EIGHTY-FIVE AND STILL CHIRPING

Though uninvited

and hardly welcome, 

my eighty-fifth birthday 

arrived today and settled in.    

Holy Mackerel, eighty-five.  

How did that happen?

According to gerontologists, I now belong  

to the “oldest old” category.

That’s annoying actually.  

It’s true that I am definitely older 

than I ever was before,

but I’ve quite a ways to go 

before I reach my “oldest”.  

These first eighty-five years have 

been full of surprises and pleasantries. 

Parents and siblings, school, marriage,

fatherhood, home, career, dogs, and 

now my leisurely retirement years 

filled with poetry writing

and contemplation.  

In some ways these years are the best. 

I have occasional regrets, of course, 

but that’s a built-in part of life.  

A while ago my doctor 

said I don’t look my age

and I don’t act my age

but I should keep in mind

that I am my age.    

At first that struck me as profound

but now I’m having second thoughts. 

Eighty-five is not a fixed thing 

like an iPad or a fire hydrant.     

There are as many different ways

of being eighty-five as there are 

grasshoppers in the meadow 

or tadpoles in the brook.  

My year ahead promises

to be comfortable and rewarding. 

We expected to celebrate my birthday 

by going to the Warren County Fair

but the heat advisory crimped our style

and we’ll do a seafood restaurant instead.  

All in all, I think I will  

embrace eight-five and  

try to outwit the prognosticators. 

That’s my birthday strategy,  

at least for the time being.      

JUNE WAS BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT

 

So perplexing this weird month of June 

It’s been hotter than a Sierra wildfire 

I hope that I’ll see my sister soon 

In the meantime we’ll sit and perspire 

We’ve been watching the hearings on January Six 

The picture gets worse by the day 

Trump has been up to his most evil tricks 

I hope he's charged with nine counts of foul play 

French Open tennis, a most historic scene 

Nadal faced Norwegian Casper Ruud 

A straight set win, Rafa’s number fourteen 

Casper, outclassed, was a feckless dude 

Stephen Curry and pals played their finest hoops 

The Warriors won the entire shebang 

My sister Vicki cheered faithfully for the troops 

Now time to relax from the Sturm und Drang 

Our Improv class performed its last show 

A melodrama, “The Factory of Despair” 

We improv’d lines in the ongoing flow 

The teacher’s reaction, “Keen wit and fine flair” 

We attended a friend’s birthday party 

A boat trip along the Ohio 

The crowd was cool and arty 

So long Covid, Oh Me-O-Mio 

Katja’s purse disappeared one day 

We searched every inch of each room 

She called up Visa in utter dismay 

But there was her purse by the broom 

Each night I baited two traps with cheese 

Each morning two bodies of mice 

Murdering mice makes me feel like a sleaze 

One more smallish mouse might suffice 

Our attic air conditioner broke again 

The water poured right through the ceiling 

I first saw a pool on the rug in our den 

“Dog bladder mishap” was my feeling 

Our attic is home to a sizeable beast 

Perhaps an opossum, perhaps a raccoon 

Each night the bumping noises have increased 

We will call the trapper number pretty soon 

Our little dog Iko hates firecrackers 

He whines and crawls under the bed 

I get a bit peeved with the neighborhood slackers 

Though I know there are worse things to dread 

OLLI has started a new poetry group 

It meets every Thursday for eight weeks 

Just what I need to stay in the loop 

And fiddle with poetic techniques

WRITING POETRY

 

Writing a poem is harder 

than walking the dog or 

raking the lawn. 

It’s more akin to 

painting a watercolor 

or cooking a souffle. 

The start’s the worst,  

the foreboding blank page. 

My first few lines are 

trite, blah, so discouraging, 

but I talk myself into persisting. 

I get most inspired when 

writing tales of my childhood. 

In truth, I was an unhappy child 

but in my dotage I permit 

only positive memories. 

My poetic aim is to provide myself 

with a more enjoyable youth. 

My most intractable problem is that 

I’m not naturally poetic. 

I write more like a bookkeeper 

or perhaps an airline pilot. 

Nothing emotional or ambiguous. 

Just clear and to the point. 

I do like to rhyme 

though that’s not in vogue. 

I write more freely 

after a shot or two of Irish whiskey. 

A little buzz loosens me up 

and I can always rewrite another time. 

Every morning I brush my teeth, 

take my pills, and then compose a limerick 

about an event from the previous day. 

My pre-coffee limericks 

are quick and raggedy 

but they remind me that poetry 

is part of my daily existence 

and that I have produced 

something tangible that no one 

has ever thought of before 

(no matter how measly).