Tag Archives: aging

Poetry

Book of the Dead 13

This is an edited version of an earlier poem.

The Trouble with Losing Old Poets…

They are starting to go now,
Like the rockstars;
A bunch checked out early,
Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club
But a spike on the graph, for sure.
And now, we are starting to drop.
Turds from an elephant’s ass
Is the only metaphor that comes to me.

This week, another one.
Last week too.
It doesn’t seem to matter,
The fire and the ice both end.
Wind has forgotten how to blow
In Chicago and everywhere.
I wonder at next.
I look at the actuary’s lists.
I know I’m on there somewhere.
Probably pretty soon.

I love who is still in this tent
With me.
Let me say that deliberately.
But the sense of this era
seems to be a growing choice
Between mourning
Or being mourned.

If you are reading this
And you are a poet,
Let it serve as a cautionary tale.

If you are reading this
And you are not a poet,
I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu.
Maybe read this poem again in a few years
Or next week.
Poetry, Uncategorized

Book of the Dead 10

Book of the Dead 10

No person ever loved me more than my Grandmother.
And I don’t mean that as something that lifts me up.
I mean that as a testament to the goodness of Grandma.

The depth of my love of steamed eggs, or alternatively, custard pie
Are mere substitutions for the depth of my love for Grandma.
But Grandma died while I was in Marine Corps boot camp in 1969.

Her seventh heart attack did her in and it mattered not to the Corps
How much I loved my Grandmother or how much she loved me;
I was not permitted leave during boot camp for this or any reason.

After, Grandma came to me in boot camp, though she didn’t bring custard pie.
Something prohibited me from climbing the rope on the obstacle course.
Despite my intent and will, I could climb up only about ten feet and stall.

And there hung I, between Heaven and the drill instructor,
Who promised unpleasant consequences if I came down before I went up.
Long minutes hanging in limbo before succumbing to the DI’s promise.

Eventually, through a trick of faith and some personal instruction,
My feet and hands learned the trick. I became more of a man and more of a Marine.
But the truth of my heart was, I asked Grandma to help and she did.

Long after the Marine Corps, after the war, I fell asleep driving home alone one night.
Of course, I don’t know if I slept a moment or a minute, I was jolted
awake by a strike (more than a nudge, less than a slap) in the small of my back.

Awake, aimed exactly for a cement bridge abutment on the freeway,
Probably about a half-second before impact,
Grandma’s dusting powder scent filled the air in the car.

There is more to say here but I will leave it between Grandma and me.
Poetry, Uncategorized

Book of the Dead 9

With age, things change:
Skin thins as if by evaporation.
Gums recede.
Color leaves the hair.
The skeleton shrinks
In size and density.
We are gradually less.

At the end, we cease,
As far as we know,
In this corporeal world.
We set aside our bodies,
Like last year’s model.
We set aside physical interaction.

But that is all obfuscation.
It is a trick of language to say
We did something
And then say We don’t do something.

For the dead, there is still so much to do.

There is the going away,
Likened to some journey that changes us.
And if we go away,
We must be going to some place.
Another place, not like this place.
For what good is an afterlife,
If it is merely another iteration of this life?
Why go to all the bother of aging and dying
Just to wake up in another here?

There are always tests to see if the dead are worthy.

Ancient Egyptians had Ma’at,
Simultaneously Justice and Truth,
And Goddess.
If the heart of the dead
Balanced on a scale against her feather,
The dead could pass to the afterlife.
If it did not, the dead received utter obliteration.
It was all about the state of the heart.

Hebrews, Christians and Muslims
all measure the good of the heart
And promise obliteration if there is not enough.

Today, as a cultural species, we don’t need religion
to practice the concept of obliteration.
We begin before physical death.
The soon-to-die begin to lose autonomy.
It happens as if by evaporation,
The value of a full person evaporates.
We take their positions.
We take their possessions.
We take their permissions.
Once they actually cease,
There is so little change in the world.
It’s like they were always a memory.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Valentine 2024

This old body has lost its equilibrium.
I stumble around here,
Heel rolling over the toe,
Like an old drunk
When I’m sober as a pastor…
MORE sober than that one pastor.
There are only a couple of things it could be.
My body doesn’t function like a well-trained athlete any longer, or
I’m hopelessly in love with you
and my brain is blindly following my heart to be near/toward/around you.

I’m going with number 2.
I’m not waiting for Door Number 3.
Come stagger with me, my love.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Food & Sex


(From a glossy mag quiz re: food and sex)

At my age do I have a comment about food and sex?
Does a fat old man have the right?
Am I still relevant in the final, um…quarter of my life?
What of audience for my say about food and sex?
After all, I remember the summer of love first hand, so to speak.

(Speaking of love)
I have had sex without love.
I have had love without sex.
And I have had no love without sex.
No love without sex is boring.
Love without sex is boring,
What could be worse in America?
But sex without love is like
(Speaking of food)
Steak without the sizzle–
Steak devoid of fat–
Tofu-based ground meat product–
Not even good enough to make a decent chili.
It doesn’t matter how hot you make it.
Add garlic and chilis and cayenne,
Add salsa and white pepper, black pepper, red pepper,
Add mustards, white, black, yellow,
Even oysters and a tiny bit of chocolate,
It’s still just soy
Dressed up in crotchless panties and a garter belt.
Sex without love is nice,
Nice like low-cal sherbet made from skimmed milk and xylitol,
Nice like soda with aspartame,
Nice like left-handed sugar,
Nice like microwave popcorn with shake-on artificial butter flavored salt substitute.

Fucking your way to love
Is like eating your way to thin,
Or praying your way to heaven
Because in an hour,
Or after a shower,
You just need more.
The itch remains unscratched.
The void remains unfilled.
And eventually you get some disease
Or you figure out that some things aren’t good for you:
That some sex is goofy;
That some sex is a little crazy;
It’s all fun and games
Until you break your dick.
So you lay off and try to heal,
Sitting on the couch
(Speaking of food)
Eating pop tarts,
Tater tots, fish sticks, fruit by the yard,
Wonder bread, Lucky Charms, Fritos,
Ubiquitous bean dip, candy bars,
Cup cakes, Twinkies, smokey links,
Propyl gallate, butylated hydroxyanisole
Or butylated hydorxytoluene,
Potassium bromate, monosodium glutamate,
Ascesulfame K, Olestra, sodium nitrate,
And always, always,
hydrogenated vegetable oil with
Blue 1, Blue 3,
Red 3, Yellow 6.
It’s all in there,
Like good pornography.
And eventually there you are again,
Staring at your reflection in the pool
And wondering why that erection won’t go away,
Understanding the meaning of priapism.
And clitorism,
Or why your panties won’t dry
In the middle of the swirling snow squall.
Trying to come in from the storm,
Trying to come in to the table
Trying to come in
Trying.

Painting

Three of a Kind

Finished the third of the primitives. Each is carved on an 8″ x 10″ plywood panel and painted. If I hinged them together, I guess it would be a triptych. As it is they are three of a kind. The hands, of course, are modeled after ancient cave drawings in Argentina. So between the three we have Africa, Europe and South America represented. Do you want to know the hardest part of these pieces? Hanging them straight and equi-distance apart.

I don’t know if I’ll do more of these or not. They are fussy and slow to make. But I have more plywood panels if I change my mind.

[291]

Poetry, song lyrics

The No Memory Song

I am 73 years old on this writing. No person of this age ignores the prospect of diminishing cognitive abilities. If it is inevitable, I have written this song and addressed my care-givers. If you laugh, it’s ok. If you cry, it’s ok. I’ve done both in writing this. What I haven’t done is have a miraculous recovery of my singing voice. The video will attest.

Here are the lyrics if you want to sing along:

The No Memory Song
Sung to tune of Ripple by Grateful Dead

If I lose my mind, will you still love me?
When my mem’ries fade, like the morning dawn,
If I see your face and I call the wrong name,
Would you still hold me? Is that fear forgone?

If I just forget to eat my breakfast.
Or worst of all, when I eat it at two,
Will you wave your hand and just forget it?
Because you know I’ll forget it too.

Silence speaks a language.
When there is no knowing thought,
Words do not flow.

If I call your phone when I get lost driving,
When I can’t make sense of the streets and roads?
Will you talk me through each turn and corner
And smile at my face when I get safely home?

If I get too sad but I can’t say why, Dear,
I feel there was something great before,
Will you hold my hand and sit beside me
Until the sun goes down and is no more?

Silence speaks a language.
When there is no knowing thought,
Words do not flow.

If I lose the words to sing this song, dear,
And I stumble and start and stop in pain,
Will you let me hum and call it singing
This song to you a few more times again,
This song to you over and over again,
This song to you again and again and again?

La da da da da La da da da da
La da da La da La da da da
La da da da da La da da da da
La da da da La da da da da

[290]

No Singing Voice Either!

UPDATE: Friend, Joe Troyer, put this video together and I host it on my YouTube channel. Enjoy…he’s a much better singer than I.

This is what it sounds like from old friend, Joe Troyer.
Poetry

I’m Watching Late Night TV

I’m watching TV sell goodies to me.
I can still buy CDs.
I can buy DVDs
Of the old BeeGees.
Rendered now in full 3-D.

I can cure ED.
Buy gas from BP,
Get shoes orthopedy
And Beefy BVDs.

I’m watching TV sell goodies to me.
I can watch three monkeys
Fling mealy feces.
I can buy a green machine
that makes trees leafy.
I can fly to Fiji.
I can feed the needy.
I can take a GED by the light of GE.
I can watch I dream of Genie.
I can meet ET.
I can see the big ol’ boobies
Of a witch named Phoebe.

I’m watching TV sell goodies to me.
I can buy a PC.
I can take PE.
I can get PG.
I can go PP.

I can get touchy feely.
I can beat the heebie jeebies.
I can eat more kiwis
Than a dog named Queenie.

I can watch a man fish in a lake that’s reedy
Or fix his lawn that’s really, really weedy.
I can watch the PD
Storm a hotel seedy,
Bust a whore with VD
And symptoms of TB.
I can watch a guy who’s creepy
Just before he gets the DTs.

I’m watching TV sell goodies to me.
I can watch some plumber TCB
With some plastic pipes of PVC
Fix a toilet that’s leaky,
Make it flush away the TP,
And once again, take away the PP.

I can Watch the QB
score the winning TD.
I can watch an old movie
‘bout truckers on the CB.

I can watch dinosaurs all scaly and creepy
Back about a million years BC
Act like members of the GOP
In the halls of congress in today’s DC.
They both were greedy
And they both ate freely
Of the eggs and babies of other little meaties,
But the big ones ate the little creepies
And were eaten in turn by the bigger blue meanies.

And I watch all this till my brain gets leaky
Then my real world life begins to look pretty freaky.
So I’m watching TV sell goodies to me,
And I know it’s time to quit the habit of TV,
But it really isn’t all that GD easy.

I can still buy CDs.
I can buy DVDs
Of the old BeeGees.
Rendered now in full 3-D.
I can buy a PC.
I can take PE.
I can get PG.
I can go PP.
I’m watching TV sell goodies to me.

[245]

If I had better lungs, this would be 30 seconds shorter.