Yesterday, I spent time with an elderly resident;
Jean, who is the ripe age of 103,
She has been dreaming of dead relatives,
And as she talked, her face shone with pure glee;
She'd spent the night communing in Heaven
Which brought her joy; the picture of eternity.

Pondering the gnarled vineyards at twilight,
   it is for their rare fruit that I long.
The vines have survived many a drought and blight,
   rendering them sensitive but strong

The fruits of old love are tender and sweet,
   having  learned to endure sun and shade;
Gleaning fortitude from gales, snow and sleet,
   their true value's been measured and weighed

Old love seeks the beauty that veils the heart --
The wrinkled face and the graying hair
  matter not;  Yet, what a sting they impart
  to the lonely caught in Time's cruel snare

Observe the pearl fishers -- they're not concerned
   with the oyster's shell, but with the prize
   that's dwelling deep inside, for they have learned
   precious gems lurk in cunning disguise

Satisfying are the fruits of old love ---
   so patiently they wait to be claimed
   by soft, wizened hands, gentle as a dove,
   yet revealing passion, unashamed

Because of all the sorrows and the tears
   and the many heartaches left untold,
   love that has withstood the test of the years
   is a love that's worth its weight in gold

How blessed are we who can see love's sweet truth
   unfolding before our very eyes;
We don't need the exuberance of youth
   to yield to love's call 'neath star-filled skies

Old love has had its feet held to the fire,
   and it emerged, still able to stand;
It survived the bogs of life's muck and mire . . .
What more can be said?  Old love is grand!

Lest locks look silver
Lest lips lose colour
At last I lead off life...
Alas! too late to live,
No loved ones left alive

Mind's a madhouse,
a maze most vile
Merciless Immortals
The gods up high
"Cruel, callous, capricious"
— laments the helpless lamb
Bereft of able body  
Bereft of able mind

The Highest Hive Hireling,
Now a wasted withering wether
While wailing willfully awaited
The howling hellhounds to end it

Eighty years young
Speaking in tounge

Your body fought
Head full of bizarre thought

Arms and legs restrained
How are you not frightened

Are they violent, Yah?
We tried, everything,
for the shake of your revival

I can't bear to see you like this
I wish you are dismiss

Heavily sedated & exhausted
To tired to wrestled & agitated
Lord please take his pain away

he's such a sweet
such a sweet old man
he's a treat even though his feet smell like dead meat
an old ham

such a sweet old man
still ain't taking no **** wooden nickels!
his hands and creases smell like really dill pickles...

or pickle juice, as he says, because pickles make their own juice
i swear he thinks cucumbers are made from pickles
i haven't the heart to tell him and ruin his heaven waiting

a place where you don't have to buy pickles to get good pickle juice

such a sweet old man
10 dead animals living with him, if you include his wife, and the 3 dead rats in the traps
the other dead animals didn't matter anyhow...
they were all HER pets, just as he once was her pet

he's also going to die soon
and not matter

it doesn't bother the sweet old man one bit though
what bothers him is losing his pickle juicer when his wife died
he was sure he put it the root cellar...
on the 17th floor
of the hospital he lives in now

i haven't the heart to tell him and ruin his heaven waiting
such a sweet old man deserves heaven
the magnitude of the real pickle juice alone, that was better than pickle juice from the old days

when pickles were pure and pickle juice didn't have vinegar!

made that sweet old man's eyes light up and his heart flutter
he giggled, then he died so gently

such a sweet old man
dying gently

such a sweet old man
never did take no **** wooden nickels!
old ham
life never hurt him and death gently tickles

For ***** to bounce is very rude,
Unless they dropped.  Ascendancy
Is boldness we don’t like to see.    
And roundness really is quite lewd.  
For spheres, directions are the same,
And favoring the vertical
Is impudent in a mere ball.  
A proper toy should be more tame.

Years ago,
They used to sleep late
And dance around their kitchen.

Before arthritis and cod liver oil,
Before endless hospital appointments,
Before the cancer devoured his wife.

They had spent their life savings,
On doctors who couldn’t save her life.

Penniless, alone and vulnerable,
He could no longer look after himself.

He stopped existing in a government care home,
With nurses who never smiled
And room mates who stared at the TV,
Like flowers facing the sun.

His children didn’t visit on Sundays,
They were busy sleeping late
And dancing around their kitchens.