NaPM April 28 2014

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Topic 28: write a poem inspired by aging.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[Erthona]

.

What do I do,
when day is through,
I sit at home
alone;
the color drained
from my hair,
I've lived my life
so no one cares,
if I should live
or I should die.
Then why should I?
Then why should I?


.

[ChristopherSea]

Very dramatic Dale!

[ChristopherSea]

Did HE MENTIon It To GrAndma?

Who? What?

The Doctor, did he tell her…

No one forgets
the day it started-
we clasped our ears tightly,
as Grandpa resounded,
his cane splintering
on stony ground,
hip following after. It was
a protracted Fall, he’s been wintering
for months. Our Titan became
a wretched mortal, who lost
his shoes more then once,
who fears his soul is adrift
as well. It seems so

impossible to believe,
as he sits in the love seat,
not in comtemplation
before the shelved books
that he shared with us all,
more like sublimation, as he slips
unconscious, boring
into earth’s mantle. He's searching
for Professor Otto Liddenbroch,
on a silly jaunt to the center of the earth
through cynical grey matter,
beyond the labyrinth of plaques
and tangles to the nucleus

of a vexed mind. Grandma’s angry
at Grandpa, the Doctor, us, whoever,
and there’s no explaining
it to her.

He’s mad
as a hatter that lost his Derby,

she says. He lost their savings
gambling, drinking, giving money away.
He frightened her at first,
but worse now, he's abandoning her.
She knows it, she sees it
on the love seat by his side,
with her arms around him.

[Keith]

In case you haven't noticed


It sits inside the noises that come out,
bending down results in little shouts,
a lunch time drink of sherry from a cup,
then falls asleep as quick as it woke up.

It’s how much grey falls on the barber’s floor,
as though this hair has not been seen before,
it’s found two pairs of glasses on your head,
and passes out whilst sitting up in bed.

It’s hidden in the print that you can’t read,
with blood so thin that it can’t stop the bleed,
it takes your skin and covers it with dots,
and colours larger parts with liver spots.

It doesn't hear what’s said or even care,
it’s quite content just sitting in a chair,
it thinks a lot on things about its past,
with capacity for wind that is quite vast.

It checks each day to see who else is dead,
goes back to putting butter on white bread,
it knows the empty house still smells the same,
and sometimes as it wakes calls out her name.

[Mopkins]

My nipples now point to the ground,
my belly’s too big and too round-
middle age spread!
Grey hairs on my head
and on other places abound.

My skin is saggy, my behind’s
closer to the ground now, I find.
Have to wear glasses,
no-one makes passes
at me, unless they’re half blind.

The wrinkles they fracture my face,
my legs with big veins they are laced,
old age is unkind!
I’m losing my mind
with the other things that I’ve misplaced.

[cidermaid]

Age is always a relative thing,
it retreats as we resolutely advance.
Mile stone markers that loomed large
on the far horizon are simply
snapped and left behind,
in albums behind the bedroom door.

Afflicted with a big shoe size,
I refused to attain this age.
Instead I decided to trust in my bust;
at thirteen size thirty four
was a distant goal to aim for,
but it appeared just two years
later, all pert and alert.

Before I knew it I was doubled up
to forty, complete with Cherry cakes
orientated to the setting sun.
It used to be fun to star gaze;
to let the mist drip between
the volcanic tips of the Gemini twins
and river through Orion’s belt,
but it got cold when the Northern constellations
entered harvest festival season.

I recently saw a mini me,
a shoe stealing clone; a thirty six B.
Science will soon enough facilitate
longevity of the human race.
One hundred and fifty three
sounds scarily vast - with carbon fibre inserts,
I could meet myself coming back
like some sort of mobius strip.
so I’ve decided not to be fifty;
I’ll revert to thirty eight C,
and with the help of some scaffold
in stainless steel, I won't need
to go south for winter.

[ChristopherSea]

Age is always a relative thing,
it retreats as we resolutely advance.
Mile stone markers that loomed large
on the far horizon are simply
snapped and left behind,
in albums behind the bedroom door.

Afflicted with a big shoe size,
I refused to attain this age.
Instead I decided to trust in my bust;
at thirteen size thirty four
was a distant goal to aim for,
but it appeared just two years
later, all pert and alert.

Before I knew it I was doubled up
to forty, complete with Cherry cakes
orientated to the setting sun.
It used to be fun to star gaze;
to let the mist drip between
the volcanic tips of the Gemini twins
and river through Orion’s belt,
but it got cold when the Northern constellations
entered harvest festival season.

I recently saw a mini me,
a shoe stealing clone; a thirty six B.
Science will soon enough facilitate
longevity of the human race.
One hundred and fifty three
sounds scarily vast - with carbon fibre inserts,
I could meet myself coming back
like some sort of mobius strip.
so I’ve decided not to be fifty;
I’ll revert to thirty eight C,
and with the help of some scaffold
in stainless steel, I won't need
to go south for winter.

Great way to measure time AJ. Looks like you have worn them well through the spectrum of years. Hey, they balance out those feet better now.

[fim]

My nipples now point to the ground,
my belly’s too big and too round-
middle age spread!
Grey hairs on my head
and on other places abound.

My skin is saggy, my behind’s
closer to the ground now, I find.
Have to wear glasses,
no-one makes passes
at me, unless they’re half blind.

The wrinkles they fracture my face,
my legs with big veins they are laced,
old age is unkind!
I’m losing my mind
with the other things that I’ve misplaced.

Ah, I was wondering about that ... what enabled you to write such beautiful poetry Mopkins. I now see, it was time.
Very nice poem!

---

Perspective
fim 4/30/14

In four billion years our star, the Sun
will expand immensely before it implodes.
Our planet by then will be a barren cinder
unlike anything we inhabitants have known,

then in only half a billion more years
our Milky Way will combine
with the nearby Andromeda galaxy
in a collision to be certainly sublime!

Our universe will continue its expansion
beyond the progress of 18+ billion years.
And scientists now theorize with data-based confidence
that universes have astronomical peers.

So, … wrinkles on my face make me chuckle
so trivial and transient a state
in a body composed of elements
of star-dust that congregates

to create life that exists comparatively
for but an infinitesimal moment in time
before rejoining the interstellar medium
we view in a clear night’s sky.

Perspective, the intrepid disabler
of regret and anxious petition,
facilitator of the understanding that begets contentment
as we experience the human condition.

[Mopkins]

[quote='fim' pid='162957' dateline='1398874529']
[quote='Mopkins' pid='162783' dateline='1398762110']

Ah, I was wondering about that ... what enabled you to write such beautiful poetry Mopkins. I now see, it was time.
Very nice poem!

---

well, there's a bit of poetic license involved, I'm not quite ancient yet, early 40s. still, over the hill now and its all downhill from here I'm told. glad you liked my silly limericks. Marianne