Poems on Aging

Mirrors.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
who’s the fairest of them all?
Pretty sure it isn’t me,
tell me, mirror, what you see.
Baggy eyes and saggy neck.
Goodness! I’ve become a wreck!

Mirror, mirror, on the floor
look again and tell me more.
Ankles which were once so slender
need to be returned to sender.
Legs like pit props, solid lumps,
don’t belong on me, but frumps.

Mirror, mirror, can’t you lie?
Try to be a little sly?
Give me back what I had once:
thicker hair to hide my bonce.
No? I don’t know why I look.
Out with mirrors. Where’s my book?

CS 2016

My Eyes

My eyes don’t look right, never did.
they’re not on the level you see.
One’s higher than the other but
that’s not the worst for me.

Myopia, astigmatism,
strabismus, vertical, too
then presbyopia came along
just to enhance the view.

They don’t see far, they don’t see close,
or look in the same direction.
I do have spectacles of course
to offer some correction.

But when I’m tired and take those off
my eyes have a mind of their own;
they flatly refuse to cooperate.
I’m in a twilight zone.

Usually I crack the whip
and they line up nice and neatly
but clearly sometimes it’s too much work;
they deviate completely.

I must admit it’s quite a lark,
seeing in two directions.
How boring life must be for those
with no such imperfections.

CS 2016


Old Hands

Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.

Though now adorned with jewelled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.

I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.

They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.

Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.


CS © 2005


Aging

I'm aging now, or so I'm told
but they're selling me a pup!
How can I be growing old
when I haven't yet grown up?

I refuse to be a "wrinkly",
a boring sad old fart.
Age is just a state of mind;
I'm still a kid at heart:

Open minded, curious,
shy but keen to learn,
impatient to see what lies
round every twist and turn.

And what about maturity?
Is it to do with years
or dealing with relationships,
handling hopes and fears?

I am happy to mature then
if that's what it's about,
as long as they let me have some fun
and run around and shout,

make fervent love in the afternoon
and dance to the radio.
I'm quite prepared to be old one day
but I've still a long way to go.


CS
© 2004


I laugh at my condition,
it's the only thing to do;
there's no point getting morbid.
I've spent enough time blue.

But sometimes - only sometimes -
it gets a little scary;
I wonder what the future holds,
what traps for the unwary.

Will it get so bad that I
can't manage all alone
and end up vegetating in some
dreadful old folk's home?

I guess it has some perks though:
all those lonely men!
Just think of all the fun I'd have
attracting lovers then.

Can you just imagine them
fighting lovers duels
(on canes d'you think or zimmer frames?)
and showering me with jewels?

Of course it could be single sex
Oh God! please spare me that!
I wouldn't last a week surrounded
by the endless chat.

I'd have to have some visitors
and sneak them in to this:
the only red light old folks home.
Just knock and ask for Chris.


C S
© 2003

Aging Dancers

Aging dancers don't retire
they simply dance much slower.
I haven't lost that inner fire
it's there, but burning lower.
I don't "do" frantic any more
I'm best at slow and sensual;
just clear a space there on the floor,
I'll show you I'm accentual.
Rock for me has had it's day
along with twist and shout;
I'll show you in a different way
just what it's all about.
Put on a mean and moody song
a beat that's slow and steady
then lead me out where I belong
and just make sure you're ready!

© CS 2002

Faeriefolk at Imbolc

February now is looming, Imbolc has arrived;
time for trial marriages, time to look ahead.
Faeries gather for this feast, from Celtic rites derived
to make sure fields are fertile and provide their daily bread.

Frozen ground, snow covered, hides harbingers of Spring,
snowdrops, winter aconites, hellebores and such.
In the bare and leafless tress robins dance and sing
most performing solo - they rarely mingle much.

The sacred flame once more is lit to purify the land,
encouraging the sun once more to leave its winter sleep.
Faeries, elves and pixies meet and take anothers hand,
perhaps a year, or maybe more, their promises to keep.

Every ancient Celt and Gael would know the custom well
for everyone had equal rights in matters of the heart.
To make or break such marriages requires no faery spell,
to marry they just meet and kiss,; to end it - walk apart.

As for prognostication, the Druid's skill is sought.
Shamans, as in ancient time, who practise secret rites
look into the future, a skill they have been taught,
handed down by ancient teachers to their acolytes.

Foxes leave their earthen lair to watch these strange events.
Badgers are still fast asleep within their cozy sett.
The sun, though dim and distant, momentarily relents
and sends a wintry blessing down upon this etiquette.

© 2004

Faeriefolk at Samhain

Samnhain is here now and all's gathered in,
the fruits are in store for the dark days ahead.
It's time now to celebrate all that is given
and thank Mother Nature for keeping us fed.

Faeries bring offerings, berries and grain,
offer them up to the spirits of earth.
This is the start of the Celtic New Year,
awaiting the Spring and a time of rebirth.

All must bring something, no matter how small.
Pixies and elven, goblins and gnomes
have all been collecting and gathering food
and cleaning the rooms in their small woodland homes.

For humans and faeriefolk have this in common:
all must remember to open their hearts,
filling the world with a spirit of thankfulness,
sharing the bounty before winter starts.

The first of November is when it all happens,
days are now shorter and getting quite dark;
no more is heard the quaint call of the cuckoo
but still we are thrilled by the song of the lark.

Watch with me now as the faeriefolk gather,
bringing their offerings into the glade.
Keep yourself hidden, these things are a secret,
humans must stay very much in the shade.

There stands the wizard, ancient and noble,
here come the faeriefolk, hear them intone,
each of them making their annual pilgrimage,
each of them making their gratitude known.

Thanksgiving over they'll stay for festitities,
wishing each other a Happy Samhain,
drinking a toast to the spirits of ancestors,
those who have brought them success once again.

© 2002

Faeriefolk at Lugnasadh.


Faerie folk are out in force; it's time for celebration;
the summer festival is here for every Celtic nation.

Chariots no longer race with horses charging madly;
very few remember all the ancient customs, sadly.

Humans rarely keep them now, but faerie folk remember 
Beltane on the first of May and Samhain in November.

Imbolc comes in February encouraging the sun
and summertime has Lugnasadh with frolicking and fun.

Deep within the tangled woods the faerie folk assemble;
waiting for their day of sport they chatter all a-tremble

Woodland creatures standing by will also play their part
they know the seasons and the days- know them off by heart.

Pixies quickly saddle up  their willing warty toads,
- those who've made it safely 'cross the busy human roads.

An elf is scrambling up onto a cricket for his steed
to enter the Grasshopper Chase: a wondrous sight indeed!

Elsewhere fairies sit astride the humble bumble bees;
flying races test the nerves, but no-one misses these.

Older folk are not forgot, nor any feeling frail,
for they can take part gently: each one mounted on a snail.

Truly this will be a day to make the pulses race
To stir the blood and stiffen sinews, flush each faerie face

Before they drop exhaustedin the glorious aftermath
the faeryfolk will have a ball for this is Lugnasadh!

Lugnasadh! The very name conjures up the past.
This may be the latest one but it won't be the last.

As long as faeries live and breathe and guard the woodland way
merriment will always be the order of the day.

© Christine Stromberg
May 2002

Faeriefolks at Beltane


Deep within the tangled woods,' midst the bluebell-scented air,
shadows lengthen 'neath the trees; who knows what is lurking there?

Elves and pixies, goblins, gnomes, sprites and peris, kelpies, imps
sylphs and brownies, boggarts, bogles , undines, elementals, nymphs

Faery creatures, all unseen,  gather for a night of play
far from prying human eyes in this merry month of May

Humans had their share of sport dancing round the Beltane fire
celebrating with abandon as the flames leapt ever higher

Lusty human passions sated homeward now they wend their way;
time to put this night behind them time to face another day

Now the faeries take their pleasure under cover of the night,
singing, dancing, leaping, prancing, truly an enchanting sight

Little people, tiny folk,  flying o'er the scenes below
tiny wings are all aflutter tiny faces all aglow

Wearing negligible garments,  scintillating, many-hued
sheer and light as gossamer, all with faerie dust imbued

Incandescent tiny bodies hover in the sky above
radiant rainbow-tinted auras emanate as they make love

Though no human ear can hear them tiny voices fill the dells
uttering their faerie magick, casting all their faerie spells

This is more than purely pleasure;w ith these mystical delights
faeries work to make things better, putting all the world to rights

There is power in their playing; life force flowing pure and strong
keeping evil at a distance; making right what we make wrong

You shall never see them work unless your heart is truly pure
and your mind is truly open and your nature is demure

You must have a sense of wonder, innocence, naivety
and a special inborn gift; a kind of sensitivity

Babes and children sometimes see them,
old folk, too, when life grows short
but for most folk they are hidden;
merely a delightful thought.



©Christine Stromberg
May2002