Category: aging

Grey Clouds Hover

Life! One day rushing to collect kids, stopping for the dry cleaning, and praying the slow cooker is indeed cooking; and the next strolling down uncluttered lanes, contemplating absence.  How did we get here?  How did we dream so big and land so humble?  Gone are big homes and hefty mortgages. Hell, we’re down to one car. Sunday dinners with the family are memories and nowadays, my head spins to think of cooking for more than we two.

Now we speculate about time left.  Ponder what distances will support us.  Shall we travel, avoid the winter months, and if so, will our health cooperate?  Will the children understand?   Forgive my melancholy.  The silence is echoing off the walls, and I am reflective today. Not in a good way.  I’d best get myself outside for some fresh air.

Time slips through fingers
palms reaching outward, hopeful –
Fall’s hues distract woe.

(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 Word Thursday, and dVerse‘s open link night. Photo supplied by Deb Whittam)

Dispensable

In my absence
dreams flourish,
friendships form,
enterprises thrive

In my absence
opponents clash,
decisions falter,
differences grow

All that was viable,
all that motivated,
all that defined…

Now vapours –
truths forgotten –
in my absence.

(Jilly is hosting is in the dVerse pub tonight where repetition is the challenge.  I am combining this with Fandago’s Word of the Day, opponent,  and Ragtag Community’s prompt, friend.)

Heavenly Day

Sun slices through slumber –
Day, wrapped in cerulean, beckons.

Not an early riser, I balk, until
sensibility intrudes, argues
autumn’s passing –

I concede, break out,
push limitations –
a sexagenarian rebel.

Later, I crash,
golden lustre
enveloping me –
halo-like.

(Kim is hosting at dVerse pub tonight and challenging us to write a quadrille – poem in 44 words – using the word early.  I am also linking up with Ragtag Community for their prompt:  lustre.  More photos and information about this outing are posted here.)

 

Sleep is For Other

I toil in the dreamtime
like a night manager
in a hotel without walls,
catering to clientele –
whose needs, so diverse,
rattle the rows of beds –

settling disputes and
encouraging discretion
and succeeding only
in waking exhausted.

I am like a keeper in
a hostile hostel –
trying to find a key
when there are no
doors to unlock.

(Inspired by sleepless nights and erratic dreaming, and submitted for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt – unlock.  Featured image is titled “Self-Portrait with Colours” although my son says it looks more like a LSD trip – I didn’t ask. Alternate title:  “I am Slowly Going Crazy”, lol.)

Beauty Routine

Plump the lips
pad the ass,
pull abs in

Push-up bras
and false eyelash,
botox, and brows

Make us pretty
much less witty –
do not overdo

Natural is rave
naked is yuck –
to find perfection

choose a routine
that sculpts and
shapes, then lie.

(dVerse quadrille prompt is yuck,  Ragtag Community is plump, Fandango offers routine, Daily Addictions is apparent.)

Of Wings

Winged things
are meant to fly,
like birds, and planes,
and dragonflies…
angels…

I had dreams once –
winged creatures
who soared
limitless skies…
free…

Until fear –
a cruel master –
caged my heart,
clipped my spirit…
broken…

Age and loss
turned the page,
locks illusions
unravelled…
escape…

Vulnerable,
I walk, remember
wings, lift my face
to inclement  weather…
fly…

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s weekly challenge:  What do you See?)

Genetics

I search for father
in this pain, recall
limbs wrapped,
liniment-lathered,
how he cried out
relief beyond reach

judged his suffering
as emotional –
a karmic penalty
for a life of tyranny –
compassion lapsed.

Now, I fight with legs
that will not settle,
arms that ache to bone,
moments inconsolable
spiralling into moodiness

seems I misunderstood –
overlooked the possibility
of genetics – pain compounded
by the guilt of impotence

curse my failure
to express sympathy,
offer comfort – the habit
of retracting into defensiveness
enacted till his death –

softness not a component
of the barriers that stood
between us…

Calm Yourself, Woman

Circumstances shift –
breath the fertile air –
let dreams fly; expand

embrace change – hope,
now winged, an explorer
bursting with possibility.

I would move this old
body, relocate to new
beginnings, be reborn

but for these internal
trappings – begging for
extermination – retro

shaded memories –
long past expiration –
skewed accessibility,

stretched without purpose,
reconfiguration required –
history a real estate, I need

to unload; who will buy
a drama-laden, single
story alcoholic’s haunt?

Circumstances shift –
sniff the fertile air –
guard forbidden dreams

change, like wings, unfolds
in its own time; be patient,
possibility is taking flight.

(Poem originally appeared August of 2016)

Penance

The idealist is annoyed,
cannot forgive these flaws –

how delight can melt into forgetfulness,
exertion transform into immobility,

the insistence that I have no control –
choosing anger over depression,

either way, a loss – unacceptable
to the one who promotes perfection –

I wear the blame, like a hairshirt –
penance for intolerable truths.

Conspiracy Theory

The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…

The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak

Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.

Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,

but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.

This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.

(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)

Image from personal collection.