Long Retirees Poems
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On retirement all The Due proceed,
Because cars don’t their speed exceed;
In their pet jobs hope to succeed,
Sometimes sensible warnings don’t heed.
A solution to the riddles of idleness,
And checking of their feelings of awkwardness:
Relieved cops a vigilante floating,
Ex-civil servants at the likes of Bureaux gloating,
Former dispensers, stocked drug stores running,
Home-sent vets, neigbours sick animals and the mourning,
A sender to early graves,
Of those who more swollen envelopes crave,
For attendance to their mounting needs,
That can’t be handled by what simply feeds.
Usher of fuller reunion with family,
A picking of fresh interest in being homely;
Our resting of our long besieged bones,
In our houses, now The Best of Thrones.
So, the Retired from his darling job,
Is not at all being asked to sob,
He having his service year completed,
And his efficiency surely depleted;
The age for a compulsory lay-off clocked,
For which more busying of self is true progress blocked;
A life to be lived has gone down,
For past stewardship, a dignifying gown,
Ageing men hostages to funny diseases,
Only off and on enjoying lucky releases.
Hence, managements forward their goodbye paper,
In this seeing a pursuit of The Safer,
To all retirees “wisely stay at home”,
Save those it is their nature to roam,
Anywhere they choose by all means to surface,
Provided it is not a very hectic office.
Not honey-sweet what the retired swallows,
Sometimes in court challenging it like the gallows,
A doubly confirmed injustice form some adversary,
Via a tall order, neither timely nor necessary;
Always a building resolve to contain some mischief,
And a mission to save one’s job from a work thief!
The times of forewarnings whereby recipients within close proximity of retiring may have to keep on working as a possible solution and thereby embolden the faltering and weakening future, and the eventual collaspe of the Social Security System that fundings will be depleted and thereby deny Americans their blankets of secured perpetuity.
Based upon the timings of the DC's outcry and imminent danger of the Social Security's abilities to stay above water and to maintain a stalwart opportunity without deviating needed resources to accommodate the lacking. The numbers of retirees have stabilized, meaning that less people were retiring.
The effects that the government had enforced on Social Security, changing its parameters and basic concepts and ideology of exacting quantum knowledge -- later is better.
Eureka, it worked. Social Security may not be fully secured, but numbers have proven the buffers are laxed enough to accommodate the retirees who are presently those who waited and this happens to be their retirement that they had put off till later, becomes their now for they could have been first in queue seeing the changes, and becoming the better you, the adherant crowd who off retirement for later. This product of revamping the system of "do or die", frightening outlook. Message loud and clear, that initial phrase was to get the truth matter methodlogy was the phrase, "Later is Better."
The massive campaigns put forward concerning America's Social Security System ensuring all Americans, particularly the wrokers of America, and a special message to those close to retirement: Your check will be in the mail or deposited in your Financial Institution, Well-earned, RETIREE.
Rights we are born into are being stripped.
Ability to plan one’s parenthood is ripped.
By replacing mid-election a progressive.
With this barbaric right wing repressive.
Our American families will be disrupted.
Since the Supreme Court was corrupted.
The toxic volcano Coney-Barrett erupted.
Causing family choices to be interrupted.
People assume it’s a young woman issue.
But it’s sadder than that, so grab a tissue.
It also sets back men, kids and retirees.
Unless money for moms grows on trees.
Funds are not being raised for their bills.
Grandparents will leave less in their wills.
Since horny boys have not begun careers.
So the girlfriends and parents shed tears.
The pro-lifers celebrate poverty caused.
As bright futures of women are paused.
Parents’ savings and 401-ks are drained.
Because the antiabortionists complained.
Adults must choose diapers over degrees.
In fear of these new restrictive decrees.
Men forced into child support over tuition.
Slaves to Amy’s baby factory institution.
Seniors return to work to cover the cost.
Competing with youngsters for jobs lost.
For the unskilled moms with no net worth.
Supporting results an of unwanted birth.
These kids learn to live off charity and aid.
Lacking parent role models who get paid.
Being told to do as I say, and not as I do.
All because of a mistake from their screw.
They are reversing decades of progress.
Backwards priorities causing a regress.
Destroying livelihoods of young and old.
Justices unaware of the chaos they mold.
The fake isolation of the island insinuated the fostering of remnants;
remnants of religious fervor, close knit seafaring families, and rugged farmers;
remnants of power past and present.
A fog shrouded canvass awaits the onslaught of August revelry.
And, where widows walked the peeks of robber barons manses, the elementals now play.
Tomato red fire trucks ring the seaside green. Throngs of , oh so, polite W.A.S.P.S
and multicultural couples dot the lawn in precise groupings.
The squeal of stroller strapped toddlers echo across ocean
and down alleyways lined with painted ladies
Gay blades and saucy sisters saunter unharassed through the crowds of young families.
Prosperously retirees with salt and pepper hair in pink and green golf shirts line the porches
of the gingerbread homes ringing the green.
In the gazebo a brass band plays John Phillip Souza and closes by belting out
the American anthem, after dark, no flag wave, yet random patriots stand.
Their forms silhouette upon the gray fog like their intentions
mocking the holiday aire with their reminder of war….
those raging on in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
and fade with the crowds roar to “Sit down your blocking the view!”
And as the elite, and privileged meet and greet chatting in wonder over the multiple sightings
of airforce one choppers and past President Clinton.
The three times the worlds average wage is spent on FIREWORKS, frivolously,
for the entertainment of the richest citizens of the planet. God Blessed America.
This is not Miami, the real site
of the sea grape. This is a wannabe--
a biker town, a speedway town. Not
the fabled city of Dream Whip clouds
expressed into a flawless sky. Not
the cool Technicolor dawn when an aging
chick like me could still do her morning
run on Collins, come back home
to the high rise on the Intercoastal,
where in the mirrored lobby,
retirees lined up in their wheelchairs
along a wall to socialize, see
who comes and goes.
Here, in this faux paradise on a Friday,
morning mass is celebrated in anything but
Ordinary Time by a Bahamian priest in
a chasuble the color of winter rye. There are
no flowers anywhere, only trailing tropicals;
a graceful spider plant with its dangling
tentacles. An acolyte brings sacramental vessels
on a tray, as if to dinner in his own home
to an altar covered with a simple tablecloth.
Simplicity...in the elaborate setting of
the Saint John Basilica, Daytona Beach.
The real home of the sea grape
with its leaves like tennis table paddles
is where a husband hospitalized in Mia
with a failing heart valve lay in
the pre-surgery ICU fighting for breath
as an insensitive nurse brought food
on a tray no way he could eat.
The sea grape is a hardy tree
that reaches for the heights. My son
in Halifax Hospital is like that: a survivor
of surgery for a metal hip to replace
the one that failed. Bones---
nemesis of our family, meant to last
but do not. Unlike the sea grape
whose limbs grown longer,
stronger. Fail not.
The Gift Of Winter
When Winter brings old seasons to their ends
and plans a rest for Spring and Summer trends,
we're eased by lovely scenes that Autumn sends,
while Winter puts to sleep those retirees
of brittle vines and leafless, naked trees,
exhausted roots and bulbs, with expertise.
The drab gray scenes will brighten in degrees
when layered white with spread of pristine snow
that purifies and moistens ground below,
where life, like 'sleeping beauty', waits to grow.
When Winter has achieved her last plateau,
she nudges Spring to wake and take the stage.
But while the sleeping ground does not engage
in life-filled days, our Winter does upstage
with beauty of her wonderland onstage;
snow-covered limbs and hills of velvet white
that leaves us breathless at their very sight,
as sunbeams glisten and reflect the light.
This gift she offers as her own delight,
when Winter brings old seasons to their ends.
Sandra M. Haight
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest: Impress Me With A New Poem
Sponsor: SKAT A
Judged: 01/17/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Rhyme Time III
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 12/25/2017
Rules of Previous Contest: FIVE stanzas using this rhyme scheme:
STANZA 1: A-A-A-B STANZA 2: B-B-B-C STANZA 3: C-C-C-D
STANZA 4: D-D-D-E STANZA 5: E-E-E-A
5th Stanza: Last line must be the exact same sentence as first line in 1st Stanza
They gather there most every morn
The retirees at the coffee shop
To discus events and each others ills
Politics and the new traffic stop
It is a highlight of their day
To greet each other as they dine
And so it's easy to take for granted
They're always there,- rain or shine
But then we notice - Joes not there
On the second day and more
Investigation tells us - he passed on
It's just not the same as before
As we adapt to his departure
Months later we miss Mary's face
Sadly we concede, she is gone
Only her memory - we embrace
Slipping away - - slipping away !
Dear ones that we miss so much
As the blossom of a summer flower
Relinquishes life, to winters touch
But we are reminded in God's Word
Life is but a vapor or a flower
So is the span of our sojourn here
We know not, the day or hour
But there's a promise to each one
Who is anchored, safe in His fold
The future can yield untold rewards
In a Place where, "we never grow old"
So there's consolation we can claim
When a dear one "slips away"
For them - it's just a stepping stone
To usher them from, a house of clay
Colan L. Hiatt = 01-26-14
© All Rights Reserved
as builders spend pennies
flipping profits on houses
lifestyle gurus
show us how to fold trousers
and chefs under pressure
scream out all their orders
while people in need
are labelled as hoarders
and bookies fix odds
for the afternoon races
as judges cast judgements
on bizarre family cases
and contestants light buttons
to win mystery prizes
while traffic cops chase
young suicide drivers
and retirees escape
to a life on the Costas
as law firms inform us
it’s good to sue doctors
and super vets cure
lame dogs and sick horses
as folk with backstories
fail SAS courses
and dealers earn livings
from ducking and diving
while medics with agents
get judged Strictly jiving
and loan deals have small print
explaining their charges
while celebs enjoy cruising
on canals in large barges
and food critics chew
over masterful dinners
and. there. are. several. long. seconds
before we find out the winners
but when MPs dodge questions
on the numerous news’ panels
it’s proof that what bites
really sucks on our channels.
like vinegar and baking soda combined
daily hustle bustle and grind — in caustic silence —
erodes...
precious time eroded in the rush to clear agendas
rushing to the rhythm of the— tick— tockin’ of time...
engulfed with the toils and responsibilities of life
it all seemingly moving in slow motion...
'til suddenly it becomes sublime
to realize just how much time— has passed
now seemingly moving much too fast...
like motion picture film spinning on a reel
as this arduous journey reaches a place of still...
still quiet —volume so loud —you can hear it scream
with flashes of the past rewinding inside your mind...
revealing —in that slippage of time— often
it was thou— you left behind...
quiet screams —
time to exhale....accept or receive
what has been lost or achieved...
shhhh — listen!— the time is now yours
time to lay to rest — hustle bustle and grind—
time — to relax your mind....
and enjoy —your way—what’s yours...
God’s greatest gift—
time......
***Inspired by the feelings many retirees and empty
nesters experience...
It had been so long since I’d felt loved and wanted.
Then I met John. We basked in our late-in-life romance.
Gone was the loneliness that had left me feeling haunted.
Our relationship proved I had been wise to take a chance.
Though somewhat set in our ways, we adjusted well,
each accommodating the other. He often mentioned how much
we were alike. We had no serious disagreements. I fell
more deeply in love with him, daily craving his touch.
A year after we met, he proposed. Of course, I said, “YES!”
We retirees in the autumn of life would be together forever
enjoying each other and family, traveling. No stress---
Then came the devastating blow. Forever became never.
He called on Christmas Day, of all times, to say he’d changed his mind.
This man who’d often mentioned how alike we were declared
that we were too different. He made no effort to be kind,
to let me down gently. I doubt he ever loved me—or even cared.
He's been a casket full of bones for for six or seven years.
When I learned of his demise, I deeply sighed but shed no tears.