A – G – M

photo of elderly man walking on pavement

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A – G – M

I met a dear old friend
Whose time I knew was fleeting;

He looked so frail and wan,
I asked how he was keeping.

He said he was ‘A-G-M‘,
A strange and quirky word,
In fact I thought it odd
And really quite absurd.

I asked him what he meant.
He said “Because I’m old,
And glad to be alive
I think you should be told …”

That I am still quite fit,
Not ready yet for disposal,
Still stepping out and free,
Above the Ground and Mobile.’

 

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Two Valentine Haiku

affection afterglow backlit blur

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Two Valentine Haiku

When love is still young
Its passion will know no bounds
With time it will fade

Though love become stale
The memories will  linger
Its passion not spent

 

Bar-Rose

Time To Linger . . .. A Kyrielle’

photo of old man reading paper

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Time To Linger . . ..  A Kyrielle’

 

I carry my age so lightly,
With others help, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll manage to last till midnight.
Give me the time to linger long.

For patience is a true virtue,
And I’ve not knowingly done wrong.
So grant me one last interlude,
Give me the time to linger long.

And when my time at last does come,
My final lucid grateful song
Will say as they whisk me away,
‘Thanks for the time to linger long.’ 

 

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NOTE:

Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza consisting of 4 lines), and each quatrain contains a repeating line or phrase as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the amount of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum  . . .  The rhyme pattern is completely up to the poet.

[  From:  http://www.shadowpoetry.com  ]

 

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Prufrock’s Lovesong Revisited

oldman
I stumbled into Prufrock’s life
At the age of twenty-one
A loner and a loser
He plucked a minor chord
How sad and sorry a life can waste
And end before death comes
Now, four twenty-ones gone,
As I stir my tedious cup
And knife still slices scone
Better by far to repeat his theme
Let daily chore recur
As daily deeds do
To live my life and measure it
In Costa coffee spoons
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On Being Cantankerous

cantankerous

Testy now, and truculent,
Jumping to conclusions,
I tend to speak before I’ve thought,
A source of some confusions.

When I was young and in my prime
I would have paused and pondered
Before I’d let my mouth run free;
My mind would not have wandered.

Now, grumpy and cantankerous,
I’ve no wish to be told,
Despite the fact the signs are there,
That I am growing old.

For age and life have brought to me
Such exasperation
That now I speak my forthright mind,
Inviting much vexation.

Now I’m content to be quite brusque,
To stir up some dissent.
My time of life has brought disdain,
I’ll say just what I meant.

With one foot in the waiting grave
Why pussyfoot around?
Just tell it as it is, my friend,
No comebacks underground.

 

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Incipience

filled juice with slice of orange

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I have an incipient cold,
A budding burgeoning cough.
I don’t feel ill,
I’m sentient still,
You can tell me to clear off.

No, you don’t want to catch what I’ve got;
No way would it enhance your lot.
You’d never thank me,
You’d definite-lee,
Be catching a Gordian Knot.

For a cold is a cold is a cold,
Especially if you’re getting old.
You won’t want to feel low,
Just retain status quo,
And let’s keep the future on hold.

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Reverie #9: Echoes of the Past

Roseberry

Pen & Ink – WHB … Northern Hills

I need to listen to that hidden sound of silence
the murmur that thrills lost souls
and as it swells
reverberates among those distant heathered hills

I crave to hear it burgeon on that lonely land
that misty moor of distant memory
where dwell lush images of the Green Hill
of the High Cliff
the Cass Rock
the Apple Garth
and the bubbling burbling beck
its red waters blooding its banks
with reminders of its ferrous track

A distant memory
rising from deep beneath those ancient northern hills
born of Nature’s cycle
birthed in ironstone
and nurtured in those recurring dreams of my youth
and the lasting images of my old age

Bar-Rose

The Old Insomniac

Sleep1959

‘Sleep’ – WHB … pencil

The Old Insomniac

Old age has its delights, 
Its pensions and its freebies, 
But, oh, the restless nights
Give me the heeby jeebies. 

My pleasures are so various, 
From playing cards to skiing, 
Some dubious, some precarious, 
From lawn bowls to sight-seeing. 

But at night I still can’t sleep;
Perhaps I am too active? 
Instead of counting sheep
I need something more distractive. 

Maybe I’ll take up yoga, 
Or write another will, 
Decamp to Saratoga
– Or just take another pill! 

 

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Late Love

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LATE  LOVE

Eagerly he jumped into bed
His vows to now fulfil
His lady fair sat on the bed, 
Took a little pill. 

Seductively she stripped and then
Slipped on her pink silk gown;
Opened the drawers beside the bed
She twirled and then sat down. 

Slowly she took her dentures out, 
Popped them into a box. 
Beside this she placed her spectacles, 
Her things, her rings, her rocks. 

Off came her hair, a huge blonde wig, 
Into the drawer it followed. 
A few more pills went in her mouth, 
Then these she swiftly swallowed.

Next a glass eye was taken out, 
Put in a velvet box, 
Then placed sedately in the drawer
Beside those golden locks.

She then unscrewed a wooden leg, 
Wrapped it in a napkin. 
That also went into the drawer
“What else to come?” I’m asking.

Until, she said, “At last my dear, 
Now I am all yours.”
But I was undecided, p’raps
I’d be better in those drawers.

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