Grey Haired Poems

The Ice Effect

Where have all my years gone?
there I was a mere young twenty-.one
now in a moment it seems 50 years gone
here grey haired bones ache nothing won

I've no memory of these lost years
they are frozen stiff completely still
I had many desires set to accomplish
but content I shall be, whatever it will

My memory is still alive up till the freeze
there I was my stammer still holding me down
now so far it seems to have gone far away
maybe the ice squashed it without a sound

Frustrations abound about my future
I seem to like poetry for I never did before
where did I get it, not even at school
did the freeze open up some closed door

I now feel a divine presence
never known before, God is here
freeze me anytime for this is nice
hey, my deafness is gone as sounds I hear

Life takes many turns and twists
even ice pins you to its wall
I look back now on life as it was
50 years amiss, You can't win them all

(This is an imaginary story that I was frozen solid in cryogenic
labs at age 21, in 1975.
Now, fifty years later, I have been defrosted and the experiment was a success, except for a few tweaks.)

Talent Stifled

Middle aged man in Docs, 
vintage leather jacket and
grey haired pubes around his cock.
Ill fitting tour shirts rekindling a hazy past.
Barrowlands, The Bunnymen. Hammersmith Odeon,The Clash.
U2 at University pre Bono crawling up his own ****.
Danced and hugged on stage with Terry Hall,
arrested for d&d outside Bradfords Great Hall,
after watching John Cooper Clarke supporting The Fall. 
Life reinvigorated by the post punk explosion,
no longer searching the NME gig guide,
but a Spotify recommendation. 
or an even sadder email notification.
A pre gig meal opposed to a walk home pie in a barm.
Ear buds for the tinnitus and Bisoprolol to keep calm.
Heartbreak to watch the talent unrewarded,
by a government devoid of a cultural foresight.
Stifled  opportunities 
through Tory Brexit lies,
Allowing the corporations of Cowles and the EMI’s to
reap million upon million,
leaving the grassroots unnurtured, venues struggling to stay open. 
Our greatest export,
an industry broken.

WAIT HERE

You will see them
In the malls
Once proud
Vibrant
Semi-predatory
Creatures
Idling
Semi-lurking
Outside
Ladies dressing rooms
Lingering
Near
Ladies bath rooms
Scanning
Unfamiliar horizons
Seeking out their prey
Short grey haired
Quick
In a slyly agile way
Evaders
Of a known hunter
Foragers
Averting the gaze
Of those
Once proud
Vibrant
Semi-predatory
Creatures
Left holding
Their bags.

The Iron Anchor

The Iron Anchor 

Brewing anger has displayed a chip on one’s shoulder
Enraged without good reason, grey haired and older
Ill-spirited in a rotted lifeboat secured by an iron anchor
Crimson flare from a dragon's mouth with roars of rancor
Bars none, unleashed flogger spares no one forty lashes
A blood thirsty unbridled vengeance burning all to ashes
Listen to yourself and look inward, we can stop the hate
Salvage what's left of a drowning ship and its furious fate
Lock the forbidden door of hostility and toss the key! 
Channel in the light, warm hearted spirit set yourself free

If I Were Your Love

If I were your love,
Will you love me till I’m grey-haired?
If I were your love,
Will you stay with me till evening tide?

When you see me inside out,
Will you still stay close?
When the unfamiliar is unveiled,
Will you build a wall to part us?

If I were your love,
Will our love trestle us across the seas?
In the journey of hearts,
Will our love become threadbare?

If I were your love,
Will the love survive the unseen?
Oh, when gloom permeates,
Will our love light its way through?



May 2, 2023.

Good Neighbor

As we sat for a quick evening snack
A knock on our door came with a smack.
A thoughtful lady whom we adore,
Our sweet grey-haired neighbor from next door,
Brought dinner, dessert, and candlelight,
With a string quartet for our delight.
Living as a pair in a hurry
We forgot our anniversary!

Grey Haired Old Man

There once came a grey haired old man.
Or am I mistaken was it rather a ma'am?
Nevertheless he big brought gifts
And climbed big cliffs
To deliver them to his little fans.

Christmas In the Desert

CHRISTMAS IN THE DESERT

The north is frozen over; it’s far too cold for me
The sun is hibernating and it’s much too dark to see
I’m glad I am at Orangewood; such a warm and festive mood
Stretching out our stories and enjoying Christmas food

We’re waiting out the winter, playing games and having fun
Slopping on the suntan oil, in the valley of the sun
The magic of the season, buried deep within our soul
Working on our attitude, to avoid that lump of coal

Its Christmas in the desert, my favorite time of year
Outdoors at our happy hour, enjoying a cup of cheer
We celebrate the season, with lights on every street
Up and down the laneways; a nightly walking treat

There’s a cactus with some lights, a Christmas one I guess
Careful you don’t get too close, you could end up in a mess
Flowers in hanging baskets, fruit on most every tree
Christmas in the desert, is such a pretty sight to see

We’ll gather at the main hall, right on Christmas day
So many grey haired seniors, all-trying to have their say
Who will talk the loudest, who can even hear
We’re celebrating Christmas, my favorite time of year

Grammah

Put it down to a grey-haired obsession;
Participles are a vexed question.
Even though it sounds quaint,
Elegant it ain't,
Robbing gerunds of their possessions!

Terra Incognita

So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.

Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.

Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.

A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.

I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.

August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth

*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.

The Bubble

I remember that night
when my mind took a walk
on its own.
Not in as a dream,
but like an inquisitive dog
escaping through an open gate.

Like a child living in a bubble,
just rolling around a strange land,
where mind saw itself reflected
through that transparent balloon.

The day after
I tried to piece together what I’d seen.
I know there was a man, a stick figure
with a head as big as a solar flare,
he just waved to me as I passed-by.

A black cat with seven eyes. It said it was 
an angel.
An infant about my age, grey haired
and chortling happily.

Today I’m only reporting what I saw,
tomorrow I may burst that bubble
and totally fall out of myself.

An Early Walk In First Snow

The blacktop is uncovered,
yet the road has a moving face.
Wind-drifts sketch fleet features
then sweeps them away.

Lawns and fields are snow encased
every blade an icy spear;
much is buried, some pierce through.
Spears rattle in the dark robed dawn.

Under parked cars
a grey haired crawl heaps
a dead-eyed silence.

The sky puts on a dull armor
as a submerged sun glints.
A short walk in November
my heart is a chill beat
in a raw breast.

I will get used to this;
become used to the gnaw of winter,
but it will take awhile.

Hot black coffee helps
while I order leather gloves
from a thawing window.

Dear Me

DEAR ME

A letter to my future self

By the time you read this letter,
You’ll be a grey-haired man
Surrounded by our family,
If all has gone to plan

Today I’m going to marry
Our childhood sweetheart, Beth,
And we’ll vow to be together
Until we’re parted by death.

We plan to have two children.
You’ll know if that came true.
And, if we’ve been good parents,
Beth and me and you.

I pray that when you read this,
On our Golden Wedding day,
She’ll still be there beside you,
Steadfast, come what may

We are saving hard for our first home,
Just two rooms up and down.
Our first step on the ladder,
On the poorer side of town

I’ve just had my first promotion 
At the firm of Brown and Son.
Maybe, by the time you retired,
We were up at number one.

I hope you won’t look back and regret
The early decisions I made.
They seemed right when I made them,
Each one carefully weighed

That’s all I have to say for now,
So, without any further fuss,
I’ll simply sign this letter
“Happy Anniversary – to us

28th September 2021
Letter to Your Future Self contest
Sponsor - Silent One

The Rise and Fall of It All

The Rise and Fall of it all

The corruption of power rises to the top, it stays awhile like an unwanted visitor and eventually falls in a mighty way and is yesterday’s news.
Beautiful leaves in glorious grandeur glorify the one who made them, shining with all their might, in artist’s-coloured hues,
One week later, shrivel and crinkle beneath the feet of a travelling hiker, fallen in a heap, brown and discarded on the bottom of his shoes. 
The natural beauty of youth rises to display the perfection of one with perfect skin hair and shape and no weight to lose,
While aging has ravaged a body leaving a twisted, wrinkled grey haired mess of one who remembers a better day… a very cruel muse!
The hope of a new sunrise peaks through the darkness and rises high in the sky setting before me new possibilities to choose
Then darkness slowly covers like a blanket, a smothering blackness that forces the descending light to lose.
The rise and fall of it all and pondering these troubling thoughts have given me the blues!!

Grace Daub written September 23, 2021

Old Age and Wisdom

A man on grey side of his long green age,
With wiser ways and values he preserves,
Can scarce claim still to be wisdom-filled sage;
And oft wears a face he seldom deserves.
It's easy wearing a borrowed image
Of Socrates, or flaunting grey-haired pride
That time bestows on a man at some stage,
Yet, fool's wisdom is not easy to hide.

Yea, old age that comes with heavy baggage,
Seldom makes man a newly minted saint,
For, each age has a blank canvas to paint,
And man wears this painted page on visage.
  As no one's old till he so realizes,
  So is wisdom that dawns, the man when dies.
_______________________________________
Sonnets | 03.05.04 |

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