aging poems

House Call | Bryn Fortey

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“i have this deal of death about my hands”
(Ray Bremser, in the poem “Blood”)

I had another fall this week
only two paces from door to bed
but the sudden darkness
threw me off kilter and down I went

as with previous falls
I went down easily
and did no real damage
scraping some skin off a leg
but thankfully missing the bed post

my daughter and great-grandson
had to take an arm each
and haul me to my feet
Nathan had heard the bump
and come running
he’s like a mother hen with me
and I’m a fluffy little chick
in dire need of protection

it left me shaken and feeling woozy
for a day or two
which is par for the course
I feel quite vulnerable at such times
wondering if this might be when
old Doc Death might pack his bag
in readiness for a house call

the scrawny buzzard
hasn’t made it here yet though

Septa Generics | Stan Morrison

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it’s hard to be hip after seventy
abandon hope all ye who enter
keep your opinions from calcifying
and your beliefs will astound you
humor, not memory, is your ally
love and laughter bring others along
honor your white hair and wrinkles
they’ll stay faithful until the end
gather wildflowers
be thankful and rejoice

Face to Face | Stan Morrison

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in the mirror face to face
I see this young man old
laughing together with one another
“how absurd, you’re so old so young”
not like an ancient city
built layer atop of layer
but a continuous construct
of the new, the humorous
thew humane the divine
forever renewing refreshing
relentless time at our backs

My Mother Knows | Laura Simmons

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My mother is old
But make no mistake
She knows.
She knows how people can be cruel
And she’s having none of it.
She knew a hungry boy
Who came begging at her door
“Fill my bag to here, Miss Miposi
I want a little more. ”
She knew a girl whose body was twisted
But whose mind was keen.
She was sent to a place that was dark and hidden
So her illness couldn’t be seen.
And two close friends
Precious and true
Had been starved and tortured
Because they were Jews.
So don’t tell my mom it’s o.k
If she’s kept in the hall all day,
Wet and cold and soaked in blood.
Because, you see, my mother knows.
And she’s having none of it.

Amnesia | Mark Andrew Heathcote

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I’m searching for the source of this molten moonlight
And my memory is leaking like a bucket in the slaughterhouse
Like a blue and white tin-jug of unpasteurised milk.

Is that reflection, reflecting-back at me?
Is it really, really, really me.

My brain is somehow now a greyish crater.
All the edges blur, falling in
… Here is my molten moonlight come flooding back to me
So bright, I can longer see.

More at https://www.ctupublishinggroup.com/mark-andrew-heathcote.html.

Geriatrics | Stan Morrison

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just another old man on the road to nowhere
just another old man too far from his home
too many stories he would love to tell you
too many stories to tell and he’s all alone

i’m just another man goin my own way
i’m not another old man, I;ve got a home
you don’t have to hear any of my stories
i’m not selling them and I’m not all alone

Whatevs | HR Creel

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My granddaughter
speaks to me
with phrases like
Whatevs,
a tiny sponge
for vernacular, my
only hope being
that I can still
translate as time
flies by.

Logan's Run Revisited | Dan Tindall

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In the modern coffee houses
Once the employees hit 30
Their wristband goes from green to red
And they’re (metaphorically) dead
Off to some older hipster hangout
To sell cereal bars and sweetened milk
Under the watchful gaze
Of Charlton Heston in his final 7Os
Hip cool movie

More at http://www.dantindall.com.

Old as Dirt, and Half as Clean | Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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She is hoeing down into the garden
and I stop to watch her.
I am raking leaves with a small child’s rake
that only comes up to my knees
because I broke the other one
last Spring.
I think we’re an old couple,
I say.
We’re 38, we’re not old,
she laughs.
Struggling to get up off her knees
as I turn the wrong way
and throw out my
back.

Last One Standing | Judy Moskowitz

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Youngest of three
The center of her universe
While others fall like dead leaves
She never thinks about her own mortality
Supple skin smooth as velvet
She looks upward at a limitless sky
Years pass flesh loosens from bone
Muscles start to atrophy
No longer young
She looks down at the cold ground
As one by one by one
Are taken

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