program has been meticulously drawn up...
Planned to the smallest detail to ensure no slip up..
The performers are primed, lined up and all ready...,
The guest of honor is well seated, calm  and steady....

We're gathered today to pay tribute to a dedicated teacher...
Who tendered 36years of his working life to education....
In his humble and unassuming demeanour  synomous with dedication...
Therein lies a character of honor, love, understanding and compassion ...

Unobstrusively he goes about his daily duties in teaching...
Spreading knpwledge , facts and wisdom unceasingly...
Today is a most historic day full of significance...
For we are here to salute the giant of a man in Mr Leong...

Teacher extraordinaire who teaches without any fanfare...
It is sad to realise this dedicated man of knowledge....
Has to draw time on his pilgrimage to enlighten students....
As one we all wish him well and may he well continue to prosper...

In health, wealth and happiness, and all things good life can offer...
Happy retirement, O great teacher, All the best as you gracefully retire...!

Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |

Things to do: AM: Don’t wake up early! Spend an hour for breakfast, sip coffee , savor the flavor Open the TV, look for TFC (The Filipino Channel) Inspect Tori (my dog) for any fleas. Haul neighbor’s free wood for winter’s heat. Clean up the garden of drying dead daisies. Organize closet, set aside old clothing Call services for the blind for donation pick up Plan on organizing picture albums. Open poetry soup .com PM: Don’t cook! Buy a ready-made lunch! After lunch, nap. Put the carbohydrates to work. Wake up, blink, repeat! Stare at the clock on the mantle Plan on hitting the shopping mall Hit Ross, browse, don’t buy ( tight in budget now) Hit the thrift store , browse, don’t buy ( space is saturated) Hit the high end store, don’t buy (too expensive) Evening: Plan A: text my available friend until I run out of topic Plan B: Watch TFC: Walang Hanggan (Till Eternity) , A Tagalog drama series in TFC I wonder if the routine is worth repeating the following day!! EEEK help me!

Copyright © Dalila Agtani | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |

Speak to me my muted heart
where went your rhyming ways
The voice of a hearts deepest hour  
in mysteries a soul explained

Is your rhythm lost or simply hiding
in the noise of life as it whines
expression tied by hopes revising
sweet serenity and peace of mind

You run and ride with speed in your stride
ignoring all fear of the fall
you dig your heals and hold on tight
then question how momentum has stalled

An erie silence rests within
like unwritten lyrics implore
when inspiration is crushed to dust
supposing your song should be more

Poetry to you is a mountain 
raised and balanced in a hand
yet your fountain of speech has ceased its flowing
like the trek across untraveled sands

If inspiration is swinging from a chandelier 
opposing the status quo
and insight a vehicle to merely be steered
why now is there no marrow in your bones

Words keeping time with the beat of a life
linguistic expression out of step
lancing the poetess with a wordless knife
a beat-less palpitation in her chest

Return to me dear creativity 
like frankincense anointed and blessed
convey the miracle of a heart unlaced 
my poetic world at rest

Could it be I feel too much
farther reaching than any sea or the sky
or is this a symptom of insecurity
for all the where the when's or the why's

I am disassembled, rearranged
the safety net beneath me removed
everything familiar suddenly changed
with the muse of my rhythm unmoved

Perhaps when the seismic quake has passed
and my world is as it should be at last
I'll write of how transporting through worlds
was like a dance with a tornado as it twirls

Until then I'll retire my pen
and pray a new melody plays
some new, never known before tune
in the awe of poetic display

Copyright © Sarai Virden | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
When A Teacher Retires....

Beloved students they suffer a loss and feel deep regret..
For the loss of accumulated knowledge they can no longer get...
It pains me to pen these heartfelt lines when a fellow comrade...
Reaches the end of a long served career of teaching children...

Poignant memories of worthwhile moments are etched timelessly...
Making many a student and colleague shed a passing tear...
For in celebrating a distinguished career that come to end...
It too signifies the breaking of a new dawn for the celebrated one...

With much farewell wishes for golden years to come...
Suffice to include here some simple prose from students so dear...
Bidding goodbye is always tough, Words never prove enough...
Saying goodbye is never simple,  To a teacher who's so special...

To a learned friend, dedicated teacher and fellow colleague...
A new world opens like the proverbial oyster to you...
All the best for your future undertakings and may you well prosper..
Like in the Star Trek series, henceforth  go where you have not gone before...

Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
40th Marathon For 70 Year Old

Almost in disbelief, I reread the headline of this one particular online piece of news….
A 72-year-old Retiree Just Ran His 40th New York Marathon, screams the title of this news…

Reading on, Dave Obelkevich, he has done the most consecutive New York City Marathons…
For his 40th milestone run, he professed his training has been less than ideal ahead of this marathon..

For this sprightly distance runner, even a hamstring injury and a calf injury were no deterrent…
He aims to again complete the world’s largest race, this hugely popular New York Marathon run..

“I won’t run fast but I know I can finish”, he simply declares soundly  his mission in this latest marathon…
Being realistic, he hopes only to finish within a set time to extend his streak of finishing marathons……

The visuals that backed up this news article showed runners amassed in numbers, nothing fake…
Of all shapes and sizes, the news article did state, runners local and foreign, they are here to participate.

Smiles aplenty, hands waving and high fives were in ample evidence of how times have changed…
From little band of dedicated runners to one of a huge big family of athletes and of amateurs….

Reading on, Mr Dave kindly elaborated, today the runners are in running more  for the finish…
A great many more are there just to be in the running,  never mind how you finish, so long as you finish…

I could feel the exhilaration and the stupefying elation of a successful run  should I be there to finish…
I should think the exhaustion pales in comparison to the euphoric sensations when the run is finished..…

After 40 marathons and miles after miles of pounding the tarmac, Mr Dave is still a sensation…
With his spirit, zest and thirst for marathon runs yet unquenched,  he awaits for  the next edition..

How I wish one fine day, I too can meet Mr Dave the Marathon veteran of 40 New York Marathons…
Like he said, everyone wish to be there and to take in the sights while running the NY Marathon… 

I know  I will not be able to keep up with such a running veteran, never mind his ageing years…..
But just to run beside such a veteran over a distance, wow, what a privilege to be there….


Just a tribute to a genuine running man
http://www.star2.com/people/2015/11/03/a-72-year-old-retiree-just-ran-his-40th-new-york-marathon/


Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
SECOND  OPINIONS
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.
cj012008

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Retiring Cowboy

He hung up his bridle by his bed on the wall.
His rig is preserved on a stand by the stall.
His old Appaloosa has been turned out to graze.
As he sits in his rocker and dreams of old days.

For years he worked hard herding cattle all day.
He worked hard to earn a poor cowboy’s pay.
There were days he would rise barely bearing the pain.
He would climb in the saddle and hang on to the mane.

Starting out riding drag then flank and then swing.
Then point man a position he wanted more than anything.
The job was hard but it beat the rest.
It didn’t take long till he was the best.

He worked hard to work his way up to trail boss.
He was tough but fair a man no man would cross.
And his horse came to be his very best friend.
They stuck together through thick and through thin.

Hot summer days and winters so cold.
Misery torment and torture untold.
But when it was finally all said and done.
He would never have traded with anyone.

Copyright © Ricky Sholar | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
Our world is embarking on a destination
that is odd and strange, everyone has
learned to fear age,

Corporations are obssessed with youthfulness
and the ability to be cute,

They are shoving capable people down the
garbage chute,

"Involuntary Retirement" is what it is silently 
called, the intelligent are overwhelmed and 
appalled, because the victims are being replaced
with people who lack quality and have no taste,

But as long as they are young and virile,
Good people are laid out to pasture as if
they were waste,

Why does our society abhor aging gracefully?
Is it because they are so desperately trying
to please "the establishment" and the advertisers
who are ardent worshippers of youngsters with fluff
and trimming, yet beneath the surface they are
shallow and clueless?

Copyright © Margeret Bailey | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |
Just as honesty plants seeds of integrity
so too
vulnerability plants seeds of honesty.

My primary vocation
in this my gay grandfatherly retiring age
is to parent mindbody challenged adolescents
of diverse colors
as ecotherapeutically as possible
to optimize their and our wealth
of health,
growing nutritional elements and moments
into humanely co-operative organisms 
with good days
more than bad.

More or less like watering the flowers
and ignoring the weeds,
or, better yet,
repurposing the weeds,
redirecting their potential energy
in a more nutritiously nurturing way.

My kids not only are vulnerable,
they know they are vulnerable,
and this tends to make them exceedingly honest
with themselves
with me
with each other
about what is funny and what is tragedy.

They are easy to parent
in this way.
Yet this same vulnerability
is their greatest risk
in a too often competitive, 
and mindless of other's special needs,
world.

We communicate connected to the feeling level,
even while learning the ABCs,
the 1 through 100 percents of good and bad numbers
and proportions and balance and symmetry,
the drawing of self-portraits,
homes,
Earth and Her Sun.

Often these inside feeling voices
do not feel well enough to care about the ABC's,
or even the needs of those we need to love
and to love us,
to be as lovely with as possible.
Inside feeling voices
become loud and angry and hurt outside voices.

I noticed this the other day
when old family friends dropped by.
Not quite as old as I
and therefore much less retired
from life's exterior competitions.

When we had time to visit several times per week,
we often began together
checking in about how our inside voices were feeling today,
happy or sad,
depressed or triumphant,
and usually some more richly nuanced place between.

Then we would turn to our big outdoor voices.
What we were working and playing on and with
in our back and front and side-yards,
the gardens and woodlands of our productive nutritional lives,
how the pets and pests 
and domestic egg-layers were feeling,
and why
and why not.

These two voices generally resonated with each other.
What we were working on with Outdoor Voices
said something about nutrition and health we were working on
as individuals
as a family
with our Inside Voices,
and vice versa.

Only then,
if there was nothing else to do,
no further outdoor recreations
and discernment projects,
would we return to more 
yet less intimate and vulnerable
Indoor Voices.
Work and play projects in perpetual interior process.
The noticing of more ornamental acquisitions
like ceiling and wall and floor coverings,
safer boundaries
about what we could see together
through all those more interior feelings
and thoughts about relationships,
past and future and present interactions,
transactions of value and disvalue,
warmth and cooler apathy.

I remembered this yesterday
when old friends,
no longer neighbors, revisited
and we began with new floor and ceiling coverings
and ended with farewell.
They arrive so late
it is already past time to be back home
to get ready for another Indoor Voices
monotonous 
monoculturing day.

Which, this morning,
results in feeling blessed
to be here in this time and place
to listen and speak at our leisure
with my vulnerable no-boundary kids,
outrageously honest about their nutritional needs
and wants,
speaking with full volume integrity
in both Inside Outdoor Voices,
health
meets and greets and eventually defeats
pathology,
through honest integrity
of repurposing redirection,
feeding the flowers
and noticing how funny the weedy Outdoor Voices
sound indoors
feeling our way through the ABCs
and the 1 through 100% flowering days
and mean weedy nights.

I'm surprised and disappointed
my former neighbors didn't notice all the new fruit trees
and berry bushes
poppies and lilies
strawberries and tomatoes
onions and garlic
asparagus and rhubarb,
and 17 new solar panels on the roof!

My kids could care less
and probably never more
what our old friends did
and did not
notice,
other than their own Voices
vulnerably maturing into integrity,
I hope.

Still,
I'm glad they noticed,
because the liked, 
the new floor and ceiling covers.


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
It's another Saturday night
ending this week
as started
alone again.

I came here
almost two years ago
to my retirement hermitage
but oddly,
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 texting
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
or suburban.

What it is not,
whom we are not,
seems more clearly articulated
than any positive definition,
refining our becoming quiet place,
alone together,
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

Details | Prose Poetry |
POEM 27 WIND VISION 


THE WINS DO BLOW THE AWAY THE 

CLOUDS TO FOR TO SEE.



IN THE CLOUDS I SEE WHAT 

WAITING FOR ME.



THE HOPE & VISION OF EVERYBODY 

ARE ON THE WINDS TO SEE 

FOREVER ARE THE WINDS TO 

BLOW THESE VISION ON BACK 

TO ME. 




MR. PROFESSOR. JERRY”BIG PAPA” WELLS 

AUTHOR

Copyright © Jerry Wells | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |

It’s been a year since Fred retired;
after forty years of working, he’s tired.
Did everything the boss required,
and to his credit was never fired.

At home, the kids gone, it’s just the wife;
Fred hopes to rekindle his romantic life.
Not so fast, she says with alarming zest.
After seven kids – it’s me who needs a rest!

Now Fred’s restless, bored, and mutters.
He’s fixed the house – windows, roof, and gutters.
He hates to read or garden, fish or putter.
His nerves are shot, his love-life not much better.

These days Fred finds relief in gutters.
Police know him as the derelict who mutters.

Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
Today I'll just watch the passing scene And attempt to absorb And savor its strident vibe Today I’ll just be: A dispassionate observer of the Human condition Watching the game from the side Taking mental photos of Making mental maps of Scenes I might not notice otherwise Of the face’s silent expressions Of the mouth’s expressive lips Of the eye’s lies and misdirections From which sarcasm fairly drips Today will be: A day of deciphering body-speak/talk Of giving voice to poses Of observing every posture tweak From the toes up to the noses Today I’ll see: What most just think they see In their mundane world so mean While I’ll take measure...At my leisure ...Take pleasure in the passing scene…`

Copyright © David Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic | Year Posted 2017