Best Septuagenarian Poems
On my walk around the green meadow
in the sun splattered mesmeric mornings,
I used to see an old lady of the neighborhood,
sitting straight like a lone statue of cold stone
on the road-side bench I always crossed.
The golden stream of surging sunbeam
cascaded down the engraved web of rills
on her septuagenarian fragile face.
She would raise her thin ivory hands
from the recess of reclined lap unmoved,
flail in frail gesture in the scented air,
murmuring ‘good morning’ perhaps,
I could hardly hear in the rustle of leaves,
but my long day waited to begin
with the shining dawn of her smile,
drenching me in the silent shower of joy.
I still walk as the senile sun rises everyday,
but its searching rays saddened like me,
don’t find the lady on the bench,
but she walks smiling with me,
down the memory lane.
Written : March 22, 2020
July 23, 2022
Contest : 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 9
Sponsored by : Mark Toney
...en l'an soixante-dix de mon age...
All the familiar names from our youth
now belong to aged, unfamiliar faces.
Even my own reflection startles
as I pass the mirror
hanging in the hall.
Suddenly, we are old.
And, although taken by surprise,
we must accommodate reality --
perhaps convince ourselves
how lucky we survivors are --
how much better that we wear
these flaccid faces, these worn-out bodies,
these aids and apparatuses,
than to have ended
while in almost-mint condition.
But these are mere macabre,
septuagenarian musings.
So, let's forget all that!
Turn up the music
and hear us murmur,
in weakly mordant, fatalistic,
untriumphant chorus:
"We're still here!"
" WHAT THE OLD SEE SITTING,
THE YOUNG WON'T SEE STANDING."
GOES THE FAMED PROVERB PIECE.
THUS GIVING TYRANTS EASE.
SO AFRICAN LEADERS
WED POWER,INFLICTING SCARS-
FOR THEY BELIEVE TO KNOW
BETTER THAN OTHERS WHILE OLD.
SO GROWS SEPTUAGENARIACY
BECAUSE THE OLD
BELIEVE TO SEE
AND SEE SUPER-HUMANLY
WHILE INCREASING DEMOCRATIC MORTALITY.
"SO HEREIN LIE THE BONES
OF THE TYRANT WHO SO
MADE THE PROVERB FAMOUS
MAY HIS BONES BE AT PEACE AT MOST."
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
Songbird singing
Morning lullaby;
Awesome mystery
~~~~~~~~~
Picture portrait
Sexy scenes;
Fiery flowers
~~~~~~~~~
Newsy headlines
Sensational scandal;
Hyper sales count
~~~~~~~~~
Acid rain
Foggy conundrum;
Sick malaise
~~~~~~~~~
Knowing heart
Grief beyond brief;
Defying commotion
~~~~~~~~~
Pain malingers
Salt on wounds;
No escape plan
~~~~~~~~~
Walkway movement
Busy feet dash;
Rushing prescriptions
~~~~~~~~~
Septuagenarian plus
Minding your own soul;
Wonder speaks well
~~~~~~~~~
Sun-drenched rain
Mad concoction;
What else is new?
~~~~~~~~~
Joy sings the blues
Why cannot tell;
Paradoxical
~~~~~~~~~
Feisty neighbour
Too much adrenaline;
Another syndrome
~~~~~~~~~
Shadow play
Bold silhouettes;
Vivid imagery
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
29 September 2016
Singapore
The swish
of our feet
‘neath the sheet,
intermingling
with our thoughts and
the fleshly
lyrics of
a night rain, ah I’d have
never perceived that
it would
becharm us—
the septuagenarian!
Guess what, today I have become
A septuagenarian.
“A what, a vegetarian?”
No dude! One who turns seventy.
You’d think I’d be a happy guy
For surviving this length of time;
I’m not! Psalm ninety verse ten states:
The days of our years [are] threescore
Years and ten; and if by reason
Of strength [they be] fourscore years, yet
[Is] their strength labour and sorrow;
For it is soon cut off, and we
Fly away. A dismal future
I have in store for me. Amen.
Unable to sleep I remember-
My mind flashes back to many things;
Such wonderful gifts – our memory,
Salvation and life with all it brings
It is nighttime of long ago
Before electricity the coal oil lamp burns
Sitting up on the mantle that’s dressed
With a white embroidered skirt
Snuffed out when time for bed and sleep
The smoky scent of coal oil remains;
Soon sleep comes lasting to morning
When the scent of coal oil and coal awakens
The bedroom was in the living room
Nearer the coal burning stove and heat,
Soon the coldness of winter would come
As under the thick covers we slept
My mind remembers but I wonder
“Why is this so?” It was long ago;
Yet, it seems precious that old scene
My mind’s eye sees and recalls aglow
The irony is that the heat was temporary
While the night’s sleep was continuous
Now, the heat is automatic,
But the sleep is strenuous
I sit to write out my memory
A septuagenarian night gone by
With only a coal oil lamp flickering
In the recesses of my minds’ eye
-Evelyn Pearl
Hey man, let's stop by the drive through nursing home.
'Okay.'
I pulled up to the menu
'Uh, I'll have a septuagenarian widower whose hobbies include
pottery (specializing in lawn ornaments) and taxidermy.'
You want anything?
'Nah.'
Alright.
I drove around and handed the register
jockey twelve bucks.
He just stared at me.
Stared into me
and through me
Simultaneously.
At that moment,
I realized that I did
not know where I was
or why I was there
or who was in my car.
I did know
that the kid on the register
was not some kid on the register,
but a subterranean genie who
had trapped me
in his spindly game.
His fingers splintered into
flowing walls of fishscales.
His nose pulsated into a
badge of strobing
iron-grey light.
His eyes continued to stare,
even as he shimmered and
flickered.
A cold gate opened
between me and the
window.
His tongue extended
through the gate
and down my throat.
'Bite down. It's time to take your medicine.'
I gulped.
How I pine for those carefree days when I was seventeen!
I weighed a mere hundred twenty pounds and was rather lean!
I thought I could mount an Arab steed and conquer the world!
Before me bold adventures beyond the horizon lay unfurled!
In my precarious youth I never dreamed of growing old.
I assumed I'd be seventeen forever, truth be told!
But suddenly in the blink of an eye I was thirty-five,
Then I reached fifty, so stealthily did it arrive!
I hardly turned around and suddenly I was sixty-five.
Grandson Zach exclaimed, "But Grandpa, you're still alive!"
A reward upon reaching that exalted rung of maturity,
Was that I became eligible for medicare and social security!
So quickly did I reach the age of seventy, a septuagenarian.
I might as well hang around and become an octogenarian!
Though I enjoy the privileges of the golden years, forsooth,
I'd much prefer the unpretentious days of my youth!
Oh, feckless youth, how hastily thou wast spent.
I clasped thee to my bosom and was so content.
But anon you abandoned me much too soon.
I really think that was so inopportune!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A face of age, a septuagenarian that magically reverts to my twenties when I turn away from the mirror.
My hair of silver does what it pleases to cover my face. I can't move one side of my face, a condition they call Bell's Palsy. Flirty, half fallen, silky gray hair that helps me cover the one side. My forehead smooths out from the left and slight creases on the right. My eyebrows are small; a student describing them like commas.
When I was younger, my large brown eyes and long dark lashes were the focal point of my face.
As the years moved on, erosion has chosen to leave me with bloodshot eyes; one normal the other droopy and dry as the sands of the Sahara Desert whether from the constant irritation or the countless sleepless night.
I've always had a round face with freckles and a small turned-up nose that is a beacon of shine if it's not powdered. I am very fortunate, I have no wrinkles around my eyes, but two smile lines that crinkle on either side of my nose.
My lips are not like a lot of women, plump, I inherited my father's small thin lips. As a teen, I would gloomily glare in the mirror hating the way they looked. My teeth are not quite perfect, but I might remind you of a chipmunk. They're not noticeable since I am not able to smile. If I don't, I look very normal, but a look of scowling.
A face of age yet beautiful.
12/26/2019
Poetry Contest: The Metaphor Of Your Face
Sponsored BY: John Lawless
I don't remember ever applying to be a plenipotentiary
But now that I am a septuagenarian
I realize that this is precisely what I was meant to be
~ A septuagenarian plenipotentiary
In your youth, a bit of a hellion
Septuagenarian, begone rebellion
In midlife, having gone green
Please dismount that stallion
Now as King, let your one cause be
~ Caring for humanity
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing
with powder puffs sans canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble, and liberal took a page
from playbook of Pandora, and took an aimless swing
at the root cause of melee by hurling objet’s d’art
at the pompous trump ping
Septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric that made America great
wantonly reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when Whistler Blowers
getting water boarded and aching
deigning to implement dictatorship
of the Proletariat as a capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths
viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic
twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by the New York Nicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries
with limping bodies spent like derricks
Oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold at fire sale price slashed
when Donald Trump ran the country
into the ground evidenced by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor of hand grenades trashed
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing
with powder puffs sans canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble, and liberal took a page
from playbook of Pandora, and took an aimless swing
at the root cause of melee by hurling objet’s d’art
at the pompous trump ping
Septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric that made America great
wantonly soup peer egg go whist tickly
reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when Whistler Blowers
getting water boarded and aching
deigning to implement dictatorship
of the Proletariat as a capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths
viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic
twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by the New York Nicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries
with limping bodies spent like derricks
Oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice in Chains and
Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.