Age is relative. I (Walt) had celebrated another birthday on Friday and though I am not old by any stretch of the imagination, my body sends me frequent reminders that I’m not as young as I used to be. So in keeping with the age-old adage, “you’re only as young as you feel,” write a poem with “Old” in the title. You could write about “I’m Not Old,” “My Old School,” “This Old Pair of Shoes” … Don’t let the week get too old before you tackle this prompt.

Marie’s example:

Old, Faulty Parts

My fibula is so untrue.
I lack the science gene.
I cannot take a ribbing,
And my brain is not too keen.
I’m told I have a pisiform.
I find that in poor taste.
I’d find it humerus, except
My funny bone’s misplaced.

Walt’s Try:


It seems like old times,
names and faces, places
where I learned of life
come to mind to haunt me
and flaunt their memory.
It sends me into reminisce.
A chance to relive past dreams.
it seems like old times.

202 thoughts on “OLD RELATIVES – PROMPT #41

  1. Pingback: Old Times | Vivinfrance's Blog

  2. ~OLD WORDS~

    Ancient letters arrive
    To haunt me.
    Thin, wisp of word
    Stretched like
    Cloud across moon;
    Feathering faulty
    Meaning over pure
    When my mind,
    Finding to seek
    Fresh verb
    Fails, I follow
    The well trodden trails,
    And see where
    A slight twist of tongue
    will, surprisingly, find me.

  3. Golden Oldies

    It’s sort of old
    this shared life ~ your
    blue-eyed smiling

    song of how you
    came to know it’s
    sort of me and

    sort of you…
    It’s sort of old
    how years enfold

    and sort of new
    how grand ones come
    ~add harmony.

    It’s sort of new
    how your silence
    shelters her ~ it’s

    sort of old how
    they don’t let go
    ever ~ never.

  4. You Are Old

    you are heavy with feather layers
    and flighty old ideas that maintain
    one murderous-strong grip
    old, you are, old
    where things were before they changed
    what was there, before
    things changed.  old.  bluegreen copper
    red iron, black silver, yellow paper
    leaves that are dirt
    rocks that are dirt
    dirt that is layered and pressed and is rock
    dirt that is eaten as apples.  old
    damascene rose; gallica, china,
    rosa mundi, apothecary rose, bower
    tapestry for dusty lovers 
    old.  two chimneys standing 
    in a pasture like the story of fire.
    you are old, and birds live in you
    and build.

  5. Old “Red” Mare

    I’m proud to say no dye has touched
    the red hairs on my head.
    Though getting older should bring gray
    it’s falling out instead.

    In red hair there is every color,
    I’ve had gray hairs for years.
    My hairdresser wants to pull them out,
    but she just trims them with her shears.

    Only four percent have REAL red hair,
    though at times its all the rage.
    I’ve decided I’ll keep my hair red
    no matter what my age.

  6. Good Old Days

    Turn around and see yourself
    in frames of black and white.
    The motion picture perfect scene
    when everything was right.

    Just over your right shoulder,
    with one eye you can see
    your personal world history.
    The way things used to be.

    Times are very different now
    in oh so many ways.
    We feel reflective longings
    for those good old days.

    By Michael Grove

  7. Me, as Told by Old Philosophers

    When looking over my life’s table of contents
    I feel like the Carpenter eating oysters
    unaware that I’m eating oysters
    and that I don’t like oysters,
    unsure if the Walruses in all these stories
    are friends or just people I ate meals with.
    Still no small town naming streets after me,
    not even one which would claim my body,
    few that could scratch my face out of their chin.
    My shoes, where are they?
    It’s time to keep going again.
    I promised I wouldn’t narrate
    and we are running short on filler
    for the hypothetical biography of a real person.
    What’s the answer? says the old timer.
    To enjoy the ride, Tony says.
    About half way through
    you will say the head of Saint Maximilian
    next to the body of Saint Maximilian
    under a bonsai tree,
    and it will only make sense to four people in the world.
    Right, next page.
    Despite all that insisting by Mill
    that thoughts and feelings are not science,
    that science does not need to be perfect,
    that approximate is good enough for humanoids,
    still a few laws remain:
    No vending or solicitation.
    Dogs must always be on a leash.
    The leash must be no longer than
    Freud calling out civilization for its intolerable pressure,
    Plato the soul for its selfish immortality,
    the time it takes to explain
    the difference between soul and consciousness
    (it’s the wings).

    • what I feel left with, and like that I do, is the question, “what is the answer? followed later by “it’s the wings) – can’t stop thinking of life and the table of contents either – very evocative poem, Mike

    • Your poem is full of lines that set me thinking, so that I have to start reading it all over again. eg “science does not need to be perfect,
      that approximate is good enough for humanoids,” and
      “Freud calling out civilization for its intolerable pressure,”
      Wonderful stuff.

    • Hello Mike, Normally I just love your poems – only here, I really got trouble because I’m not sure what the message is somehow. Maybe it starts with different views on Plato or maybe it’s just my inner Aristotle who says what has oysters got to do with it?
      Anyway, I am so glad, so happy, to see you again and I can’t wait to read your next one.

      • Andrea, thank you very much for both the kind words about my previous works and for the honesty you show in expressing your feelings on this piece. I’ll try to clarify a bit of it, since I know that my poems often make much more sense when you know what I am referencing.

        Much of what I write is inspired by things I have read, either by famous writers, articles in magazines, or by the poets here at Poetic Bloomings. The Walrus, Carpenter, and oysters in this piece refer to a poem by Lewis Carroll, “The Walrus and The Carpenter.”

        I’ve been obsessing over this poem for weeks, especially after reading how John Lennon eventually abandoned calling himself “The Walrus” because he came to view him as a villain.

        In this poem, The Walrus and The Carpenter are walking together on the beach and appear to be friends. The Walrus recruits a group of young oysters to join them on their walk. It turns out to be a trick so that the Walrus could eat them.

        At the end of the poem, the Carpenter, seemingly naive or unaware of himself and what is going on, turns to the oysters and asks if they would like to begin the walk home. What he doesn’t realize is that both he and the Walrus had eaten all of them.

        My poem references this as a kind of self awareness, looking at your present self and being aware of your present surroundings, rather than obsessing over other things, such as the past, which can leave you in the kind of stupor the Carpenter must have been in when he ate those oysters.

        Yikes, sorry that was so long-winded. I really got on a roll there. 🙂

  8. ~An Old Dog~

    “Time for your lesson, Mama!”
    (Oh, hear my silent cries!)
    He won’t see the drama
    I carefully disguise.

    “Watch, Mama, how I do it,
    It’s so easy, see?”
    (Oh, help me suffer through it!
    Oh, woe, woe to me…)

    He’s only just discovered
    His sister’s DSI,
    “Look, Mum, I got it covered.”
    (Why me? Oh, why, oh why?…)

    He’ll probably think I’m slow,
    My son, he’s only six,
    He is too young to know
    About old dogs and tricks…

    • really enjoy the way each phrase/stanza relates to itself in a very specific way – the flow and images adding to delight of reading this – middle of the moment is what I come to think – very strong

    • What?! You never got to enjoy watching Pebbles and Bam-Bam sing: “….. let the sun shine in, face it with a grin…”? LOL! 🙂

  9. Growing into Old

    Nina was old when she was young,
    wore old lady lace-up comfy shoes
    and dowdy polyester clothes,
    her hair in tight unflattering curls.
    “She is a woman destined to be
    someone’s maiden aunt,” her brother said,
    for there was no squeezable softness
    or fun to her, no laughter or dance in her:
    she was seventy five at twenty-two,
    her forecasts all grim and negative.

    Now at seventy-five, she is youthful,
    her old lady clothes finally looking neat
    and trim on her, those tight little curls
    a bit flattering around her sagging cheeks,
    her smile, like her muscles, not so tight
    or cold any more, her days finally sunny.

    My husband who once said that the best
    thing that could happen to her was middle age,
    now assesses her anew and says,
    “I was wrong. Old is her best feature.”

    I think about his pronouncement
    more often than I should,
    how she and I have both
    grown into something, like
    puppies whose huge feet and ears
    finally fit their larger bodies.
    My prematurely white hair,
    unusual, even shocking,
    on me at twenty-five unwrinkled years,
    is becoming unexceptional now,
    my body taking on a plumpness
    befitting my new slower metabolism,
    for I’ve aged into it all, like sinking
    slowly into a warm bath with a groan,
    hoping Old will eventually become me.

  10. For Ingrid

    I say
    the truth is that
    I’m twenty one,
    and add,

    Though in my fifties I
    sense this childish
    on my face
    when asked,
    how old I am.

    Old enough to be your mother?

    Na, I’m not old enough for anything
    to tell you
    that I love you.

    And when you tell me
    you love me, too,
    I wish
    that I could live for ever
    and I tell you
    I’m twenty one.


    You’ve all seen an apple, lying on the pile,
    And you’ve been able to see that it’s been lying there a while.
    It may look red and shiny when first you see it there,
    But see that little brown spot….. it’s old beyond repair.
    And if you took a bite you’d find the bruising running through,
    And the whole fruit would taste woolly, as old fruits often do.
    Old age is just as patchy. Youth lingers in some ways;
    Some parts are simply not aware of the passing of the days!
    Inside our brains we’re still sixteen, with all the world before us,
    Going out to the village ‘hop’ hoping someone will adore us.
    And when we’re with a laughing crowd we forget the passing years,
    We forget the dreaded onslaught of the damaged telomeres.
    And yet the fact remains we’re ‘bruised’; the apple’s not pristine.
    See how ugly liver-spots have appeared upon the scene!
    Hear how the knees are creaking! Count all the many pills.
    Old age isn’t an illness, but it comes with many ills.
    And, inside, though we still work well, the forces of decay
    Are saying ”You may feel all right but we think you’ve had your day’.
    Old age is simply patchy. The apple’s bruising starts,
    And then there’s nothing that we can do but enjoy the bright red parts.

  12. I knew Bill Cosby albums
    word for word.  Noah.
    This is the Lord
    This is the summer of Strawberry Fields,
    and my first rum and coke.
    I discovered wild daisies
    and a black woman named Stella
    was understanding of my southern white
    confusion.  Everything was typed
    hunt-and-peck with coarsely erased 
    thin spaces and carbon copied 
    with fingerprints on the wall
    by the dorm pay phone.
    Maria had hair to her knees, lay in the sun
    to dry it, and ate daisies.
    All the women were exotic
    and wrote poetry, and all the men
    were from longuyland and baahston
    and could use transcendentalism in
    long sentences with rum,
    and we went bowling at midnight
    and coming back in the dark
    someone said

  13. My old man

    To be honest, it’s not clear how you got this job.
    Maybe you applied, maybe it just happened
    to you like a piano falling out of a third story
    window, jingling down black keys of destiny
    on your incipient male-pattern baldness.

    You try and learn how to love. For a guy that’s not
    easy. Mostly all you have known is movies with
    explosions and lots of cleavage. And now, all of a
    sudden, you’re watching a tiny chest rising and falling,
    speechless before one of the wonders of the world.

    Over the years, you walk the wire like you own dad did.
    Sternly setting your deckchair at strategic points on the
    beach, sometimes for well-considered reasons, sometimes
    just to prove that you are still bigger and wiser, and
    that you do in fact exist and matter somehow in the universe.

    But meanwhile there’s the constant undertow. The cloud
    of unknowing pierced by unforgiving questions. The realization
    that maybe you don’t understand at all. That all you have
    succeeded in becoming is a carbon copy of your own father.
    And in a way, you don’t mind. As long as the kid is okay.

    But then comes the night. And you’re lying awake, listening.
    Listening for the front door to open and close. Listening
    for voices to tell you that actually nothing is wrong. Listening
    to the vast silence. Listening to your baby crying, because
    his whole body hurts and he doesn’t understand why.

  14. Old School

    Clapping erasers was a favorite thing
    I really liked to do
    but then they got a machine to do it,
    in 1972.

    Making “Dittos” with the purple ink
    that smelled just heavenly,
    was replaced with a xerox copy machine
    and wasn’t as fun for me.

    Fixing a typing mistake
    when the keys got all entangled
    was replaced by the Selectra typing ball,
    but now even that’s antiquaited.

    I like the speed of my desktop PC
    and the iPad is really cool.
    But even with all of these updated gadgets
    I miss those “old” things from school.

    • Oh yeah!!! I finally purchased an old, clunky, Manual typewriter, just to feel those awkward, slow, old keys plunk a single letter at a time onto a stunningly white piece of bond paper that no white-out liquid could ever match. It was very grounding. :)!

    • I don’t agree with you here because my world was so much smaller back then and my opportunities were so limited. But I love the melody of your poem. It works great.

  15. I’m a bit nervous about this one…I don’t often write political poetry, but this prompt give me the impetus I needed to finish up one I’ve been working on for some time.

    Tears of an Old Patriot

    A patriot cries on heaven’s highest hill
    And wonders if America remembers him still.
    His nation, it seems, has lost its way,
    A shining city plagued with urban decay.

    Our people discouraged, the outlook looks bleak.
    Our enemies see us as timid and weak.
    The country is falling apart at the seams
    As we witness the death of American dreams.

    The government now is irreparably broken,
    Ignoring the words that the people have spoken.
    Our freedoms are fading, and some we have lost
    For the sake of security, ignoring the cost.

    He’s comforted knowing a new generation
    Finds in his conservative stance, inspiration
    To stand and continue to struggle, to fight
    To protect precious liberty with all of their might.

    He knows in his heart that our country’s best years
    Are still yet to come, and he fights back his tears.
    Let’s all come together and defend the Constitution.
    The time is now here for a ballot-box revolution.

    • Just a quick word from your hosts:

      Hot-button topics such as politics and religion are welcome here, as long as they are presented in such a manner that is in keeping with the tone we have set in our Welcome: “This is Poetic Bloomings — a place where poetry grows and flourishes in a supportive and encouraging environment.” Support and encouragement will thrive and poetry will flourish only if our poems and comments are written with due consideration to those of differing views. Thank you, Mary, for exhibiting this respect and consideration.

      Any poems or comments written in a hateful or condescending tone will be deleted at our discretion. There are sites that welcome political or religious disputes, but Poetic Bloomings is not one of them.

      Thanks so much to all of you for the respect, support, and kindness you offer one another here. We could not be more pleased.

      • Thanks so much for the kind words. You’ve really hit upon what I find to be the most difficult part about writing political poetry.

        I’d confess that I’m a political junkie and have read many poems in that vein recently. While overly strident discourse can elicit a response in the short-term, I find that sort of poem loses something over time, and like most of us I hope to create a body of work with more staying power.

        While I was a bit nervous about posting the poem, I did take comfort in knowing that I could depend on the other flowers in the garden to focus more on the poetics and less on the politics. 🙂

      • I just want to thank Poetic Bloomings for this approach to the hot-button topics, it’s one of the reasons this blog is such a special place. One of the few places where freedom of speech is allowed, and respect and dignity are a must.

    • This poem surprises me. The US really gets respect about how you deal with the economical crisis – and for instance lately where American soldiers rescued an American and a Dane from Somalia. That the US rules differently along with Europe feels great – so please be glad that the US and Europe get closer. Don’t ever forget that we are friends and family over here.

      • Bless your heart. Thank you for these kind comments, Andrea. It’s good to know that the USA gets some good press over there. “Friends and family” … yes! Absolutely!

      • We absolutely appreciate our friends in Europe and in other parts of the world. This poem really reflects some of the sentiment floating about in an election year, a sense that things need to improve. I also echo Marie’s comment that it’s good to know America is still regarded in a favorable light in Europe. 🙂

      • To Mary Mansfield, I would really like to spend a couple of days with you on the Camino down in Spain. That’s a road where people from all over the world join and after a couple days of 25 kilometers each day the meaning of “we” changes. You see, my “we” also includes you. That was what I learnt walking those hundreds of kilometers – I really saw the difference between the use of “we” and “you.”
        When I say “we” in English I include for instance Australia, Great Britain, Canada, New Zealand, Germany, USA – and under those nations the names are Susan, Lyn, Gina, Bill, Niel, Kathy, Anna, Jan, Ranj (he’s from Canada) and —.
        Here I wish that you will include me in your next “we.” After 3 years of working with my American editor (from Missouri) she suddenly wrote something “we” – meaning something about the style she and I write.
        I just love when “we” doesn’t mean nations – and that’s why I’d love to meet you some day. Best wishes!

      • Andrea, your invitation to Mary is Lovely; they say, “there is no “I” in the word TEAM”; well, there is also no “I” in the word WE! You are very Gracious!!! Hen

      • Henrietta, in my point of view there are a lot of little ”I”´s in the world team, you for instance, and in this room of “I” – there might be a room of “we” when I join you. I’m so grateful for your attitude.
        When I walked the Camino in 2006, I was there with my best friend, another English teacher from Denmark, and we had been friends all our life and our families felt related. And then she and I were down there in Spain, the Camino, because she had wanted to go there if she survived breast cancer (and she did) and I had promised her to follow her. I had said that one day in a hospital visiting her: “Of course, we’ll be walking the Camino,” I had said.
        And one day in May 2006 we were there. It was a nightmare. 25 kilometers a day is horrible. I got blisters and it hurt. After 3 days I met Susan “from Australia” and she cut my blisters and helped me. She was there with Lyn and Gina and I liked them all very much. But my Danish friend said: “Andrea, we don’t mingle with strangers.” And I didn’t see the Australians for a couple of days. But then I got lost from my Danish friend. And I met Neil from Ireland and Bill from the UK – they knew “the Australians” so then I was just okay. I got completely lost from my Danish friend for many days and I ended up staying with “the Australians” and most of all Anna (from Germany), Jan (from Holland) and Jens Christian (also Denmark) and we became “the Australians” because we met a lot of people from Spain, Brazil and Argentina – and they thought that we were all Australians so I just said yes because Spanish and Portuguese languages are difficult to understand for me and our discussions normally were about how many bunk beds were available. After a month I really felt Australian, and when I finally found my Danish friend again, I could hardly speak Danish – and “we” – well, we were the Australians. Today we say that we are the pilgrim family. And I guess I wrote that because Neil just wrote to me and said that he’ll go back there again in April this year with his wife and our pilgrim family’s Canadian cousins, Jan and Ranj, also wrote to me and said: “we are coming back.”
        But most of all: my Danish friend, she said to me one day: “Andrea, I know that your Camino and my Camino were very different and you taught me who’s “we.”
        Now I might tell her one day that I will also go back and this is also why I wrote this way to Mary.

      • Oh, I definitely understand what you mean; and I just Loved your story! Thank you for being a part of WE! 🙂 Hen

  16. A Strange World

    “See, I’m a young soul in this very strange world.” ~Yael Naim

    Look at me! A total naïf
    (at times) despite my strong belief
    (at times) that I am old soul.
    I guess that’s how the world must roll.

    I’d make an understanding plea
    for what the world is, but no key
    is given really…part or whole.
    I guess that’s how the world must roll.

    Yet, I wonder, do others get
    that ‘old’ is just a sobriquet
    and ‘new’ lacks any real control?
    I guess that’s how the world must roll.

    So, is one’s age determinant
    of who one is? No. Permanent
    is not the new unending goal:
    My age is not how I must roll.


    • Thanks RJ. In exchange, please enjoy this poem by my favorite poet, Benny Andersen.


      We have twelve clocks in the house
      still it strikes me there’s not enough time
      You go out to the kitchen
      get chocolate milk for your spindly son
      but when you ge back
      he has grown too old for chocolate milk
      demands beer girls revolution
      You have to make the most of your time while you have it
      Your daughter comes home from school
      goes out to play hopscotch
      comes in a little later
      and asks if you will mind the baby
      while she and her husband go to the theatre
      and while they’re in the theatre
      the child with some difficulty
      is promoted to 10th grade
      You have to make the most of your time while you have it
      You photograph your hitherto young wife
      with full-blooded gypsy headscarf
      an opulent fountain in the background
      but the picture is hardly developed
      before she announces that is nearly
      her turn to collect social security
      gently the widow awakes in her
      You would like to make the most of your time
      but all the time it stays away
      what becomes of it
      was it ever there at all
      have you used too much time
      in drawing time out
      You have to make the most of time
      roam around a time without time and place
      and when the time has come
      call home and hear
      “Are you calling 95 94 93 92?
      That number is no longer in service.”

  17. The old mother’s decision…

    My friends all say it’s time to sell
    This house is too big for one al
    My children – how can I ever tell
    Them they’re going to lose their home.

    It’s not like they’re still living here
    They’ve all moved far away
    And now I’m ill, the decision, I fear
    To sell the place will have to stay.

    Home from the hospital, each new born
    Babe, was welcome in these rooms
    And as they grew, each birthday morn
    Was marked on a cabinet and as time zoomed

    Along its wayward path, we could not stop
    But measured, in the bathroom, boys and girls, both
    Standing tall, against a bathroom cabinet, book on top
    Of every head, a mark was carved for that years growth

    They checked to see who grew the most
    In their teens the boys grew tall
    Like their father, who used to boast
    He was the tallest , 6foor 7 but all

    The boys stretched and exercised
    Their sister reached 5 ft. 11
    All basketball players, the largest boy
    Reached a record breaking 6foot 7.

    Now they tell me how they need that door
    With all their years of growth inscribed
    The boys planned and planned some more
    And this is what they tried

    The hinges of the cabinet door
    They removed and took it down
    The oldest promised to restore
    Thankfully a solution had been found.

    • This poem reminds me of a song that was a hit about – fifteen or twenty years ago on the country stations called, appropriately enough, “This Old House” – it’s told from the house’s point of view and even now I can’t hear it without tearing up … thanks for your glorious reminder

  18. Old Hats

    She wears them, if not well
    brim pulled to brow
    weary of how
    they become
    when it rains.

    She trades them, not for tip
    but song
    patching edges that fray
    wanting to stay
    in her own
    fragile skin.

    She holds them, if not close
    within reach
    dons the familiar hues
    wishing to loose
    to the wind;
    waits for her crown.

  19. I seem to have gotten rather long winded (for me) with this one.


    I still go by the house and
    sit with him whenever I am
    in town – some of the time
    I think he knows me.

    He is always in the pool room,
    though to him it will always be
    billiards. He doesn’t play anymore,
    arthritic hands cannot hold cues,
    blurry eyes wont line up a shot.
    The red felt is faded, a tear by the
    side pocket from his last game,
    the table light does not work, dust
    on the balls and sticks.

    There are old black and whites of
    him on the wall – from his heyday
    Grandma used to say. Handsome,
    dark hair slicked back, wingtips on.
    Best player in the southeast they
    used to say; I never did beat him.
    I remember watching him dance
    around that table when I was small,
    amazed at the shots he would make,
    the seriousness of his concentration.

    I never payed attention then to the
    highball always in hand, or on the edge
    of the table, brown liquid and ice.
    Everyone of age in the room had one.
    Today, the glass is the first thing I
    notice. Still clenched in fingers that
    seem to have been gnarled to the
    task. He drinks always, but not a lot.

    He is usually watching TV – the news
    or the weather, I don’t think it matters –
    but he pays attention, just a little more,
    when I put on the Hustler. He smiles
    when a rack is broken and salutes Newman,
    every time, when he orders J.T.S. Brown.

  20. Pingback: Old Granddad | Awakened Words

  21. Older Now And Yes, This is the Life I Wanted

    Looking back through the wrong end
    Of the telescope I see my young self
    An ingenue, so insecure about so much
    Flying madly off in all directions

    Had I not married the love of my life
    At a very early age, I do believe
    My story, my life, would have culminated
    In a far different ending, one I fear

    This – this is the life I wanted
    and I could never see – not for years
    In fact, I needed to mature, get old
    actually – before I fully recognized

    That the security of home and hearth
    The love of a good man and children
    All the things I poked gentle fun at
    in my youth – turned out to be the prize

    Oddly – while travelling regularly between
    Toronto, Montreal and New York
    and finding my work exciting somewhat
    I didn’t realize that the exotic trips I longed for

    Would not take place until well past
    My middle years when my love and I
    Began touring Europe, making love
    in those grand cities we’d promised

    Ourselves we’d see “someday”
    Well – Paris, Rome – and the rest …
    Someday is now, and we’re old enough
    To appreciate you and each other

    And yes, this is the life I wanted
    After all – and now can see
    Those children we were never
    Sure we wanted and that now

    We know we could not do without
    Are having children too proving
    There are more reasons to live
    This life and never grow really old

    Poetic Blooms, Carry On Tuesdays

    I tried combining two prompts with this; am still not sure if I like the result … the poem can be found on my blog THE WAY EYE SEE IT at this url:



    And here it is,
    That feeling again…
    Setting her to reeling,
    Stealing, pilfering peace.
    There it is again
    Painfully hung,
    Strung beneath her lung
    Suspended from
    Lump in Adam’s apple,
    (Whoever Adam is)?
    Crammed in that space
    That place just below
    Her diaphragm, spring unsprang;
    Hanging heavily, hovering
    Above her unsettled navel…
    Whispering scary labels
    Depression? Discuss…
    Anger, anxiety? Analyze…
    Mood disorder? Mediate…
    Bipolar? The fear that stole her…
    Disables her with fear,
    Sets one to wondering
    Hungering for Love
    Listlessly longing for faith,
    Hoping for healing.
    And here it is again…
    Old feelings.

    © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2012.

  23. Old Book

    Pages, smudged and yellow
    Binding, loose
    Copyright 1927, price two dollars
    Electric Refrigerator Recipes and Menus
    Specially Prepared for General Electric Refrigerator.

    Author Miss Alice Brady extols
    the advantages of the electric refrigerator,
    with so many possibilities she compares
    it to a magic Aladdin’s lamp, and
    not knowing which way to rub it.

    She assures readers “the refrigerator
    requires no attention, not even oiling,
    and is surprisingly easy to keep clean”
    and “offers health and happiness
    to homemakers across America.”

    I can picture my Great Aunt Ruth
    bustling about the big box
    now taking up a corner of her kitchen,
    wondering what they will think of next.
    What would she have thought of the PC?

  24. Oh, my! I’m so far behind and it’s only Tuesday!! I have had a few ideas bouncing around in my head and have refrained from reading anything here until I can get them written — I just scrolled quickly past all the fabulousness that is found here week after week, to post the first one…


    Never Too Old
    (a shadorma)

    one might be
    too advanced in years
    to become
    a mother,
    but one is never too old
    for falling in love

  25. Pingback: Old on Old « MiskMask

  26. Borrowed, Blue, Old and New

    A borrowed dress,
    blue ribbons add finesse
    to the garments not seen

    and an old jeweled crown
    sits upon her brow,
    he smiles and sketches a bow

    and slips a new diamond bracelet
    upon her wrist,
    as they kissed

    then they turn to the cheering crowds
    as husband and wife,
    walking off to their new life.

  27. Old

    I like to bend your ear
    with the wisdom that I hear,
    learned and borrowed over time
    honed as I climb
    through my aging years.

    I have the time to share
    as I sit in this chair
    a thought or two
    with friends like you,
    I’m not going anywhere.

    So please come visit me
    it gets a bit lonely
    sitting here in this place
    staring off into space,
    I’m old but I’m here.

  28. Pingback: Old Music Playing « Magical Mystical Teacher

  29. Pingback: Old Music « Magical Mystical Teacher

  30. Three Strokes and You’re Out

    That’s not me in the mirror,
    she thinks – that old woman
    wearing my clothes, limp
    hand, limp leg, her face
    a Picasso’s stroke of the brush,
    genius interpretation she admits,

    her mouth sliding off her face
    snagged and bedraggled
    by a fisherman’s hook,
    a toothy grimace tugged and yanked,
    a stroke of bad luck it seems
    for this little old fishy-wishy.

    Artistic impressionism, cubism perhaps,
    she studies the mirror and laughs
    but her expression’s unchanged.
    Still stunned, still stiff, still hooked
    by that fisherman’s line. The sound
    of her laugh bouncing in her head

    like an old bean in a baby’s rattle.
    She peals another hysterical laugh,
    expressionless, deadpan, bizarre,
    she decides, as spittle follows a fold in her lip.
    Her hand won’t move. It’s not her hand;
    she has no control over it; must belong

    to someone else. The stroke of midnight,
    she thinks, and I’ll awake from this
    nightmare. And she ponders it all
    in her clamouring, thought-rattling,
    overcrowded and noisy head where
    her every thought collides. It’s stroke

    this, stroke that, stroke of bad luck,
    stroke of good luck, stroke of fortune.
    Stroke, stroked, strike.
    Three strokes and you’re out.
    And she empties another peal of giggles
    into the depth of her swirling thoughts.


  31. Pingback: Jagged Old Fences « Magical Mystical Teacher

  32. Old Bones Break

    in youth,
    limber, lithe
    bones bent with ease.
    Knees did not crack or
    pop. Graceful ankles turned
    with your movements, without fuss.
    Now you rise, creaking like an old
    porch swing–joints rusting–pushing past years.

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