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Posts Tagged ‘Aging’

The world was always beautiful.

Snow was pristine,

Summer leaves, verdant green.

Fall was pumpkins and spice

And spring was when the tulips came.

A butterfly was a wonder to chase

Through a yard, like a cat stalking prey.

And the roses, carefully tended

By my grandmother’s wrinkled hands,

Her blue sweater hanging off her shoulders.

.

Trees were to be climbed,

Apples to be eaten and cheese

was something suck from the fridge

When no one was looking.

Catching lightning bugs or

Building snow men

Was the chief mission in life

And we thought little of the time

we spent. Instead

rushing,

always rushing,

to grow up.

.

Now the snow has lost its shimmer

Turning to a dull grey slush too soon,

Though the snow seldom comes.

Summer burns hot, the sun in my

eyes, and in my breast taking

away my breath.

Spring is damp and the knee I scraped

on that tree when I feel is no longer

pleased, nor in fall when

the cold shorter days take the leaves

that I now must rake.

.

The flowers no longer bloom the

way they once did, as now I

notice the falling petal,

the dying leaf.

Now my hands are more like hers,

wrinkled in ways I never imagined

with blue lines staring back at me.

I have that sweater now

And pull it just a bit tighter.

.

Looking up I see the tree I used

to climb, and for that moment

relive the glory of youth, a smile escapes

unwittingly.

 

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Ghost of the Living

The step is a little slower,

The glimmer that once sparkled now a little dull.

Age has stooped the figure once so proud and tall.

When he speaks, its a little more softly

And the hands, worn with worry and work

Are now crooked from the pain.

The dark hair has turned ice white

But the fierceness still burns inside.

He’s still in there somewhere,

Even if he doesn’t always recall where.

The pain is now mostly ours,

For, now, only we remember.

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How Late the Hour

How late the hour grows,

As the verdant canopy slowly discolors.

How short the days now seem,

As sun flees behind the horizon.

Where once in my youth I stalked the tigers,

Conquered mountains, and won wars,

Now I lament the quiet solitude,

For age is a bitter mistress.

How long the days now seem

Yet how fast time does fly.

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As Time Moves On

Among the old oaks

And in times long past

I walk a path

Often forgotten.

.

I am of an age that no longer exists.

An anachronism

Often pushed aside

Into a forgotten space.

.

I listen for the bands

That no longer play

And long for the days

When the world still seemed glamorous.

.

I look for the stars that glittered

And the crooners

Swelling with song and pride

And the good things.

.

A time when people knew each other

And weren’t strangers passing

Or one night stands

Usually forgotten.

.

I am of that age

When people went to dances

And visited neighbors

And baked cakes.

.

A time when thank you cards were sent

A neighbor in need was assisted

And political parties only mattered in November

And if you lost, you did better next time.

.

So I follow my path

And bleet like a sorry sheep

About that which has gone by

And may never come again.

.

Like the last of any generation

I feel the lonliness.

The last dragon of the mountain

Whose fire is about to be extinguished.

.

But I beg you,

Do not pity me.

For I have had a good run.

Instead, all I ask is that you remember.

.

And one day,

Should you here that strange melody,

Echoing from some distant place.

Smile, treasure it, and move on.

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As Seasons Pass

Slowly summer slips,

Like a long shadow sliding against the night.

I sit by the old oak and watch

Seeing season passing season

And knowing that I too pass

As time goes by, running like a stream

Ever changing, no step the same twice.

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Homeplace

Turning wheels and distant thoughts

As I roll past lands I had forgotten.

Where oaks once stood

And acorns fell

Fields abound, wheat grows there.

On the hill a house still stands

Old and brick, and falling in.

The barn is rubble upon the ground.

Years have not been kind to that place

And I, long forgotten

Near the end of my race.

But now I look to where it began.

Where my heart has lived

Where my soul ran.

Where I sang with joy

And played in weeds.

No, you can never go home again.

But home can always be with you.

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He stepped through the door

Smelling of old spice

Hands worn by years of labor.

Always a vest jacket on Sunday

Because the Lord demanded our best.

.

Patiently I would wait

As hellos were said

Pleasantries exchanged

And the women returned to the kitchen.

After all, the men had business to discuss.

.

More smiles, more waiting

The game would be on the T.V.

And the children shuffled off to another room

We kids could be such pests.

Little adults in training

But not trained to be little.

.

Then, finally, he would be there

His jacket off, just vest and tie.

The gold chain running along the right.

All the children ran

Hugs given, but I waited my turn.

.

After everyone had their turn on his knee

I walked up with folded hands.

He would look down his nose, over his glasses

His mustache twitching slightly as smile came.

Then gently lift that golden watch.

.

Carefully I’d climb onto his knee

Lean in, and hold the precious treasure.

Cupped between my hands I heard it tick

Felt it as it ran, almost like my heart.

Just as gently he’d open the case.

.

“What time is it?” he would ask.

A concerned, false look spreading

Though his eyes still twinkled.

“Papa time!” I giggled

And he laughed a hearty laugh.

.

Then he’d close the watch,

Slide it back into that pocket,

Until the next time.

Until next Sunday,

And another dinner.

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