Tag Archives: growing old

They Say that When Policemen Look Young

They say
That when policemen look young, you are getting old.
I was told
By a lady yesterday,
In a conversational way
That she was born
In the year
I came to old London town
To work.
A jerk
Of recognition within.
Hopes abandoned
There will be no sin …

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When The TV Does Cease

When the TV does cease
Peace
In the hypnotic
Tick tock
Of the clock
Takes hold.

Tel me not
That time is a despot.
True the wise and the fool
Both must obey his rule,
But the wise accept
While many a fool has wept
At the swing of his rod
That reduces all to sod.

The TV
Can make us free
For a while from the thought
That we ought
To heed the pendulum’s swing
That does bring
Our spring
To summer and thence
To autumn when those of little sense
Dye their hair
(Although
They know
That the winter snow
Lets none go.

I am Told

I am told
That one is getting old
When policemen look younger than you.
I’m sure that’s true
But when girls say
In a friendly sort of way
That their dad has the same interests as you,
Then what is a guy to do
Other than smile and accept
That age
Has crept
Up on him like a thief in the bleak night
And that although he may, in the company of young women delight
He must
For the purposes of love or lust
Engage with women of a similar age
As no
Young ladies desire
A grey haired sire.
But oh!
If he have money it may be so …!

Birthday

Tomorrow I shall be forty-nine.
There will be wine
No doubt
And I shall go about
With a smile, for I am not fifty yet.
But you can safely bet
That when I reach that half-century stage
I shall conveniently forget
(For memory fails with age),
And on 6 January twenty-nineteen say
“I am 49 today!”.

Do Those Who Drink Of Lethe

Do those who drink of Lethe
Find surcease
From pain?
Or do they wrack their brain
In a vain
Attempt to regain
What is forever, lost?

O to be free of regret
And forever forget
A life ill spent.
But what cost
To drink
Of Lethe and no more think,
But merely to do
As like some automaton
We wander through
Hades
Where memory fades
And days are as one.

The departed are gone
But know it not, or perhaps they do
As tears may break through
When half remembered years
Enter the head
Of the living dead.

All men meet the ferryman, but not all fear
The guide
Who carries us to the other side.
It is Lethe drear
That inspires most dread.
The Greeks said
That the ferryman comes before we quench our thirst
In Lethe’s waters.
But no, ‘Tis not always so
For sons and daughters are left behind
When loved ones find
The river where memory fractures, before the body dies.