Thursday, 2 May 2013
Seven poems on growing older. Humour.
I'm aging now, or so I'm told
but they're selling me a pup!
How can I be growing old
when I haven't yet grown up?
I refuse to be a "wrinkly",
a boring sad old fart.
Age is just a state of mind;
I'm still a kid at heart:
Open minded, curious,
shy but keen to learn,
impatient to see what lies
round every twist and turn.
And what about maturity?
Is it to do with years
or dealing with relationships,
handling hopes and fears?
I am happy to mature then
if that's what it's about,
as long as they let me have some fun
and run around and shout,
make fervent love in the afternoon
and dance to the radio.
I'm quite prepared to be old one day
but I've still a long way to go.
Aging dancers don't retire
they simply dance much slower.
I haven't lost that inner fire
it's there, but burning lower.
I don't "do" frantic any more
I'm best at slow and sensual;
just clear a space there on the floor,
I'll show you I'm accentual.
Rock for me has had it's day
along with twist and shout;
I'll show you in a different way
just what it's all about.
Put on a mean and moody song
a beat that's slow and steady
then lead me out where I belong
and just make sure you're ready!
No-one escapes the results of old age
though it helps, I assume, if you're rich.
I have no desire to go under the knife
but there are a few things I would switch.
My underarm hair is, at last, in decline
which somewhat makes up for the face
for my eyelids are crinkled, the laughter lines show
and the moustache is growing apace!
The hairs on my legs aren't as strong as before
- finer but not going grey -
you'd think that by now they would give up the ghost
but no, I still shave them away.
I'm thankful to say that my body still works
though some is a little bit worn.
Arthritis from hyper-mobility hurts
and Ive had this thing since I was born.
But hyper-mobility has benefits too:
some joints are amazingly pliant
and I've very few wrinkles or stretch marks or such
which makes me feel rather defiant.
So, do your worst, aging, I'll keep ploughing on;
I could be an awful lot worse.
I still have my marbles and that's all that counts.
I'm not ready yet for the hearse !
© June 2010
When the skin round the eyes is crêpey
and the years have remodelled one's face
and one's neck becomes droopy and drapey
and the moustache is growing apace;
When the backs of one's hands are crinkled
and embroidered with blue weathered trees
and the lips, once plump, are now wrinkled
and time's playing hell with one's knees;
When every damn thing is painful
and each journey seems all uphill
and nothing in life seems gainful
due to being so tired and ill;
When one's hands and one's feet are puffy
with ankles now twice the size
and the hair that was lush is now scruffy
and the sparkle has left one's eyes;
When one's balance has left the building
and one's strength is that of a gnat
and the lily that needed no gilding
seems remarkably old and fat;
When crouching occasions farting
and sad unintentional grunts
and days never seem worth starting
and nights are devoid of stunts,
When confusion defines one's thinking
and the memory goes to pot
and it's all about standing blinking
and "Did I? Or did I not?"
When one can't rely on one's plumbing
and eating is just a chore
then life has become unbecoming.
It's all such a terrible bore.
© Sept 2006
What to do?
Too old now to strut my stuff in
slinky clothes and fuck-me shoes
or flash come-hither glances from
mascara'd kohl-black eyes;
arthritis and increasing size,
the pitiless effects of time,
are things I can't refute.
What to do, what to do,
when teenage passion
persecutes a body
past its prime?
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jewelled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
Learning To Read
Im having to learn to read again:
at my age, a vision of hell.
It's all this texting kids do now;
they've forgotten how to spell.
To be addressed as m8 is bad enough.
or be asked "y r u here? "
At least I can make out how that works,
the meaning is pretty clear.
"Whats ur name", I understand,
"itd be nice", well enough,
though a total lack of apostrophes
can sometimes make things tough.
But when someone asked for my ASL
- that took me a while to decode,
I had to ask someone in the end -
I thought my brain would implode!
My what? My who? Speak English please!
I'm far too old for all this.
I know a few languages, just a bit,
but this is taking the piss.