Short Dotage Poems

The present ,so easily we forget
Our yesterday's,interred,remembered
'neath leaves of regret;
Often exhumed,wahed bright
with tears of delight;
So clearly,our days past,we see

For tomorrow,....may not be...

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Their was once en olde boozer named Mable,

   Who inn her dotage was sow unstable.

      She was thee village buffoon,

          Swilling at ev'ry saloon.

             Mable cud drink ewe under thee table!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

(c) 2014 All Writes Reserved...

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Time
As it passes we look behind us
To the then
The when
When we were younger.
A time when all was not perfect.
Yet in our dotage 
we see the 
Misty perfection of youth.
But look not 
upon that to come as chore-some,
Our mark is made 
from start to end.
Grasp what we have 
to see the now in all....

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I have died by sword, by pox;
in my dotage years, at birth;
interred in many a box.
I eternal roam this earth
in one form or another;
I will forever be a
child of another mother.
With this soul, I play, replay;
constant will until I find
that for which all men do search;
inner calm and peace of mind....

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Despond,despair then decline,
Whilst wiser one recall:
Days are numbered for us all.

Inching ,ever unregarded,
The relentless timebelt turns;
Days are numbered for us all.

Reminiscing days of old,
Stories of yesteryear unfold;
Days are numbered for us all.

Here and there a fall,a stall,
Ever onward is the call;
Days are numbered for us all....

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So long ago,
When I was a lass
Boys would whistle,
As they walked past
I would blush scarlet,
To the roots of my hair
And hurry by,
With my red nose in the air

I am now in my dotage.
I don't think about men,
Who am I kidding?
I do now and then.
I have someone special,
My husband and best friend,
He adores me still, even though
I have gone around the bend....

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REMEMBER ME
NOVEMBER IN AMSTERDAM

This must be 
where fallen leaves 
come to settle.

The two of us, not quite 
in our dotage yet, feel at home, 
anchored in such an autumn.

Submerge my heart in one of these dykes 
when I'm gone.

Ashes, you see, need the clutches 
of still brown waters 	
to escape being scattered to the winds....

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there they sit
with their dreams
and fantasies
mouthing great
philosophies
narrating great tales
of imagined achievements,
revealing little nuggets
of despair couched
in a fatalism
of their own making.
Should I reveal myself
jolt them to the reality
of death
put an end to their charade

Or slither away 
in the susurration
of wind and grass
leaving them 
to their random ramblings
in their dotage?...

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Man I've got to slow it all down take another route...
Walking past this blink dispel, time heart's dotage her
Brightest star amid the skies these, nocturnal nighttides ?
Johnny jump up his bluish purple rush hour russet's, diamond eyes
Denying their proteges defeatist provenance ? Where wicked was, a clinging 
Touch gyroscopes day of the dead piece, de resistance: falling at His feet weeping
She and phantasmagoria's end this summer; Lord, be love's harvest ? Aureole's vanguard....

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