Aging Poems - Poems about Aging

being 'sixty' was nearing a... retirement age and the sixties were fun just... as the seventies were mainly a pleasure and now the eighties are almost less than closer to what they coffffhrrrmmmph might be but that's life on the edge of adventure : ) len ...

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The years linger on taking its toll. You’ve been through it all looking back you behold. All the things you’ve seen. The many crazy dreams. Now you wind down as your life begins to slow. Seeing faces that are unfamiliar these people you don’t know. Daydreaming you stare outside. You wonder over your life and how it has passed you by. All the...

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Springtime and The Fall Spring is most certainly an uplifting time, All around Life growing With infectious enthusiasm, But lately I’ve been feeling mine Beginning to unravel. I knew it would come eventually But now I’ve reached the point Where I could care less About what I have done Or who I have become Simply because it is all Just so many layers, Built...

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Sinners, we're all afire, Immersed in our desire, Naught can impact flame, No one really to blame, Earthy, human embers, Revival, age remembers, Sensual, our Decembers!...

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I’ve bloomed past blossom season, a frame held by flesh, fragile. Wrinkles appear now, near feet left by crow. You see the grey in the brown, see a patch of scalp showing, you see the change in my gait, see my once brisk pace slowing. But you don’t see me. I am no longer desirable, desired, nor worth a glance...

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When I was young I didn’t think In terms of accomplishment I guess my ego wasn’t developed enough To have the perspective and appreciation To consider it all worthwhile, but I also think those childhood achievements Pleased my parents more than myself. By the time I was done with school What I accomplished were the simply things I did just living...

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I’m really aging well they say But I really don’t care The older I get the less I’m afraid Of not fitting in My hair has yet to gray I’m old enough for it to But I guess I must wait For wisdom line and frosted roots I’m forcing myself to go out As I’ll stay inside happily writing But I know that’s...

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ache lingers close a soft breath where pain once roared— gentle thief of hurt ...

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I hasten to say, It's been longer than yesterday. A time of less talk about pains; A youthful time of haste and gains. It wasn't right; it wasn't wrong. For a pleasant season, all must belong And feel at home with being young. But all seasons end, and new ones begin. I no longer dream of travelling. I'm 'at home' with being at home. I'm...

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So I turned 21 And I couldn’t help but feel That the dreams I once had Began to slowly seal That every birthday after this I sink further into the mundane And the painful truths that await But hey… “no pain, no gain” Even good ol’ Christmas time All the love and holiday cheer Floats away for every candle that’s blown As the magic becomes less...

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An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair That same shed waits by the trees. Waits on its skids for the lake to freeze, and the for the creaking joints of bickering stoop-shouldered men as they push it out to the center of a pool of glass. It houses the stories of fishing in winter, pulling sustenance, wriggling, through chiseled portals into another...

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And We should not be here in the first place: in last place in the worst space. This Earth! The Disgrace! But should we be here at the right time: at due time at the fine line. This Life! The Great Race! So Save yourself: a piece Of peace in one hand. Still Stick to what your gut Would: want at one hand. For There is a proper place for Everything: A place to live, And a...

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It feels like I’ve been around too long. Every tune has become the same old song. Every plight’s just a fight to no end cuz there’s no way to win. And I can’t help but notice as I’m growing old - I believe less and less of what I’m told. Cuz the world’s nothing more than an endless round of spin. Every voyage...

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The great big oak tree casts off his coat while the rest of us put ours on, Throwing down the golden-brown piles of spiky leaves, A dance floor for the couple everyone’s talking about. It’s their time now, their time in the pallid sun! And sure, Holly might make a scene, berry-ripe in snow, like children’s faces, But her slender...

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The older I get, the more I forget the names of colors. Would you call this paint amber, burnt ochre, or clay? Would it were the same with all of my dolors. But age hasn’t washed any of my dolors away. I finally saw hills as old as me, and it was such a pitiful sight to see, with many a...

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