I’m thinking about thinking about retiring
Not sure when that will be
I know I need to make a change
I’ll do it soon, you’ll see
I’m thinking about thinking about moving
To a warm place by the sea
Guess I’ll do that another day
It’s dinnertime for me
I’m thinking about thinking about everything
That I have to do
I suppose that I could start right now
But…I’m off to the zoo
Copyright © Mike Gentile | 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
sitting on my rocker
waiting for mail
with my first fast elder walker with seat
they say that this fast elder walker with seat
up to ten years to the day
I do pray
that this walker
is not my last
and that it and I
don’t go too fast
Copyright © RUDOLPH RINALDI | Year Posted 2014
Wizened skin like burnished leather
Thin, grey and long, disheveled hair
Clear, sharp blue eyes that seem to stare
Through sun scorched face, alert, aware
A ‘lived-In’ face that’s so expressive
Tales he tells read like a missive
His arms and hands he flails about
To all he jests, he seems to shout
Belying age with youthful vigour
He starts his day with seeming rigour
But, easy going, he always jokes
With folk at whom, light fun, he pokes
He’s up each morning before the dawn
Striding, planning, never forlorn
Before sunrise you’ll hear with luck
His famous catch-phrase, “Get Tae F***!”
He’s worked on rigs for oh, so long
With everyone he gets along
On the “fine old lady” Stena Clyde
No deference – ALL he does deride
From owner, manager and high paid “suits”
To lowly boys who clean the boots
The tone the same, The grin, the look,
The cheeky laugh, the “Get Tae F***!”
Sub zero frost or tropical heat
His ardour you will find hard to beat
Old habits die hard they say
Not his – he does them anyway!
Does a place exist he’s never been?
That has a port that’s never seen
This tall slim figure filled with pluck
Or heard his raucous, “Get Tae F***!”
They say he’s always been a sailor
From Antarctic wastes upon an ancient whaler
15 years old in the South Atlantic
A hardy life, forget romantic!
Steam driven ships before motor’s advent
He sailed near and far. Came and went.
A story true with each port of call
His audience he holds in thrall
But all through this, both feet aground
Though invitations still abound
To high profile golf tournaments
The best hospitality at these events
He mixes with the best of them
The rich and famous golfing men
Yet on the course when he mis-hits his ball
Not “fore” but G.T.F. to all
And so it seems his time has come
To rest upon his laurels some
He’ll sure be missed – God Speed, Good Luck
It’s been a pleasure Jimmy, “Get Tae F***!”
No dismissive snort from any here
From us, a greeting, a hearty cheer
Received with grace, a smile - a look.
You grin then tell us, “Get Tae F***!”
Copyright © Thomas Mansfield | Year Posted 2014
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
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
A dear old friend of mine of many years was retired the other day.
In many ways I'll miss my old pal more than words can say!
Alas, there was no longer any need for him and his upper and lower case.
Since a computer took its place he faded into oblivion without a trace!
I speak of my trusty IBM Selectric upon which I used to hunt and peck.
Now, I rely upon old Dell and frankly at times its a pain in the neck!
'Twas some comfort knowing that if my Selectric went on he fritz,
That I didn't have to talk to Basheesh in India when it gave me fits!
In his elder years his parts began to show some wear and tear,
And since the dear old chap hardly qualified for medicare,
'Twas getting difficult to find a typewriter doc for his repair.
After all, he and his elderly peers are becoming rather rare!
It was with some remorse that I consigned him to the Goodwill Store,
Hoping someone would give him a good home and life once more.
Now its just this puzzling 'puter and me for which I have little affection!
(Plus, my monitor screen is becoming blurred with whiteout correction!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2013
So you do know Fidel Castro? I think I do
that was the name of the mess boy, the one who
had to do the dirty dishes and clean floors
“Fy” as he was called was older than me and had
a much better education, and I, as his boss felt his
contempt being told what to do by an officer of
working class, roots. But I knew as everybody who
read knows, the little man is but a servant for
the rich, they need someone educated to tell them
what to do; In Venezuela, Fidel jumped ship he was
not missed and we got another mess-boy
who could not read or write because the wage he got
could support his family. The downside was I had
no one to argue with
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2015