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Yes, I'm 65, now elderly,
That's the term, officially,
One day, shopped locally,
Bought a lotto, luckily?
Someone wins tonight, says she,
Dear God, why can't it be me?
Yes, yes, this lotto is lucky,
Wait for the draw, breathlessly,
Anticipate now I am elderly,
Old folk can be winners too, says she,
This is going to be my lucky night,
If I win, I can sort the bill for the light,
Getting old is not for hissy fits,
Come on, lotto, let's have a bit!
Feedback welcome.
Amaris Jul 1
Skinny, papery, wrinkled, and pale
Running a rosary through her fingers
The air shimmers, balmy ocean waves that never cease
From the shaded marble step, I ask:
“Why do you suffer rituals out in the scorching sun?”
“My child, that’s how it’s always been done.”
Natasha Byrd May 13
Passing trees and blurring scenery.

Young curious eyes that still glisten upon the sight.

Looking out and seeing land to be explored.

Dreams and futures waiting to be shaped and molded.

Older eyes seeing destruction and grey.

Once righteously built land that crumbled and fell.

Dreams that stayed dreams and resided in people's consciousness.

Two pairs of eyes that are separated by wisdom.

Ignorance is bliss.

Wisdom is forlorn

A light that blazes within the youth that has long since faded in the older.

One looks at the other in admiration and the other in vain.

Wishing to once again see the world in color, to be able to witness the joys of being naive.

Why so quick to grow up?

Why so eager to turn back time?

Two different views yet they wish to trade places.
She has taken Times test
And stood till she was 80
The skin is thin on those old bones now
She shivers
And for the first time feels
old and frail
Old-man at the grocery
transfers his bags from motor-cart
to push-buggy. I stop to ask
if he might like some help.

‘No,’ he says, and in his age
I see defiance,
refusal to give up
what little control
he still maintains.

'I’m good,’ he affirms
before he directs his fragility
out into the dark parking lot–
out into the cold.
Jake Dockter Feb 22
Way out,
where there is nothing but walnut groves and train tracks,

the three of us found a place to cut loose
and be the punks we wanted to be.

Way out,
where we found a few patches of weeds, abandoned farm equipment, decayed foundations, a toppled barn, and a dry canal,

we brought  spray paint,
****** beer,
and threw rocks at the passing trains.
We built bonfires and howled and no one cared.

One day,
an old man
in a wrinkled hat  
pulled his truck in to the tall grass
and watched us.
We hid our cigarettes as if he cared.

I walked over
but before I could say hello or ask his name or give some poor excuse for our behavior,
he said,
“I was born here.”

Here, there was was nothing.
Old silos, maybe.
No houses.
No town.
No place to be born.
Just a place for kids like us to scrawl **** graffiti on pallets and rusted truck trailers, ditched and forgotten.

“Used to be a town,” he said.
“Your standing in the post office.”
At my feet the cement slab crumbled into the weeds.

It is here that I wish this poem was about a tender moment where an old man taught a young man about a hidden past.
Or that this poem reminded us about the secrets hidden all around us, if we just look.
It could be about a regained wonder for our elders or about memory or a certain flower that he pointed out which blooms in our ghost towns of nostalgia and how that flowers Latin name means something that becomes a grand metaphor for rebirth...

But it’s not and he drove off without another word.

We picked up our spray paint and threw beer bottles against the canal bank, shattering them in a place no one else would notice
except that old man,  
who would see my vulgarity
and poor attempt at artistic protest haphazardly sprayed
over the last place he can remember seeing his mother, by the backdoor,
that autumn evening he left and took that job in Sacramento.
Francie Lynch Jan 28
If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.
sandy Jan 17
Old women
Old women
Bent over
Or straight
Bony thin women
****** women
Soft but deflated
Old women
Sitting alone
Holding a plate
Of half-eaten food
Of all-shattered prospects
Of blowzier days
Romance and contexts
That never materialized
Or did
But then vanished
Or slipped away
Leaving so many
Silenced and banished
Useless as pennies
Sitting in corners
Under old women shawls
With little to do

But hold onto plates

Old women
Old women
Boarders in
Somebody’s house
Or some institution
On somebody’s orders
Or out on the street
In old woman confusion
Holding a plate
To hold onto something
Old dried up promises
Lingered impressions
Of young women hopes
Things that once mattered
All in the past
Leaving old women tattered
Trying to atone
For young women sins
For whatever they did
To be so alone
Or whatever they didn’t
In those
Rare lucid moments
Old women quicken

Still holding their plates

Old women
Old women
Hide old
Beating hearts
Beneath sour old garments
Old women scarves
Hide old women failings
Hold old women tongues
Against old women wailing
Of things that have gone
With unsteady fingers
Still gripping plates
To show themselves living
To avoid being left
- Tho’ some old women prefer -
For the old women train
Taking old women wherever old women go
To never return
Around an old women curve
The young never see coming
Are never prepared
To face old women shaken
By old bodies broken
Of old women forsaken

Hold onto your plates
A friend of nearing 70 called me one morning, distraught because the world "is getting to be a lot." I spent the rest of the day when I should have been working writing a not particularly symmetrical poem I call "Holding a Plate."
Going slowly
A good time to explore
Venture toward the unknown
*notes — The cinquain is a poem form with a strict syllabic count of 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 in five lines. Usually used to express brief thoughts or moments.
nja Jan 8
She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.
This one's about my grandmother. She used to be this royal lady and she still is but with deteriorating hearing.
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