In hope of re-charging my old batteries I shall be taking a short break from blogging for the remainder of this week. ‘Roland’s Ragbag’ will renew its regular weekday postings from next Monday – 3rd September.
Nature’s steady hand Its season’s sure permanence Gives respite from doubt
As the dawn broke In the pregnant East And beams of burgeoning day Stretched across the yellowed sky The songbirds’ treetop threnody Broke into my dream
Sleep giving way And all too soon replaced In that initial gentle awareness Of life renewed once more Its promise and its worries Suddenly looming large Within my newly unlocked consciousness Potently recalling life’s commitments Compelling acknowledgement Of my obligations And accompanied by the knowledge Of decisions to be made Promises to be met Expectations to be fulfilled
Only the guarantee of Nature’s steady hand Of each day’s new dawn, Of the cycle of each recurring season Promising a prospect of its permanence Thus bestowing respite from our doubts
To counterbalance my poem ‘On Ageing Disgracefully’, re-published last Wednesday, I now re-present my upbeat version of old age, previously posted by me on
‘Old Age & Youth’ … Pen and ink – WHB. 2017
ON AGEING GLORIOUSLY
Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away; But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday. But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.
For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine; I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline. I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone, So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.
And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now; I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow, ‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door. At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.
My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic; It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic. I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease; Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.
My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly. My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli; The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose, But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.
My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb. I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become; So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels; My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.
My lumbar corset gives me an efficient spinal brace. My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace. I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be, Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.
The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life; No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife. I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed, Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?
They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill; Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill. I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again, No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.
They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee Of touring round my city all the splendid sites to see Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty three.
A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough, I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough; Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free, And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.
My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth; I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath. I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well, That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.
He is my history Lusting after the hills of my youth He strides the moorland paths Amidst the bracken and the gorse Drinking the sun’s warm ale Savouring the wind’s heather-toned tang Turning time to his advantage Tuning in to its connecting wavelength He is great Nature’s spirit Rising and falling with its moods Sad yet serene in Spring Holding the hope of the future
Bright and bubbly in the summer rains Rich and expansive in the sun’s bright gaze
Brought to magnificent autumn richness Coloured by russet tints Fruitful in his beneficence
He is the winter too Drifting with the whiteness of its moods His flocks penned for winter warmth neath the mountain crag Shielding the gentle crocus And the blanched snowdrop
He is the spirit of the trees Lord of copse and wood Guardian of Grove and greenwood Verdant Monarch of the forest
Of the landscape’s lakes Running with the cool waters of streams and rivers The stillness of Its ponds and pools
Both past and future Gone yet still to come again his cyclic journey unfolds From birth to death From death to resurrection To new life and resurgent hope Maintaining existence Midst promises and threats To bring renewal in the name of life