She toddles
as she gets up
and hurries to
the phone
careful not to
lose her balance
and fall…again.

I watch from my
chair next to hers
where we had been
talking moments
before and notice
she has left her
cane behind…again.

In a few short months
we have become trusted
friends and I have listened
to the stories of her extravagant
and privileged life.  Strong-willed
she chose differently for her
life than her parents.

She eloped with the love of her life.
She filled her home with children,
knowing that an only child’s
life, even though a life of
opulence, could be a lonely one.

Now her life has been reduced,
diminished, moderated by
old age and ill health.
Once so vibrant and engaged
with life and doing for others,
she now relies on them and
marvels at the state that her
life has become.  And yet
she still has a sense of humor
and giggles and shakes
her head to think that she is the
mother of a now seventy year old.

She heaps me with compliments
as she eyes what I’ve worn each
time we meet and tells me I’m
“adorable” and “precious”.  Once
dressed impeccably as the wife
of a successful executive and
as the daughter of a wealthy
entrepreneur, dressing gowns
and robes are now her attire.

Still feeling the sting
of wanting more of her parents’
love and attention as a child,
she tells me again and again
of how she would often be
left with maids and chauffeurs.

Even many passing years
don’t always alleviate the
slights of our youth.

Tony Maude is hosting Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets:

You Used To Sing

You used to sing
When your heart was light
Your voice so harmonious
When life was easier

I remember that time
When your heart sang too
Joy came visiting
More often than now

Your voice went silent
Many years ago
Tunes of resentment
Are your music instead

Now fear has crept in
Pain has joined too
They’ve settled in deep
Happiness pushed out

No longer able
No longer can
Simple tasks
Bring you grief

Face contorted
With anguished woe
You’ve clutched so tight
To your suffering,
It’s made its home
Within your bones

And with your acceptance
It’s come right in
Can’t let it go
It’s become a friend,
A crutch, a tool
To have its way

We try our best
To give you help
To serve and attend
And offer assist
But your bitterness flies
And attacks our worth

Our spirit crushes
Underneath the assault

Poor, poor mother
We fill up with compassion
Such a dilemma…
We wish you well

I submit a revised version of a poem I posted previously; Victoria C. Slotto invites us to try our hand at writing in second person over at dVerse Poets:


I tried my hand at writing senryu last night.  Don’t even know how to pronounce it.  Unlike haiku, but using the same number of lines and syllables, senryu subject matter deals more with human qualities…or foibles.


finger traces frown
simple touch forming a grin
wordless gaze speaks plain


head bowing in grief
surrounding activity
distracting tear’s fall


coffee break was stale
anger leaving it bitter
aroma left flat

  Photo:  Google Images


filmy floating gown
luring midnight seduction
dawn alone forlorn

Photo:  Google Images


glazing the raku
fired pot combusts a pattern
sawdust leaves its mark

Photo:  Google Images;


aged lonely woman
sweeping fallen autumn leaves
her eighty-fifth year

Natasha Head starts us off today with Open Link Night at dVerse Poets:


Deep corridors have been
furrowed into this shell
by life’s formidable quest.

Documented and recorded in detail,
nothing has escaped inscription
onto and within this body.

What once was supple, flexible,
smooth and soft has taken
on a stiffened, uncompromising
distinction.  Boundless, joyous youth
has incrementally given way to
become a myopic form that growls
and whimpers its way toward
its winter days.  Its voice raises
in absorbed weariness, as it
grouses and protests its inability
to move with the same grace, and
rebound from hardship as
it once was able. 

But let it complain.
I’m still in residence and
will continue the passage
and honor it as I can for
allowing me this homestead,
this temporary space to
grow and broaden my spirit.

Join Victoria C. Slotto, our hostess tonight, at dVerse Poets; Meeting the Bar–Contrast:


Saatchi Gallery - Young & Old

She was a sweet and tender child and wise beyond her years, already knowing the importance of connection to others. Her delicate features, with excitement-blushed cheeks and bright, curious blue eyes made her sensitivity even more apparent.  Innocent, rosebud lips finished off the charm.  Long, honey-colored hair, worn parted in the middle, fell past her shoulders and hung straight and loose, complementing her slight frame.  She was prone to brushing straggles of hair out of her eyes when it was worn down this way. Along with her favorite pink suede cowboy boots, her mother had allowed her to pick out the multi-tiered, purple, gray and white skirt that she loved.  Her brown corduroy jacket topped it off because of the chill in the air.  A tiny dab of her mother’s Shalimar perfume behind her ears made her feel extra special.  The mild amber fragrance created a subtle aura around her.  They were off to visit Pa-pa today.

She was only six but loved her Pa-pa devotedly.  They had come for a visit today to the nursing home where he now resided.

His head hung slightly down as he sat in his motorized wheelchair, impeccably dressed in his black pin-stripe suit with pristine and starched, long sleeved white shirt and boldly striped tie.  Still after all of these years, his black leather shoes were polished to a high gleam–important when callers came.  His tall stature was evident even though he was sitting.  His snow white hair and beard intrigued her and his wild, wooly eyebrows made her giggle.  His aged face was speckled with numerous sunspots and the lines of years of hard work raising a family, ill health and losing his wife two years prior.  A silver band still worn on his finger signified their long union.  She loved to examine his elderly face and look into his wise eyes that still cheered up when he caught sight of her.

He offered her a peppermint from his pocket–he always smelled of peppermint and Old Spice aftershave.  She ate the candy immediately–feeling the sensation of the cooling mint in her mouth–savoring it slowly.

She made sure his hearing aids were still lodged gently in his ears and brought him a pair of scissors he had requested that he used to cut the tags off the gift he had ready for her.  It was a stuffed black and white striped zebra.   She clutched the toy, her small hand encircling its body, feeling quietly delighted at the surprise.

She thanked him, speaking up as she knew to do, so he could hear her clearly.  He hugged her gently and smiled, his voice a gravelly rasp, responded to her; “I love you.”

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