I saw the sun come up today —
a momentary piece of pleasure —
a treasure for my eyes.
But soon its early glowing
began to be displaced
by just an ordinary sky.
All my awe commenced to disappear
and I began to think about my day
and all the things that I must do
before the sun goes down.

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Those of us who are two
and have been so for many years
cannot help but think of being one —
though we wish to be denied
such bleak considerations
Those of us who are two
are frequently in touch
with those no longer such
and see them dealing fairly well —
or so it seems.
Why dwell with thoughts
that trigger fear
and smother happiness?
I do not know.
Perhaps you do.

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It is rumored that some honchos at Brookdale

would like its patrons to make Thanksgiving lists.

Perhaps we can create a few –

perhaps delineate a blessing or two.

Shall we turn to our I-Pads to accomplish this?

But some would ask: “What’s an I-Pad?”

They are those flat devices that hands can grasp

and they grasp the attention and devotion of their users.

How about a laptop?

That’s not what many seniors use these days

but here and there a few do.

Typwriters worked once upon a time –

at best are memories now.

How about a pencil or a pen and paper?

We can demonstrate our declining cursive

which we all learned to do years and years ago.

We may think a little now without using any ink.

We’ll recline in our recliners and seek a mode of gratefulness

or strive to do the same in wheelchairs.

Maybe the Brookdale barons will understand our gratefulness

no matter how displayed.

We only hope that our lists will be finished

before we are.

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I took on wearing the Navy blue
before the end of World War Two.

Not long after I became a seaman
the war ceased
and there was peace.

I was soon released from duty.

But my reaction to it all
was supreme satisfaction in my nation.

I did so little that I tend to belittle
my service to our great country.

But I did what was asked for
so I’ll not ignore being honored —
though I do not deserve the praise.

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There it is tucked away behind a chair
with its handle visible –
so visible to me, rising out of a modest tool box
that I fashioned many years ago.

When did I start hammering? I sometimes wonder

Perhaps I was a little kid with a wooden hammer –
banging on my blocks.

At some point beyond my memory’s reach
I found the usefulness of nails
becoming somewhat skilled at driving them –
feeling in my arm a satisfaction
that comes to those whose muscles are properly employed.

Pliers and screwdrivers and drills might do the same
but hammers are most likely the first to gain such pleasure.

Now the need to bang and pound at nails is gone.

But I appreciate reminders that come to me
whenever I walk by what used to be so useful.

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She took me aside and told me
that she doesn’t want to get any older –
this in spite of the fact that she still has a good husband.
She’s moving quite close to one hundred.

Maybe she just wanted to let me know how she feels.
I can do nothing but listen and show her caring.

Perhaps I will set you aside and tell you
that I don’t want to get any older –
this in spite of the fact that I still have good wife.
I am close to hundred my self – but not as close as she is.

You can do nothing for me but listen and show me bit of caring.

So what can I do for you? Tell me of you can.

It’s not always easy to tell what’s needed.

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What can I do as an old man
tucked away in a high-rise
that offers care to folks with white hair
and to those with none
and to those in various stages in between?

I can complain – but I complain in vain
for the world doesn’t move as I wish it to.
Being one whose DNA bristles with impatience
I’d do better to shut my mouth
and wait calmly for the inevitable.

But maybe I can’t!

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I hear the clicking sounds –
sounds of wet clothes drying –
clothes going round and round

It’s a good thing for us
no clothes line is required
to do it like folks used to do –
when wringers partly dried
the mass of things we hoped to wear again
and then again.
Most all the folks I know
are used to sounds that signify
our methodology of spinning things
is the way to go.

Of course, a little heat is added.

I sit in my recliner listening and wondering
about the things that make my world go ‘round.

Posted in Poems | Comments Off on DRYING CLOTHES


The clock goes tick-tock – tick tock , all day long –
its power provided by a small battery
inserted some years ago
by a guy who likes to know what time it is.

Oh. he could look at his wrist
and insist that that little device
yield the same information.

But the noise of the clock that TELLS him time
surpasses the joy he receives from the one that SHOWS him.
And I’m surprised that I have failed to tell you, my friends –
those who neither listen or see me most of the time
as they do their thing and I do mine.

I do get in a word to them sometime
when I’m messing around with rhyme
and they are willing to stop whatever they’re up to
and invest, at my request, some modest effort–
caring for a guy just passing by –
a guy who wants them to know he listens
to the tick and the tock of his clock – of his heart.

Posted in Poems | Comments Off on THE TICK-TOCK OF HIS CLOCK


My breakfast mate has no need to heed
the sun which begins to strike our eyes
as bacon and eggs are set before us.

I, on the other hand, am deeply moved
by the solar intervention into our meal.

He ignores the earth’s awakening
seen through windows that begin to suggest
that the night is gone —
that another day has arrived.

I cannot resist, but must mention
that another miracle is shining into our eyes.

Two men so different in so many ways
yet drawn by fate to share old age
in a place their children thought was right for them.

This accidental rendezvous occurred some time ago
and has grown into a morning habit
that is remarkably sustained.

Though they often wonder why.

Posted in Poems | Comments Off on ACCIDENTAL RENDEVIUS