Seventy Plus
Have been retired for 7 years
The best parts:
no work hassles
more time to write poetry
more time to play music
more time to work on my project list
(of course, AFTER the honey do list)
more time to volunteer
more time for naps
I can sit around in sweats and tee shirt
(in summer shorts and tee shirt)
But
The worst parts:
insomnia
not as much energy
in bed by 9PM
(I am a party pooper)
need hearing aids
my joints ache
have trouble remembering names
takes me longer to do my projects
(good excuse for not completing honey do list)
These are the best of times and the worst of times
If I can remember what the past times were like!
I am a Great-Grandmother
My Tee shirt tells me so
I only wear this shirt to bed
As I do not want others to know.
If I wore it out of doors
I think it would look pretentious
Some folk know I have many flaws
I find this contentious.
I could have been a grand dame,
Or maybe a diva of some note
I would have a great grand name
If I had married an emperor who captained a boat,
I was not born for greatness,
Or true grandness of any kind
Being grand
It could not be further from my mind.
After I married, I had children,
Five in all
Some of them had children
Seven at the last call,
The children call me Grandma
Mama for short
I became Grand overnight
Something I thought,
Would never happen to me
But then, those children grew up too
And had babies of their own
Which filled me with awe and delight
For the love shown
To these cuddly bundles of joy,
Two adorable, great little boys
Who have made me
A Great-Grandmother
Which I hope I will prove to be
One who sets an example to all
Who comes after me?
He walked into the interview
With his ball cap turned sideways
A tee shirt, shorts and sandals
So you’re looking for a job?
Yeah man…but I can’t work before 10 or after 4
And no weekends
jeans and a tee shirt
vivid imagination
undressed by his eyes
When you walked in
My gaze just froze
I watched you cross the floor
In focus on you
From afar
I stood there wanting more
To spend some time
And talk about
The whimsical and light
To laugh and look
Into your eyes
And lock in with your sight
All day, all night
I'd spend with you
I'll sleep sometime, not now
I wouldn't let
A moment pass
Not loving you somehow
My little bluebird
Fly to me
Alight now on my lap
I'll stroke your wings
You're tired now
So you just take a nap
And when you wake
All rested up
And ready then to soar
I'll fly with you
Anywhere
No longer wanting more
SOMETHING STRANGE
Ground floor of the
Engineering Building,
the elevator shaft wrapped
in a staircase, the entrance to
each on opposite sides
She was pretty, I thought, in a
blue hair, torn jeans counter-culture
sort of way, California sandals and a
colorful tee shirt, its clever slogans
over bouncing topography, her
black-rimmed glasses and overloaded
backpack signaling the intent to do
some serious work
She ignored the stairway, came striding
around to the elevator door, took one
look at me and without missing a beat,
completed the circuit and fairly fled
to the stairway like a curious squirrel
that discovered something strange
and then discerned the implications
My loss, I guess
I thought she was pretty!
ONE NIGHT STAND?
It seemed so simple at the start,
A one-night stand; no questions asked,
Then back to hum-drum daily life.
Her face, all innocent as she approached
And perched beside me at the bar.
“Would a gentleman buy a lady a drink?”
Lowering my gaze to the too tight tee shirt
And the all too short mini, I wondered
About the ‘lady’ bit
But then of course the ‘gentleman’ bit
Was a generous description.
A dry martini was her choice
(I would have sworn she’d say a G and T)
And so I joined her, even though
I’m normally a whiskey man.
And, as we sipped, the thought occurred to me
We must have seemed to all the world
A sophisticated pair
And afterwards, as you’ll have guessed,
We wound up in my bachelor pad
For a euphemistic cappuccino.
After which my memory is rather hazy,
Till I awoke with sunlight streaming through,
And the space beside me cold and empty.
A note by the kettle said a simple, “Thank you”
I thought that was the end of it, but no,
The nightmare had just begun
23rd September 2022
Chapter 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Matt Caliri
Hooray! Autumn's on full display;
my most favorite sight of all,
is the grand pageantry of Fall.
I feel just like a child at play,
trading my tee shirt for long sleeves;
and jumping in piles of dry leaves.
Fall is a seasonal bouquet
and a splendiferous jewel;
a time for change and renewal.
Orange tones with a gold inlay;
make up the scattered leaf debris,
falling from every bush and tree.
I wish all these colors could stay,
perhaps extend Fall just a bit;
I love the sound and feel of it.
Holding Winter flurries at bay,
Autumn takes on an earthy smell;
derived from all the leaves that fell.
Hooray! Autumn's on full display,
I feel just like a child at play.
Fall is a seasonal bouquet,
orange tones with a gold inlay.
I wish all these colors could stay;
holding Winter flurries at bay.
Have you ever listened to those people who rant
and think, OMG They have the IQ of a crayon!*
You know you should walk away but you can't,
from listening to the attention seeking sycophant,
when all you really want to do is call him a moron.
*The first 2 lines were on a tee shirt.
When I searched for a picture of a moron, most of those
I found were of Trump. Not wanting to use that face, I
opted not to use another cartoon character. Sad, I know.
You may choose to envision another idiot.
In the gray dawn, ghostlike,
A mist rises over the lake
Like a floating whisper.
My shorts and tee shirt
Are damp and clammy
From hanging on the bedpost
Near the open window.
The dock is slippery, and
The yellow kayak slips
Soundlessly into the water.
The paddle barely ripples
The breathless surface.
I am adrift in my imagination.
I am a loon, skimming
The water with its haunting cry.
I am the Indian Hiawatha
In his birchbark canoe.
I am Jacques Marquette,
Exploring the Mississippi River,
Watching for Indians.
I am a lone leaf, drifting.
I am the wind and the air
And the thick gray fog.
I am the water itself,
Calm on the surface but
Teeming with life, as it
Wends its way to the sea.
I am the wind and the rain,
The sun and the clouds.
I am all things in this
Haunting, misty world.
As the fog slowly lifts,
Lightens, and turns golden,
I slip back into myself and
Paddle toward the shore.
Turn to quenching winds; cherish what you can't see.
Learn to study vastness rippling at sea.
Birds watch you from high as they tranquilly soar.
Words elevated mend a heart that's sore.
Songs of praise are the greatest compliment.
Strong and gentle, our natures complement.
Thoughts of gratitude charm, expressed aloud.
Cots, blankets, and laughter are allowed.
Shells cling to sea rocks; we harvest mussels.
Swells hug your tee shirt, revealing muscles.
Pull me close like friendly breezes that blew.
Full of mysteries are diverse realms blue.
Sky's palette blends at a quarter past eight.
Eyes twinkle from marshmallows we ate.
You strum your ukulele; we become a band.
Two voices that melt cannot be banned.
Seagull calls merge in a tune that's choral.
Regal beauty flaps around hidden coral.
Sway like moonlit, twinkling leaves of beech.
Stay with me tonight upon this lot of beach.
7-14-2021
(Rhyme beginnings, homophone endings)
As the morning breaks, in a summer day
a bare foot boy, in blue denim overalls,
red and white striped tee-shirt, and straw hat,
rolls up his pantlegs up to his knees, and stands
on the narrow river's white quay.
Alongside the tall rustling sedge,
where the water is cool, busy meadow bees hum,
annoy as he holds his long cane pole.
A quandary. Anxious, made him quiver, takes a step,
Then two, then three, against the rustling sedge.
Outraged, he bids, go away you, with sully fire.
Stricken by slanderous words from out of his mouth;
Suddenly replaced with silence and unease.
Penance for your soul to be cleansed.
The tears he shed, a boy of quaint poise,
Burdened with the weight of such sin.
Like perfume oozes through air,
Hearing his murmuring pitiful word, Sorry.
To him was the worth of not gold, but platinum.
3/1/2021
Mind Your P's And Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner
Penance Poise Perfume Platinum
Quay Quiver Quandary Quaint
Took the kids to the Petting Zoo.
All the tame animals came through.
While I was standing watching the monkeys
And chimpanzees there in the few trees
I felt something tugging at me;
I turned around to see
A goat eat-ding my tee-shirt.
I shrieked, walk backwards, fell to the dirt.
Standing intently beside me, the giraffe
Stretch out its long tongue with a laugh.
Out of my skin cut and scraped, I shout,
Crawl on my hands, as I was tensely strung -out,
Stole my bag of buttered popcorn.
Crawling backwards dirt-borne,
Screaming, flapping my arms in the air.
Everyone stood to stare,
Laughing everywhere.
11/28/2020
Make Me Laugh With Some Humor -
Any Form - New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Saturday, when I came out of the pharmacy
I was startled by a blast of horns and sirens
From a mile-long caravan of trucks and cars
With flags waving — American flags flying
With huge Trump flags side by side.
At first, I thought the president might have
Taken a turn for the worse at Bethesda
Then, a chill racing up my spine told me
I was watching a demonstration of raw power
By his rabid minions intimidating weekend
Shoppers. I flashbacked to the mid-thirties
In Nazi Germany and scurried to my car
Before they noticed my anti-Trump tee-shirt
And I became a victim of the Proud Boys.
SEIGE
Rifle fire. Breaking glass. The hotel screams.
Heart thumping against my ribs and chest,
I note the shooting direction.
Cops taught me that, last time.
Or was it the one before?
I’m up to number four.
My best friend , ashen- faced, rushes towards
the main entrance . No, wait, Danny, wait!
But he flees, risking a fusillade of bullets.
I take a chance on the side door. Rip off my red Tee Shirt.
Bright colours attract attention. Scale a wall, that was close.
Blood drips from my hand.
Superficial scratch, not worth a mention.
Running barefoot, I zig-zag, along the beach.
It’s dense with smoke. Zing of gunfire, acrid
air. I gasp for breath.
A rat on the run, I grab likely shelter, a drain.
Shouts, shots, boots running past.
It’s cramped , damp and mouldy.
One hour? Two? Who knew.
The stutter of gunfire and sirens fade
into the slosh of waves, the cry of a gull.
Trembling, I slither to the entrance.
Fumble for the phone. Dial my best buddy.
Danny doesn’t pick up.
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