You excluded me from your world
Because you felt that I was
"Over the Hill".
I had no way of sharing my Magic
With you.
One day,
I spotted you
Shooting Heroin in your arm
Underneath a bridge.
I was too polite to ask you
Why you had refused to accompany me
For Tea

Call us perverted,
But read on first,
Then, by the end,
After our verse,
Call us your worst:
Dirty old men, gutter snipes,
Lecherous gawkers,

Cause we gaze in wonder and awe
At girls from eighteen to ninety-five.
Don't step back and feign aghast,
Whisper covert tsks, and gasp,
What? Oh such dirty old men!
But we are most the same.

We don't ogle or use a scope
Waiting behind a bush at night,
Til the lights go on
Through windows known to be un-drawn.

We don't visit public pools
With goggles and a snorkel,
That's just sick, that's not us,
Our admiration's not so twisted,
We grew up to respect the sisters.

We wonder at the parade of beauty,
So pleasing to our eyes,
They dress to allure
Younger looks,
They swagger, tilt and sashay past
With legs as long as trees,
No VPL to interrupt
The curvature of our minds,
The girth of Mother Earth.
Compare it to one window-shopping,
Admiring wares and worth;
But please, read every line I wrote
Before bellowing, Pervert.

If we were eighteen years again,
We're lads out plowing fields,
Sowing wild grains,
Reaping refrains of They're boys just being boys.

We had our ancient pleasures,
Still comparable to now,
But the lushness of the ripened fruit
Is hanging on the bough,
For younger hands, not ours.

The columned temples of runway models
With flying buttress thighs,
And the bull-frog fronts and volleyball stunts
Have us pleased, but we don't pry.

          (We're not a pussy grabbing lot,
          That's not how we usually talk,
          In fact I haven't shared these thoughts,
          I'm reluctant to do so now).

You know you can't blame us
For what a blind man sees;
The cleavage, high-slits and commando style,
The augmentations meant to beguile
Has caught us in crossfire.

The soft unbleached skin,
The bosom and the neck,
The falling, twirling tresses,
Grace the backs of backless dresses.
Wear grotesques to dissuade us,
To disapprove our ageless looks.

Our eyes don't linger on the bust,
We don't display old men's lust,
In fact we're rather obsequious,
To the point where we're air,
You'd not notice that we're there.
But we are, and we look;
And I remember what it took
To be young and on the hunt
For the Yeti, Loch Ness, alien sort.

Don't tell your friends we're perverted,
Scurrilous id-focused men;
We're neither. We're average fellows
Watching from the stands.

Yes, our daughters are older than
The babes seen on the screens,
But that has naught to do with us,
We still think like eighteen.

We watch re-runs of Mary Tyler Moore,
Drink tepid tea with toast and jam
To the credits of The Golden Girls;
But when the grandkids come to visit,
We take them for ice-cream,
Or if I take poodle to walk,
They pool like thirsty fleas.
It isn't my intent to bait, but I have eyes to see,
Those girls somewhat eighteen,
Like to please by teasing:
     I really like your wire rims.
Their eyes grip, the wind flips,
Their hands soft and supple...
I'm at a loss-
What's a man to do-
Between forty and a hundred and two.

Well, this reaper's aged,
The harvest's in.
The grain that bowed the straw
Has now been threshed,
And milled to flour.
Add heat to rise again.

Apology for aging men
VPL: Visible panty line.
grotesques: gargoyles that don't spit water

I wish to age like a wrap-around porch
In a thunder storm,
While generations tell tales,
Sipping drinks.
A porch of blinking stars,
A place to run out of rain,
With wooden steps for deliveries,
With ascending and descending friends.

I will age like a tree,
Grow stronger in the wind;
Give shade and shelter to all
Beneath my ring-aged limbs.

I wish to age as a river bends,
Contiguous with all shores;
Floating everyone I know
On eternal waters defying death,
A current winding with no rest.

I will age like a star,
Burning bright, giving light,
Something to reach for.

I wish to age like a mountain,
With secret caves and riches.
And you can rock your soul
Around, over or through,
Solid, snow-capped summit,
Beckoning you.

I will age as the moon,
In stages, full and new;
Each night different,
Unnoticeable fading,
As all who age will do.

Thank you all very much for your thoughtful, insightful and kind comments. It's a wonderful surprise and honor to be chosen for the daily, as there are so many damn good poems written by the poets here every day. And especially a sleeper like "I Will Age." I guess it's a lesson to be learned. Thanks again to everyone, and especially to Hello Poetry for giving us this marvelous opportunity to publish.
Peace to All.

to his seated
side with a
lively leg slap
Bright, blue,
begging eyes
drank up
my youth

memory clouds
were forming

He whispered-

“Help me.”

I whispered back-

Okay, I'll try.

His eyes

“Bust me
out of here,
I have dames
on the outside…
oh, so many
lovely lovers
my return.
I want to
hold and
smell them
ah, fond

His grip
on my arm


his eyes
went blank
as I was
away to

gmw '17

At or around the age of 10, I was forced to visit the elderly at old folks homes to brighten up their day on a regular basis. On one such visit, a man separated me from my group, and this is what I heard until rescued by a chaperon.
Mark Lecuona Jul 6

Her eyes were reddened
By the burdens of time
Her sons becoming men
Her passions now routine
But dignity will never die
Inside a beautiful heart
Because the blood of her life
Has become a fountain of love

Vexren4000 Jun 29

A token passed,
From grandfather,
To father,
To me,
A pearl of wisdom,
He hoped you keep,
And one single item,
With significance so deep,
That it could be an empty case,
And it would still mean the world to me.

Francie Lynch Jun 23

I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and piss,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.


You're nearly 51 years old.
You're "over the hill" now!
But "the hill" was really a dangerous pass!
The Valley of Maturity
On the other side of "the hill"
Seems desolate.
Only the most resilient plants
Can grow there.
Is like the Australian Outback
Or the Kalahari.
It is not filled
With the sweet fruits of love
Or the fragrant flowers of romance.
There is something to be said
For adapting to harsh conditions.
Before you climbed "over the hill"
Into the Valley of Maturity,
You weren't so

Mark Lecuona Jun 21

Did you close your eyes like I said
You won’t see anyone else
You won’t miss anyone else
This is moment where you begin

Remember how you felt as a kid
Everything is still inside you
The time is now for discovery
Like a child on Christmas morning

You just got here
You brought all your fears
You remember too much
The past only makes tears

You’re too beautiful to care about that
You’ve felt too much to hate like that
You’ve seen too much to pretend
You’ve loved too much to let it end

Don’t try to be old
Don’t try to be young
That’s not who you are
But you are going to care

You just left that place
You think there’s no other place
That’s not true that's not true
Unless you're too tired to dream

You just got here
You brought all your fears
You remember too much
The past only brings tears

I know you care
I know you’re there
Even if you don’t
Soon you will be
Standing alone
Is when life begins
For a human
Who finds itself

Vexren4000 Jun 20

A coffin,
Bought by man,
A suburban home,
He will age in,
Age into dust and obscurity,
He will sit next to his partner,
Until one fades away,
Then he will sit,
Stagnantly staring at the television,
Not recalling his wife is deceased,
Or not wishing to accept it.
Then he becomes a part of his chair,
As his cold wife has,
Now his form lost life,
Bacteria gluing him to the chair,
Carrion coming forth,
To overtake the man's form,
The same fate as his wife,
Died in sleep in a chair,
A throne of the suburban man,
Where he sits until he decays,
The television the only bit of life in the home,
The television still running as the firefighters,
Breakdown the door,
To find a rotting man,
Holding hands,
With a skeletonized woman.
The smell of rot overwhelming,
The vision of the man and wife,
Too much for a heart to handle,
As the man who broke down the door,
Breaks down into tears.
As he realizes,
That this very well may be,
His fate,
Set into stone,
The stone of the modern age.

Next page