Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    

Dubious Flowers

Old age is not as I imagined it.

Country walks by sylvan streams

Throwing sticks for my Labrador

to chase and retrieve.

Slippers by an open fire

Bouncing my grandson on bony knees.

Time in which to luxuriate,

Before my poem’s final

Full stop.

 

Instead, age exacts agonies,

Diminishing time, money, and sense,

Brings relatives with their problems

Minus solutions. As the dark shadows

Of approaching dissolution

Gather furtively around my door.

 

No one cares. Not really.

People mouth platitudes,

But they can’t commit-

They have troubles of their own.                                           

 

We are left, thus, as dubious flowers.

Grown from the seeds

Our former selves have sown.

Dubious flowers, wafting in the hinterland,

Between blooming and decay.

◄ Bubbles of the Mind

In the eye of the storm. ►

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message