Long Getting old Poems
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Leeza, Lisa’s 14-year-old little sister, is anxious about the first day of school. She didn’t tell me that, I’m not sure 14-year-olds talk anymore.
Now that I’m almost 21, I can roll my eyes, like everyone else, and say, “Teenagers.”
Leeza’s a jingli, all-angles, taller than I am (when did THAT happen),
redhead who’s fast becoming a Lisa-like beauty.
School starts, for her, in 11 days and every piece of clothing she owns is draped across the furniture in her room, or the floor, as she organizes her skool outfits.
There’s a pile of rejected apparel in one corner - the outcasts -
and a stack of magazine cutouts showing the clothes she plans to buy.
I wondered into her room that afternoon and she watched
me suspiciously, like I might steal her nonexistent baby.
“These might go together,” I said, holding up a top and skirt as a combo.
She winced, involuntarily, as if exposed to something distasteful.
Apparently, I’m getting old and my teen-taste is attenuated or worse yet - past its expiration date.
.
.
A song for this:
Houdini by Eminem [E]
I knew I was getting old
when I no longer always got up
from the floor
on my first try.
I remember I am old
because I no longer assume
I will always get up
off my contemplative couch
on my first try.
To choose life
on the first through last try
may be as simple
and as complex
as to not choose death,
To choose to trust enough to take
one more,
perhaps final,
inhale.
To choose life
also includes risking love,
another gasp toward compassion,
even a shaky clasp on forgiveness,
indigenously wise mercy,
relentless curiosity,
ancient hope,
However fragile
wounded
insufficient for more grand standing
than one more bold inhale
of Earth's organic sufficiency
simplicity
solidarity.
It feels as wrong
to define my mourning self
by my failures to love us
on my worst arising days
I feel aright
to creatively redefine our meaning
with unearned compassions for riding along
on Earth's most grace-filled
timeless
co-arising
SabbathPlace,
My daily liturgical experience
rises and lies
each day and night
recycling in-between
sufficiency of one last grateful inhale
predicting one more first graceful gift
exhaled
Exhilarating
exciting
exiting and entering
small sufficiencies
empowering love's enlightening
curious co-arising wealth
of loving healthy passions.
**** please note British spelling of ageing used ****
If the truth is told I’m getting old -
Of that there’s no denying
Grey hairs appear upon my head
I dye them, I’m not lying
My memory is not what it once was
I keep forgetting what I have said
I keep forgetting what I have said
Got wrinkles and lines around my mouth
My boobies sadly they have gone south
Thankfully all my teeth are still my own,
A denture smile has not yet grown
I’m lucky I’m slim and don’t have to watch my weight
Got my pile of vitamin pills they dominate my plate
I wear glasses for my eyesight, they help me to see
Alas, when I can’t find them I say oh deary me
BUT they’re perched on my head – oh pity me
My memory is not what it once was
I keep forgetting what I have said
I keep forgetting what I have said
Still it’s not yet time for the scrap heap for me
Now I simply curl up, pen a poem and drink a cup of tea
A tongue in cheek write - or is it …
17th August 2015
Maybe I missed my window to the heart.
Maybe I just never finish what I start.
Maybe I walked away just a little too soon.
Howled one too many times at the falling moon.
Maybe all I ever needed.
Was what I had all along.
But I sure couldn’t see it.
Blinded by the fog.
Of my own conceit.
Maybe I just never really knew.
Where I was going.
But this one thing I know.
I’ve got nothing left to prove.
.
And I've been young.
But now I'm getting old.
Been down one too many.
Lonely empty roads alone.
I've seen it all.
Or at least that's what I'm told.
Piece by piece.
Auctioning the soul.
I guess it's true.
I’ve got nothing left to prove.
.
Ain't it funny how one mans sunset.
Is another man's dawn.
One man's king.
Is another man's pawn.
They tried to sell you the rights.
But you still got it all wrong.
But until you taste the bitter.
Of nothing left to lose.
You'll never taste the freedom.
Called nothing left to prove.
ALAFFIA EVERYDAY COCONUT SHAMPOO
Yours truly (me)
just an ordinary primate from the human zoo,
who while ambling along
the boulevard of broken dreams on a Green Day
(just me and my shadow)
I experienced unexpected lionizing flattery
courtesy Pink Floyd,
he went ape and shouted "hey you"
out there in the cold
getting lonely, getting old
but honest to dog,
I took the road less traveled
unexpectedly encountering
fire breathing creatures
imagine dragons puffing
at these lovely bones
that constitute a generic guy,
a madding crowd qua at least one
with multiple talking heads
quite frightful harried styled beastly yahoo
primitive creature obsessed with "pretty stones"
popularized by Jonathan Swift
in the fourth section of Gulliver's Travels
trying their damndest to woo
yours truly, an aging baby boomer
and long haired styled pencil necked geek
he/him even extended
an invitation to their next venue
to frolic in the autumn mist
in a land called Honah Lee,
hence methought to spruce myself up
to undergo a major makeover
courtesy Salon Nova beauty technician,
and in one fell swoop
off went approximately a dozen inches
of mine lovely brunette locks of love
(tinged with natural gray),
and upon getting
to the house at Pooh Corner
I swiftly tailored mine appearance
showering and sudsing hair
with aforementioned product
(videre licet title of poem)
suddenly unconditionally loving
the new Matthew Scott Harris
immediately accepting an awesome
handsome kickass transformation
awash with true value,
especially after liberally appling
Eco Style Olive Oil Styling Gel
with damp hands quite a challenge,
but cap I did eventually unscrew
ready to rock and roll with the Monkeys
(with other artists... Guess Who)
at a rave in Timbuktu,
whereat paparazzi snapped pictures
asking me to stand still as a statue
encased within a stone wall
(think Andrew J. Jackson)
unexpectedly espying my likeness
in the next issue
of classy fashion magazine
nothing but accolades
with stunning breathtaking photographs
populated the Harris review.
Handsome guy of the Hippie Era,
the wisest guy who never experimented with drugs,
but went to church on Sunday and prayed to God;
eccentric clothes, long hair and drugs were too crazy
to be explored, to block out the horrendous images
of the Vietnam War that troubled him at every
unpleasant, waking hour to make hope an enduring value...
as unquestionable as his verbal wisdom;
while considering an end to all violent deaths
that killed the vibrant youths: the very heart of America!
The rebellious hippies protested,
against their Government,
confounding injustice and lies:
to provoke a congenial state of disharmony;
they confused peace with war-fare, standing by,
and letting their brothers die...
instead of lending a hand:
injustice or not they continued in their unsocial conduct!
I didn't mind singing songs of peace,
in my fair but opposing views,
light a candle on the steps of a cathedral;
and they surely brought comfort to mothers in pain,
and through tense emotions,
I didn't speak offensive words and rebelled!
I made my statements of disapproval and disdain
for the bloodshed and lost lives of young Americans...
those lives not saved by a courage so invincible,
but rage brings unbearable resentment
and indefinite frustration on oneself...
if it becomes unreasonable and unsubstantial!
That Hippie Era is far gone into a past subdued by defeat,
and scorn was brought upon a President who allowed this;
but power and truth,sometimes, collide
and we can be too judgmental and unfair:
missing the substance of the true matter...
when exposing somebody's faults instead of our own!
Handsome guy of the Hippie era, so good-natured and lovable,
you are getting old and wrinkled, but glad to have been
that lucky to have shown compassion and peaceful intentions;
your sadness was held in a memory so undeniably feeble...
reduced to nothingness: when bravery didn't redound to the credits
of every soldier who longed for that home-coming victory!
The youngish woman danced to a rollicking tune
Up early at quarter till nine, exhausted now
At half past noon
Leaning on her dance partner,
her always close by faithful walker
Her long white hair damp with her dew
of dancing's sweet exertion
Music truly always was her very best
excursion
She lied down on her couch to rest
This 1960's rocker
A power nap, ah, getting old
is such a heavy bummer
Her nap leads to a sparkling beach
And the dreams of endless summer
Waking fresh within an hour the stereo
Sings again
A gift she got in '65, is still a constant friend
Her fall had lead her to some pain,
But that won't stop this lady
She's feeling groovy anyway
She's barely turning eighty
For now, no this isn't me. This is just
for fun....
But I'm still loving dance time
at a younger sixty-one
A sweet Friday night sing along
Enjoying old fun songs we've sung
Rising in dance to yesterday's beat
Then melting in laughter, and taking a seat
I look to my future less two decades away
Hope I'm still dancing on my 80th Birthday
~ Psalm 30:11 ~
King James Version
"Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness;"
Not own dream, weak bones and falling fleash.
Leaving my younghood to a place of weakness and spinelessness.
It was like yesterday i became a man,today
an old man leaving a lot of competitions and risks Now i have become an experience narrator of past glory.
Now i sleep and dream on how to narrate my past glory to children
This handsome skin falling like a bull dog saliva.
Hair running backward afraid to face challenges.
Teeth falling down like walls of Jericho.
Sickness attacking the old skin like Legion.
Old age is the beginning of death.
So i did catch a lot of fun in my youthful days,
which makes me professor of past glory.
The comming out of gray hair is like the wheat planted with the tears.
The unpleasant voice is as loud as an ant while speaking.
The weaken eyes is an esclipe of the big star to the earth.
Is there any glory in getting old?
One day this body will become a debt
to the maggot that will suck into it.
The fly that will follow it into the darkhall,
will regreat and shed tears.
DR. PHIL*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a furry psychologist named Phil,
A doctor whose wit and wisdom gave many a thrill.
Peering over his glasses, he said with a grin,
"Do not fret! Getting old is a win-win,
For now I can nap anytime, of my own free will!"
With a twinkle in his eyes, he spoke of the years,
And how aging can lessen our worries and fears.
"Though my hair thins and turns gray,
And my muscles ache and joints creak all day,
I’ve got many stories to share over pretzels and beers!"
"Listen! Don’t worry if your memory fades,
Or if you need a nurse or medical aide,
For each wrinkle and laugh line you gain,
Is a story of life well lived, not one of pain,
And the best wine is aged! Remember the Rolaids!"
To his adoring fans, he waved ‘goodbye,’ hands in the air,
He spoke of the joys and burdens we older people bear.
“Age is about relishing your remaining time,
Drink it up like a well-aged liqueur or wine,
Savor old age with happiness whilst sitting on your derriere!”
Note: *Phillip Calvin McGraw, better known as Dr. Phil, is an American television personality and author who is best known for hosting the talk show Dr. Phil. He holds a doctorate in clinical psychology. (Source Wikipedia.com)
Today in an unusual way
Something is amiss
After a brief strong morning headache.
My wife, donning her internet nurse hat
Asking a google search doctor,
Opines it might be a ‘mild cognitive impairment’
(aka getting old but not yet demented).
But in the moment, which seems to be resetting
Again and again, it doesn’t seem so mild!
A stroke of genius, or luck, or just
A good old brain aneurism is hard to know,
But everything seems fresh and unfamiliar
And the handful of poems I’ve written in the past week
Appear utterly unfamiliar
As if somehow secreted onto my computer
By a prankster bot
Or written by an imposter
Who somehow got control of my body-mind
But then got evicted this morning.
At first I think I’m reading someone else’s words,
Or maybe something vaguely familiar
But miss-dated and really from a year ago.
My wife, the instant internet nurse practitioner,
Runs me through physical and mental tests
Before giving me her unprofessional okay,
Which just leaves me even more baffled
As I laugh as each moment,
While tracking the last,
Appears fresh, unique and distinct-ly now.
But with the worldwide web at her finger tips
She gives me the thumbs up
Which I guess is as reassuring as can be
Without an MRI,
Something we don’t yet have an app for.
But despite all this medical jargon
The image that actually comes to mind
Is a crack in the cosmic egg.
The question then being
Will a runny yolk emerge
Or a bright eyed little wet chick,
Maybe even a Garuda?
I’m hoping for the fledgling Garuda
But I guess only time will tell.
The present moment on the other hand
Just keeps her secrets.
My wife tries one last reassurance,
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
You’re always like this
Being the implication.
Personally, I’m not ruling out the MRI…
(10/20/25)