"The Old Folks" by John Steuart Curry

At home in rural Kansas 

A hot Sunday in mid-July

Mother and Father, back from church

Relaxing in their rockers

Buddy, their dog, watches alertly over the yard

Shortly Mother will cook Swedish pancakes

with lingonberries for lunch

But first some quiet time

Despite her blurry eyes

Mother is nearly done knitting her scarf

Father just finished with the Sunday Gazette

He wonders why he bothers

The world, so torn with chaos

Ugly politics, violence at home and abroad

Each year they appreciate their farm more

Their own private sanctuary

A place of  abundance and serenity 

The children, of course, are grown adults

Off in the big city, far from the farm 

Still friendly, but with lives and families of their own

The couple rarely talk with one another

Everything’s been said so many times

Yet they enjoy a special closeness

A product of their fifty-two years

Life is good, not perfect

She takes medicine for her heart

His back pains keep him awake at night 

But they are always there for one another

Night and day

And will be until the very end 

Swinging

  

I love to swing

When my mother pushes me

I go so high you’d never believe

Like a seagull soaring over the ocean

Searching the blue waters far below

Sometimes I feel I am close to Heaven 

Up here so high in the clouds 

Looking at the people’s tiny houses

Sending angel prayers to the sleeping babes

I have no fear when I’m high in the sky

I know there’s a safety net of love

My mother is always there for me

To catch me if ever I slip 

Swinging high

Swinging low

Swinging high again

Swinging my way to the unknown

Senior Moments: A Rhyming Sestina

That TV remote is so slippery to find

I suspect that its rays might be curdling my brain

I search through the sofa, underneath, behind 

With all this commotion, I pray I’ll stay sane

My spouse says the doctor should X-ray my mind

But at my robust age I’ve no need to complain

My trip to the mall, this does lead me to complain

From home to Northgate, very simple to find 

I turned south, not north, I’m afraid that’s not sane

Just one more faux pas by my fuddled-up mind

CVS might stock herbs to jumpstart one’s brain 

Magic herbs could keep me from falling behind 

Losing stuff in the fridge, in the drawer or behind 

The milk disappears, I fret and complain 

The image of that bottle, so clear in my mind

My wife says it helps if I use my brain 

Lost milk, it takes her one second to find 

She hands it to me, harbors doubts that I’m sane 

PBS dramas, it helps to be sane 

I lose track of the story, I’m hopelessly behind 

Too challenging, it seems, for my ossified brain

The meaning of Poldark I struggle to find 

But despite my confusion I never complain 

Even losing the whole plot, I actually don’t mind

Jeopardy was designed as a boon to one’s mind

A memory refresher that keeps seniors sane 

I often know the answer but the words I can’t find

I shout at the screen, I twitch, I complain 

The contestants too quick so I fall far behind 

Please, Alex Trebek, help revive my dead brain 

“Be sure to bring your name tag,” I instructed my brain

But I wore my wife’s instead, a silly prank by my mind

My classmates giggled, no need to complain 

They’re used to my dithers, my lagging behind 

Labelling myself “Katja”, who would think that is sane

But to wear my own name, not that simple I find

Senior moments I find give me cause to complain

Dead gray cells in my brain mean I’m losing my mind 

Falling more and more behind in my quest to stay sane