Retirement Memory Poems

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

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The poem(s) are below...



Details | Free verse |
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 | Rhyme |
When I think of all I've done
Plans that kept me on the run
I kind of wonder every day
How I pissed my time away
In my thirties there was cash
Not one buck saved
Not one buck stashed
Sure I thought I could reach fame
From art or science
What a shame
For these goals I truly went
And never saved a single cent
So now it's rough
Though I'm not broke
Just don't live like other folk
My neighbors run out nights for eats
Can't afford such costly treats
When Winter comes they go away
I freeze my rear
I'm forced to stay
Yet I feel the need to try
To make some mark before I die
For in truth these other folk
Live a life that's just a joke
The men dried up some years ago
Their wives plan daily where to go
Their brains are focused on the past
No way to know how long they'll last
So my future's not to dread
Even now I'll move ahead

Copyright © Gary Kraidman | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |
The Beach of Promises


1.


Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,

strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.


2.


Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,

walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.


3.


Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,

lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,

my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,

wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.



Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013




Details | Bio |
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 | Free verse |
how quiet it must have been
for you, michael collins...
how calm it must have seemed
for you, michael collins...
how tranquil you must have felt
up there alone
with no one on the radio,
except for you, michael collins...

doing something no one had done
with no one around to see
because you were in a place no one had been
with no way to share what you saw
because even radios fail that far away from home.
but not you, michael collins...

how dark was it in there
with not even the sun to guide your way?
how still was the air
with not even the wind to make a sound?

how many times did you ask yourself,
michael collins,
if you would ever see home again?
how many times did you think to yourself,
michael collins,
that you might not ever again
see the faces you remember?

on that clearest night,
did the stars not seem brighter than before?
upon coming into the sun again,
did you,
michael collins,
not feel lighter than before?

it must have been strangely startling 
to have been startled by that strange crackle
coming from the radio.
for another human voice to sound so foreign
yours must have been a lie.

how did it feel leaving that void,
michael collins,
and crashing back into existence? 
how soon did it feel,
to you, michael collins,
that your feet were back on the ground?

i imagine you must miss that silence.
...
i imagine you must 
from time to time
walk far far away
and look at the stars.

i would ask you one question if i could,
michael collin,
on the clearest night
when you look up into that darkness
have the stars ever been brighter than before?

Copyright © Cameron Boyd | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose |
All her belongings fitted into a suitcase and a small carry-on bag.

After 18 years, my helper was going home for good.

During those years, not a dime ever went missing in the various apartments we’ve called home, she waged daily war with the invading dust, soot and dirt spawned by the city, and my son went from a yawning little squiggle in cute swaddling clothes to a self-absorbed teenager.

The first time he was in a school play, aged 6, we took her to see the performance. After he came out on stage, I happened to look over at her. There were tears on her face. 

Her cooking never quite reached the heights we hoped for, and she had her crusty moods that made us wonder who was working for whom. But she did her job religiously.

She scrimped and saved for us. Somebody had to be the house scrooge if her employers didn’t know the value of a dollar! We did, but that wasn't the way she saw it. In secret, she must have shaken her head a hundred times at our ‘extravagance'.    

She never married, and almost all the money she’s made over the years has gone to building a modest family house back in the Philippines for her parents.

On her last night with us, we took her out to dinner. She ate little, ill at ease at a restaurant where a meal could easily cost half of her monthly salary.

After dinner, we forced-marched her to a Swatch shop to get her a farewell gift. In front of the displays, she kept mumbling, “Too expensive.” So we picked one out for her, something with a white dial and beige strap.

“This is nice! Stylish and young!” we all chimed in.  
“But I’m not young,” she said softly.
In the end, she chose something subdued with a gray dial.

Early the next morning, we went out to the airport with her.

She checked in her bags, and we chatted for a while, taking pictures with our phones. Then it was time to say goodbye.

She hugged each of us, fighting uselessly to hold back the tears. It was the first time I'd hugged her. My wife was doing her best impression of a brave face, which might have worked if it hadn’t dissolved into a gush of tears at the last moment, while my son stood by stolidly, having cried once already a few days ago over the imminent departure of his ‘half mother’, much to his embarrassment.

She kept waving at us on her way into the restricted zone, her face flushed and blotchy.

Then she was gone.

She’d earned her retirement, and we were happy for her that she was finally going home.

We’d just have to deal with losing family. 

Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2017

Details | Verse |
Dementia

 

My head is in muddle,

my words are in a blur.

I see things in the shadows,

but nothing is really there.

I have no concept of time,

or even words I have said.

I don’t recognize my children,

which makes me full of dread.

Even worse people don’t understand,

the pure confusion I feel.

I know that I am me,

but “ME” at times seems surreal.

I shout instead of talking,

but my volume is at loud.

I used to be respected,

eloquent and even proud.

Each day I seem to worsen,

falling further than in reach.

I am losing my lifeline,

as quickly I reach the deep.


Copyright Elle Smith 2017

Copyright © Elle Smith | Year Posted 2017