Casper the Friendly Ghost -
Where were his friends, when he needed them most?
They'd just read the obits,
and were scared right out of their wits.
I pay no attention to sports
I turn off the weather report
Pretty girls don’t attract me
No more do mosquitoes attack me
I read the obits and emit a long sigh
Thinking, there but for the grace of God goeth I…
A backed-up sewer full of manure
Made me gag; I was so immature
Today it bothers me not in the least
~ Life on this earth is just leased
Repeat of the four-year refrain
Pits demented versus insane
We who are pundits
Say please call it quits
And would toast their obits with champagne
And suddenly, 50 was here, all the music got
louder, all the drivers for younger. My hair
was on a farewell tour, visiting the sink and the
shower more than my head. The kids got older,
some didn't grow up, but they were older, and
living on their own, visiting when lives allowed.
Then 60 snuck in the back door, kids had kids and
the house was louder, the cars were smaller,
driving themselves, and I lived in a neighborhood
populated by dumped wives, all gossipy and lonely.
Their husbands gone to younger women, or to the
grave too soon, who knew, I didn't care to listen.
70 turned the corner and caught me across the
puss with a backhand when I looked in the
mirror and saw an older person looking back.
Everything got louder with my new hearing aids,
driving became harder, too much going on. I stay
home more often, alone, reading the obits to
find friends I had lost and I wonder,
who will miss ME when I go?
Reading obits Frank had quite a surprise
There he learned of his untimely demise
'Twas beyond his belief
But he read with relief
'Twas another Frank with a name likewise
A tiny runt who cannot run,
mom kicked me out because I limp.
The big dogs call me dumb, a gimp,
off-beat orphan, claimed by no one.
A Mowgli bumming all around,
Where is that warmer welcome mat?
there sits Bagheera, mama cat;
a foundling's hope perhaps is found.
She takes me in with her own kits;
they share and care for me at last.
Not long and I forget my past;
my name escapes the dog obits.
October 5, 2020
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Contest: In Praise of the Ode
Theme: # 3. About an Orphan
Cigarettes and alcohol
had washed her youth away.
The fresh faced girl, with the wayward curl,
that I knew from 'yesterday'
had now been replaced,
by something hard faced,
playing the oldest game in town.
Her painted on smile and streetwise guile
trying to hide the tears of a clown.
Our inner voices give us choices
of the pathways we should take.
It's a downward spiral, that soon goes viral,
if those voices are all fake.
And she had reached, and then had breached,
the nadir of her life.
She had once been a friend, staunch to the end,
a daughter, a mother, a wife.
And as we walked, so we talked,
about the might have been's.
The what went wrongs, remembered songs,
and prom night Kings and Queens.
We said goodbye and she said she would try,
but I knew her cause was lost.
And I'd scan the obits, for lost souls and misfits,
and she'd be there, as a thaw follows frost.
This is what they used to do,
Grandpa's made their own rules,
Sit on verandah on sunny morn,
Read the sport, paper at dawn,
Then to read the obituaries,
Ensure still alive, you see,
Finally, they passed to glory,
Grandpas so loved, their story!
Our aging- how we reckon it depends
on where we are in life that given time.
The preteen celebrates to reach thirteen-
and then at twenty-one- cheers with a beer!
The border crossed at thirty is not dire;
most times adulthood has matured by then.
But hitting forty bodes a turning point-
the trip to middle age will soon proceed.
For most, the age of fifty earns a prize
for reaching one half-century of age.
When sixty comes- retirement's in view;
then seventy- that's when the worries start.
That aging stage- a topic shared by friends-
comparing ailments, meds- physicians too.
Scanning obits- enduring mournful wakes;
attending nursing homes- as case, or guest.
This phase of aging- not the same for all;
health issues strongly shape how long we live.
Through every step, we pray to stay robust;
live best each treasured day- one at a time.
June 6, 2019
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest: Aging
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Judged: 06/26/2019
Another name is added to the ongoing list
authors, actors, visionaries, advocates of change galore
now, passed on to the obits of evermore.
Too many from my youth and younger ways
found the cause and time to mark your days
with dreams and wishes, seeking changes on parade.
Today, the less well known
seem to cater to kings and dictators on a throne
with the masses bent and adoration prone.
World Wars and police skirmishes
sought to imprison those who resist
and a generation's senses awaken and with fires burn.
History repeats itself until we learn
freedom reigns free only if we earned
the humanity for which we yearn.
When I’m away The New York Times
Gets piled beside my door.
(For longer trips, I hang a bag
To keep them off the floor.)
I read them all when I get back,
In order that they came,
Enjoying news that’s “old;” at least,
That’s what some people claim.
I likely know the bare bones
Of most stories and their stars
From radio and news shows.
(I’ve been gone, but not to Mars!)
Still, there’s so much in the details
A reporter gets to break
That it’s worth a read days later
(And to me, it’s never “fake!”).
So I’m catching up on articles
And crosswords and obits
And until I’m where I should be,
I will never call it quits!
NEWSPAPERMAN
Is the purpose of news to keep you informed
of current events that have already dawned?
Or is some mechanism set in that script
that triggers reactions to bite through your lip?
What is it typed in that story line
that keys in emotions of reactive minds?
What’s in paragraphs, punctuated with stress,
that is sentencing you to states or duress?
It’s the death and disaster, crime and obits,
it’s all of the news that’s print to give fits.
It’s anger to apathy and it’s all a plan.
It’s the stock and trade of the newspaper man.
What is the motive of a mind set
to transmit a virus by alphabet,
to poison the paper with type in ink
then sells it as copy to contaminate think?
Just whose fingertips edits those keys
to conjure a spell of anxiety?
Who holds you entranced in a dire embrace
of paper and ink and tragic typeface?
It’s the death and disaster, crime and obits,
it’s all of the news that’s print to give fits.
It’s anger to apathy and it’s all a plan.
It’s the stock and trade of the newspaper man.
Basic black, they chatter like
fiancees choosing flatware,
obits their compulsion,
scanning through the
fine print for fatalities today.
"Albert Johnson, such
a young one, taken by his
Maker, leaving children,
such a shame!" A hunger for
the details drives these gannets
to their prey. They're not too far
behind, and that's the reason
for their passion,
death and taxes, final call.
Professional, they'll travel
thirty miles to pay respects,
their only consolation
now that Frank and Jim are gone.
Memories are treasures
they will contemplate, while they wait
in resignation, ready for their turn.
Basic black, they chatter like
fiancees choosing flatware,
obits their compulsion,
scanning through the
fine print for fatalities today.
"Albert Johnson, such
a young one, taken by his
Maker, leaving children,
such a shame!" A hunger for
the details drives these gannets
to their prey. They're not too far
behind, and that's the reason
for their passion,
death and taxes, final call.
Professional, they'll travel
thirty miles to pay respects,
their only consolation
now that Frank and Jim are gone.
Memories are treasures
they will contemplate, while they wait
in resignation, ready for their turn.
...inspired by two characters in the movie, 'Winter Guest.'
The Final Game
now in these years
called senior by name
is it the final game
friends live today
next day may be gone
will they see the new dawn
obits are read
each morning these years
will today bring some tears
senior days pass
like game of roulette
is it hit or miss yet
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Questionku Two
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
Judged: 10/25/2015
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