On Middle-age Memory...

Middle-age memory is quite uncanny, oh,

It thinks it remembers, then, poof, it lets go

Lost half-words left dangling on the tip of the tongue

And stirring up envy for minds keen and young

Middle-age memory makes us recognize

Things we once took much too for granted to prize

Now names forsake faces, a game of who’s who

While we grasp at traces of what once we knew

Middle-age memory startles our speech

We launch into detail that fizzles mid-reach

And startled we fumble with ‘I know I know this,

But right now I can’t quite recall what/who it is’

Tomorrow when the fact is quite past useful clout

Suddenly, into the clear blue sky I will shout

‘By George, I remember, her name is Georgette

Thank God, I have not lost my memory yet'

© Janet Martin

a few humor-images from google...I can't remember where/how I found them!
kidding😏

I googled 'cartoons about middle-age memory:)'

 

Where Smiles Run Deep

 I feel every inch of my middle age tonight but it comes after a good day's work...not before:)

Stick pile from the ice-storm GONE! 

(I didn't get a bench(see above link) but I did salvage a stump;)

Her smiles run deep and cannot keep

The proof of years at bay

The quick return of live and learn

Startles her brow with gray

Her heart plays host to Uttermost

Of love’s laughter and tears

While her form bears and humbly wears

The penmanship of years

 Hope-spurred she strove to live the love

That lights the world afire

Stunned by the ease of memories

That tick and tock acquire

...as lark-song lilt on dawn soft spilt

And dusk’s blue shadow stage

And interplay of time's gold-gray

Clothed her with middle-age

Her smiles run deep and cannot keep

The proof of years at bay

But deeper still is the free will 

Of time slipping away

Futile to fret or fear the threat

Of lessons yet to learn

For Present spills both good and ills

 Into past's No Return

© Janet Martin

Rebelling a Little...in mind only

The poetry of rain-song twists the air into a sigh

Where rush of eighteen-wheelers and mute moments hurry by

We cannot halt the rubric of Time’s customary mien

Of twilight over afternoon or tick-tock tambourine

Over archaic skylines dawn to midnight disappears

Face it my darling, we can never be immune to years

Subtle-soft, the hand of time strums laugh-lines where the curve

Of youth and ignorance rendered its innocence and verve

…and we could sprawl like children with our feet upon a cloud

But accruement of knowledge, love, has made us stiff and proud

And so, sedately we impose upon rain-riddled deep

A paragraph of proper prose before we go to sleep

But if we were carefree, my love, then you and I would go

And wander out among the stars like urchins through the snow

…firm attribute of middle-age exploits its faculty

We pause for one more second glance into night’s poetry

© Janet Martin

Something about the rush of an eighteen-wheeler rumbling by in the dark rain sparked...something...while I was drinking my middle-aged tea and headed for a middle-aged bedtime to read a middle-aged book;)

Of Birthdays, Ballads and Bittersweet

 Tea-party treat leftovers; a few friends and I celebrated my sister's birthday this morning...and we are all middle-age, bitter-sweetly blessed!

I grew up in a family of ten kids so we generally did not receive birthday presents.  The puppy with pink flowers (in above pic) I did receive on one birthday, an unexpected surprise and cherished completely. The boy and goose ornament was another such surprise from my mother for 'being a good helper'. 

Nostalgic bits of childhood and parenthood lace tea-time conversation and remind us to be grateful for life's beautiful, ephemeral Now.

Happy Birthday, sis!...and all the rest of you out there celebrating today. J~

We do not always have the time or chance to dance too long

This sport of happy birthdays is a bittersweet love song

Its ballroom decorated with Her echoing of years

How soon another stanza spills its tune, then disappears

In Time we all must face the prospects mouthed by middle-age

Although within us youth objects Time turns Her steady page

And sets the stage for life-lessons which hours will enforce

While we thank God for blessings plucked from its common discourse

Our rooms cannot be guarded ‘gainst Time’s monochromic tock

Where flesh and blood are ever at the mercy of its clock

This little Now we hold soon molds Her heart-string souvenir

Hung soft upon a lintel of something that we call Year

Ah, flattery of fantasy fades as all flowers do

This heritage of middle-age will soon be over too

Time is a troubadour of Bittersweet and brave romance

So wrap your heart and soul around Her ballad Now…and dance

© Janet Martin

Dare-dreamer

Sometimes I brush by you

Just to feel the purposed pain

Of you and yesterday

And all

And sometimes I crush laughter

For the reverence of rain

Because laughter bleeds summer

Tears fall

Sometimes the tortured tango

Of hope’s whispers faded thin

Becomes a tight-rope

Where I flirt

…with being braver, younger

And to dream a dream again

But sometimes I brush by you

Just to hurt

© Janet Martin

While We Were Picking Flowers...

You came so soon; wrapped in the croon of zephyr over graves

And we, caught up within the tune of sunny afternoons

Or rain-song on the garden, or the breaking of the waves

Across the shore, were startled by your sure and subtle swoon

The bark, swelling with virgin bud; with hope untried and chaste

Has borne a summer’s worth of evenings and all its moons   

As passion, wild and wonderful in soft enchanted haste

Drifts to that place where ever still the wanton zephyr croons

Were you already there within the first taste of the fruit?

This tender-sweet awareness of seasons, of Time and age

Did you fill Eve with sudden sorrow as she understood

How swift and silently the song of summer seals its page?

You came so soon; no encore, just a wafting overture

Of echoes where the brink of autumn and winter a-wait

While we were picking flowers, caught in summer’s kind allure

We did not turn to see a hand closing the garden gate

© Janet Martin

Middle-age Bliss...an edited re-post

 

I bet you think I’m going to write
About birthdays and getting old
How I just can’t remember quite
What I have or have not been told
I bet you think this is the day
I’ll celebrate in sad lament
But all that I can think to say
Is, ‘I am middle-age content’

I don’t mind swift years slipping by
As youth slips farther, far away
I don’t miss dream-stars in my eye
Lost in some by-gone yesterday
I quite enjoy my aching bones
I’ve earned them, wouldn’t you agree?
Lamenting time is like kicking stones
And who really wants to be twenty-three?

If I bemoan the mirrored truth
I would not trade its face away
For a return to brimming youth
Without words like stiff, sore or gray
I’d choose again what I’ve been given
I would not turn back any page
To be younger than forty-seven
Or, in other words; middle-age

Oh, middle age, sweet blissful stage

Of teen-age knowledge trumping mine

And how I see mortality

A little flicker known as Time

But I am fully satisfied

To embrace wrinkles, fresh and new

And I am not so foolish

As to wish that I was twenty-two…

No, I’m not crazy

Or losing my mind
To middle-age insanity
But if you believe this

May I be so kind
As to suggest

That you might be?

© Janet Martin

p.s. This is all in silly fun. I wrote this poem 2 years ago. I don't feel insane, yet I don't mind my age at all!

Middle-age Blues...

Today's PAD Challenge; Suffering poem

He lights a cigarette

Waiting until

They flip the sign

At Toney’s Bar and Grill

He’s slapped on

Just enough after-shave

To dull the truth

And make him brave

Cause he’s still got it

Cool dude in new boots

And he’s not suffering

From middle-age blues

No he’s not ready to

Wear ‘old-man shoes’

And he’s not suffering

Middle-age blues

His Ford F150

Is parked outside

He just needs a babe

Looking for a ride

So he’s flirty and dirty

Tries his sexiest grin

Man, this used to charm them

As he’d reel them in

But now an eye-roll

Is the best he can do

And trust me

Tonight he’s gotten a few

But he’s not suffering

Those middle-age blues

And it’s their loss

If they refuse

Mr. Hot-shot

In new,

Rawhide cowboy boots

He swivels on his bar-stool

Scanning the place

Hoping for a fresh

Unfamiliar face

But he’s seen them all

And well, the truth

Is, they’re

Crowding those young bucks

With nothing

But youth

And dreams

And time

Aw, pitiful crime

The thief of years

Won’t reimburse

Those innocent fears

An’ if he were a cursin’ man

Well, he’d curse

But he doesn’t;

After all it could be worse

He’s got a cool truck

And the sun’s just goin’ down

With enough time to make it

Over to the next town

Because it’s just this way

Beggars can’t choose

And he’s not suffering

Those middle-age blues

No how, no way, crank up the tunes

He’s not suffering

Middle-age blues

© Janet Martin

This poem is entirely fictional...any reference which seems to apply to you is completely accidental;)) I decided to have a little fun with the hapless fellow having a smoke outside  Smokin' Tony's on my way home today:))

Go Then...a Sunday Whirl on Monday

 

Sunday Whirl

Go then

Prove your point

Soon life will

Tenderly anoint

Your experience

With wisdom

Go then,

Stop your fuss

Life will remind you

Soon enough

Your miserable youth

Was sweet

Go then,

Wish and dream

The interest of hours

Does not esteem

One above

The other

Go then,

Once I too

Pranced restlessly

In a dreamer’s shoe

We all need to figure out

What to do

Go then

If you must

I am old

My dream-shoe is bust

One cannot be

A child again

Go then,

And God go

With you

You’re headed straight

For middle-age

Too

© Janet or Mom

Ephemeral Immortality

Photo: Rushing to see what lies beyond the bend...

We were immortal

You and I

The universal equalizer

Was the alibi

Of those who simply

Let it slip

Youth’s effervescent thread

Would never

Languish in our grip

Yes,

That is what we said

But Time is a great Teacher

Its lessons

Keen and hard

Instructing mortal creature

With blatant

Disregard

For illusions of stubborn pride

Or foolish wantonness

It draws us in an ethereal tide

And bittersweet

Caress

We thought we were immortal

We were wrong

The echo of youth’s fancy-free

A jaded song

For we have joined

The meeker ranks

Of middle-age

Where now we turn

With humble thanks

Each

Gifted page

…but when we were immortal

It was bliss

The lure of life’s eternity

A rousing kiss

Spawning the dream

That taught us how

To fly with blind-faith trust

But now we see

Mortality

Life’s little

Dust to dust

For Time is a wise Teacher

She tutors patiently

Each child; we all are children

In lessons

On her knee

And she does not play favorites

Nor spare one from her touch

As we learn to live, laugh and love

And not

Worry

So much

© Janet Martin

I have another photo I took moments before this one with another story attached to it.