POETRY JAM - ON AGING

 So this week's JAM is a well-aged jam.  A little less appetizing than a well-aged wine.  And we are in daunting company:

 "It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me."
                              Alfred Lord Tennyson

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"I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me."

                           T.S. Eliot

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"When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?"

                           The Beatles   

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"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

                                         Dylan Thomas

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Okay!  Enough fun quoting favorite old age poems.   Since my poetry style of choice if free verse, my submission will be in a formal rhyme which is outside of my comfort zone.  But then again, at 65 years-old just about everything is outside my comfort zone.  In fact, I'm not sure I can remember what my comfort zone is.  Anyhow - here is my submission for the week:

Sonnet for Methuselah

I do not measure years by counting birthday cakes.

At this point years do not reflect my age.

I measure age by counting pills I take

and names I know upon the obit page.

They say old age is not for faint of heart

unless accompanied by faint of mind.

(Now I can't remember the next part

except I think that it's suppose to rhyme.)

My body sags, the waist line grows

to eat a peach, I still will dare,

but worry now about my bladder flows

and D.C. boobs who cut my Medicare.

Do not go gently into that good night.

At least Viagra keeps one thing a'right.

Okay - that was fun.  Now I'm going back to bed if I can still remember where the bedroom is.


P.S.   While I was putting this together, my subconscious started singing to me again.  Unfortunately, I cannot shake the Billy Joel song, "We didn't light the fire," which I started plagerizing a few weeks ago.  And this week's geezer theme set it off again.  Unable to stop it, the following encore poem fragment came out. You really need to sing it out loud to get the full effect.  I drove my wife out of the house with my rendition.

 

Wellbutrin, Benicar, Zoloft brings me back to par,
Centrum Silver, Synthroid, fish oil in a childproof jar
Metamucil, Lipitor, Advil when the muscle's sore
Where is Jack Kevorkian, I can't take it anymore!

I didn't start the fire
but it's in the tummy and the feeling's crummy
I didn't start the fire
though I didn't start it, I'm too tired to fight it.

Friday Hometown Shootout - PINK

This will probably be quick, I think, walking into the B&B Studio.  The rules for this week's shoot excluded flowers.  Of course, we often don't follow rules much, but I really couldn't find a lot of pink things that weren't flowers.  Maybe I didn't try hard enough.   But when I open the door, my heart sinks when I see how excited Bagman is.  This is rarely a good sign.

BAGMAN, proudly sporting a T-Shirt that reads:  "I love PINK," and shouting: "I want to take the pictures!!!  Pink!! Pink!!  Show me the pink!!"

I'm a bit lost but concerned because Bagman can be dangerously inappropriate at times.  I look over at Butler for an explanation.

BUTLER (whispering in my ear so that my readers can't hear and won't be offended):  "From what little research I did before I succumbed to disgust, the word 'pink' in some circles has gained a rather pornographic connotation.  It is sad but this delicate, innocent, colorful word has been usurped to refer to...well...I'd rather not say."

BAGMAN:  "Usurp!!   Usurp!!  Let's post pictures of me usurping pink!"

Understanding pours over me like a cold rain and I turn to Bagman authoritatively,  "Not a chance!"

BAGMAN (deflated but glaring): "You're turning into a $%&##ing old wimp!  I'll bet you don't even remember when we were twenty!"

"As seldom as possible,"  I reply, "And never when blogging.  This is a G-rated blog and it's going to stay that way.  Take your T-shirt and sit in the corner."

I don't have much but I sit down at the computer to post my blog.  It is slow going because I have to keep ducking various sex toys that Bagman is hurling at me. 

An unsold pink dress in a store that is victim to the economy

Pink Cadillac

(Well, not a Cadillac, and not really too pink either)

I told you that I didn't have much this week.

A mural over the Charleston City Market

BUTLER: "Excuse me for interrupting, but I don't see how this fits with the theme of pink."

"Look closely.  The apple is definitely not red."

BUTLER: "You really are grasping for straws in this shoot."

And finally:

BAGMAN (shouting from the corner while throwing another obscene artifact that I can't identify, fortunately): "YES!  Now you're getting it!  Pink the color of love!!"

BUTLER (Throwing back whatever it was that Bagman threw):  "Lizard Brain!"

Since that is all I have, I close the computer and make my escape from the studio.  Just before I close the door, I am slapped on the back of the head by a deflated inflatable sex doll.  Sometimes I don't know how I put up with these guys!