Cruising Into The Sunset - Stephen A. Roberts

The excursion bus awaits
Another day another shrine
All across Europe
We follow time
Back for lunch
And package wine
Siesta by the pool
Under hillside vines
Tomorrow we visit
Another Guggenheim
The days blur by
Living on borrowed time
Boarding, boarded
On down the line
We’re in a city
Scored by tramlines
Don’t get lost and miss
The sailing deadline
The heat beats down
In these foreign climes
The views confuse
Our average age is 99

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Guernseypoets

Recluse - Richard Fleming

All scattered to the winds and ways,
like blushing cherry blossom blown,
the friends, he knew when not full-grown,
have vanished from his elder days.
The carelessness of childhood meant
that friendships were a thing to find
then let escape. No contract signed.
No deal. A currency unspent.
If friendships had been coins or gold,
he might have locked inside a cage
all he had gathered to assuage
the loneliness of growing old.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - michaelform

Romance - Oscar Milde

Young love’s romantic that’s for sure
it’s dewy-eyed, intense and pure,
emotional to wild extremes,
hot-blooded too, the stuff of dreams.

Old love is different, of course
it’s like a voice that has gone hoarse
from too much talking. Old love must
celebrate contentment, trust. 

Oscar Milde


Image : Pixabay - sabinevanerp

What a pity, about Aunt Kitty - Tony Bradley

Aunt Kitty used to stay with us,
for a fortnight, once a year
after 2 weeks of her Scrabble
we’d had enough, of the crafty old dear.

She’d bring her own Scrabble set with her
and with it, her own set of rules
but every game, she’d move the goalposts
and make us all look like fools.

She liked to play for money, not a lot
we’d start maybe with a pound in the kitty
but she’d win, almost every game
raking in the quids, saying "what a pity."

Last year, sadly, her eyesight failed
so no more Scrabble, for poor Aunt Kitty
Scrabble was her life, so she passed away
we miss her shenanikins, and "what a pity."

Tony Bradley

Joy Rider - Diane Scantlebury

When I’ve got dementia
You’ll drive me around in your car,
I won’t have a clue where I am
Or who the hell you are,
It’ll be an adventure without memory
That’ll make me feel happy inside,
Tomorrow there’ll be no recollection
So for now I’ll enjoy the ride!

Diane Scantlebury

Train Of Thought - Tony Bradley

It seems these days, that my memory deserts me
half the stuff I thought, that I was taught
I’m left stranded, at the station, ‘cos my education
just left again, on the last train of thought.

Tony Bradley

Ageing - Tony Gardner

I used to be a strong man
Worked from dawn 'til setting sun.
Yet I enjoyed my leisure
Had more than of my share of Fun
And I thought I'd live forever
That no shot could bring me low
For I was tall and full of Life
And confidence and 'Go'

Today I sit and dream through dark
And misty memories thick
To days I didn't need to lean
On this cold metal walking stick
But it's down to aged men like me
To sit and wonder why
Every fit and youthful man
Will one day fade and die.

Tony Gardner

Fugit - Stephen A. Roberts

The remembrance of all things past
Those golden days that could never last
We stood upon the reservoir of youth
Convinced we knew the only truth

Was it arrogance or naïve belief
That carried us over every reef
Swept along on the rising tide
We laughed so hard and enjoyed the ride

Now we wait in rooms for our turn
Looking back on what we've learned
The doubt crept in and is here to stay
We sold our souls for another day

We repeat repeat the same mistakes
Until our film has no more takes
The final reel is spinning down
Fade to black and no more sound

Stephen A. Roberts

“He's really not with us.” - Tony Bradley

I used to tell my wife,"look, I ain't bovvered"
she always said I'm definitely not the full shilling
she knew I easily nodded off with the fairies
and she used to give me a regular grilling.

I can easily nod off, sitting, or just leaning
just a quiet moment, and I'm away
and sometimes I can wake up, 5 minutes later
and I'm sure it can't possibly still be the same day.

If I had to wait 5 minutes for her, shopping
I'd usually dozed off, when she came back
so, no help with shopping bags, she's annoyed
she says it's embarrassing, and I get a whack.

When I wake, I think 'where am I ?
what day is it, what's the score?'
Apparently, I'm the only person, who gets this problem
so now, I don't tell anyone, any more.

Tony Bradley

Over the Edge - Diane Scantlebury

Head first over the precipice she plunges,
Freefalling into a different age,
No safety harness to impede her progress,
As her life speeds past to another page,

No mayday calls or rescue boat launched to find her,
Nor helicopter circling to seek out where she’d be,
While over the edge she was falling, falling,
To drown in the depths of the aging sea,

At the edge there’d been no warning,
No easy route on which to stick,
So she’d trundled on through life oblivious
Of the inevitable path that time would pick,

Into the sea of age she was falling, falling,
Life passing before her in a flash,
No outstretched net below to catch her,
No one had pushed, there’d be no splash.

Diane Scantlebury

Mister Bore - Oscar Milde

He’s a dull bird in today’s world:
no strutting,
no nothing,
no brag,
no swagger,
no guile,
no style,
no profile online
no quips,
no sell,
no kiss and tell
of whips or gels
or girls or drugs
or private hells,
no bugs,
no hugs,
no movie plugs ...
he simply shrugs.

You might opine
he doesn’t shine
and think, at sixty-nine,
he’s in decline.
He chinks your glass
and laughs
and says he’s fine.

Oscar Milde

Georgia - Bryant Doyle

I've gone all unnecessary, get a grip, . . . there SHE is
My heart's gone all funny, and I've got the cramps
the most beautiful thing that ever walked this Earth
and I'm old enough to be her Gramps.

Old men still appreciate women, like good wines and ports
with their knowledge they can admire, though not partake
I've always had my own short list of tipples and snorts
but my unofficial role of wine-buff, I now gladly vacate.

Having just seen her, that list is nonsense
if scribbled on paper, it would be up in smoke
. ..God in Heaven, . . . DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS . . .
ignore me, I've died, I'm a happy bloke.

The (slight) age difference could invoke inappropriate response
hence the analogy women to wine, a cunning disguise
but it's only from a distance I look at GEORGIA
'cos I just melt when as I gaze into her eyes.

Bryant Doyle

Am I in Rochester? - Tony Bradley

My little brother and I sometimes looked after Aunt Winnie
Mother would bring her, but herself not stay
turns out Aunt Winnie wasn't a relative at all
but we had to watch her, sometimes all day.

Her mind used to wander, we were too young to realise
we just thought she was mad, or a witch
we used to play along, in her ramblings
we were either afraid, or amused, I can't remember which.

"Am I in Rochester . . .tickets please . . .mind the doors
let the cat out, Beryl, two-and-thruppence, . . .where's my hat ?"
We'd assume our roles, both looking for the 'hat', and stamp her ticket,
and I'd be 'Beryl', and remove the 'cat'.

If we were older and wiser, we'd have understood better
although, in a way, for Aunt Winnie it was good
she wanted to go back to happier times
and the days she was with us, the dear old soul could

Tony Bradley

Energy Conservation (Save Some For Later) - Tony Bradley

When I think back to my stupid young years
the wasted energy almost has me in tears
continuing the lost cause, supporting the lame duck,
I couldn't just leave it, and accept my bad luck.

Nowadays, there's more caution in my moving
any cause for action needs a good deal of proving
I spend time in the garden, keeping it pretty and neat
but much longer basking in my favourite seat.

I'm out driving, admiring some lovely view
I get out for a stroll, it's a bit of a wrench
I'm enjoying the scenery, the fresh spring air
but I'm sure the buggers have moved a bench.

Tony Bradley

Breakfast Orders - Diane Scantlebury

Across the small hotel table they sit
An invisible barrier of quietness between them,
Not even an upward glance or look
Or civil word as the day awakens,
Silence only broken as their breakfast orders are taken,

How they grumble to themselves
As they wait, but not to each other,
Nor any contact do they make,
Their bodies leaning perilously like trees being felled
While they wonder how long their eggs and bacon will take,

Long years together have dulled their intimate life,
He has a smile for the pretty, young waitress
But none for his wife,
Who pretends not to notice as she twists the gold band
On the gnarled third finger of her sun wrinkled left hand,

Irritation with each other heightens
With every rustle and turn of his newspaper page,
Their breakfast order seems to be taking an interminable age,
Too long in each other’s company to be tethered
Too tenuous the bonds of the vows that bind them forever.

Diane Scantlebury

At Grandfather’s - Richard Fleming

Along the entry he would come caterwauling,
striking bin-lids with his stick,
through the backyard knocking over milk bottles.

Up the wooden stair, rolling like a tar,
to lifeboat-bed and disapproval:
his salty, mermaid wife growling like an ocean.

On Sunday mornings there, we children crouched,
like mice, digesting toast and catechisms,
as grandma stepped, stiff-backed, around him.

He would be still as stone, his bowl of porridge cooling.

Richard Fleming
This poem appears in Richard’s second poetry collection, Strange Journey.

For further information go to http://redhandwriter.blogspot.com

Maturity - Diane Scantlebury

I’m like an old egg
With a chick still inside,
An ancient cave
Where my inside child can hide,
A vintage decanter
Full of fine new wine,
A young head
On old shoulders
With a fertile, overactive mind,
Youthful errors and mistakes
I’ve made plenty that’s a surety,
But now I have the advantage
Of hindsight and maturity,
I feel no need to regard the passing of youth
With envy or resentment,
I can treasure every year gained
With the smugness of contentment,
I may have had my salad days
Enjoyed, indulged and taken my fill,
But like cheese and fruit I have matured
And am even tastier still!

Diane Scantlebury

A Gift Of Flowers - Trudie Shannon

He proffered two flowers,
Both full-blown , a blue and a yellow.
She thought of Spring but
This was Autumn and he was well into his winter
His shoulders stooped, his head bald
And his skin ruddy with burst capillaries.
She took them graciously
Whilst he swept his cap from his head
Bowing slightly.
And realised in that gesture
She was in receipt
Of a simple gift of love.

Trudie Shannon

Sorry John - John E Blaise

Grey, thin, drinks tonic water mixed with Gin.
Toothless, not bearded or a hag, walks with a wooden stick,
Winks an eye surrounded by wrinkled skin,
Try to imagine her first romance,
Love making between silk sheets,
Steamy passion behind closed doors,
Groaning and moaning through the floors.
Imagine, Imagine, Imagine.
Frail, once a plump woman,
Now a skeleton, dressed for dinner,
I see her wearing a shroud
Followed around by a dark shadow
Has nothing left to say or discuss
I don’t believe in Jesus

John E Blaise

When a Bloke Achieves a Significant Age - Janet

When a bloke achieves a significant age
and life is a battle, he needs to wage.
Recall when he was the great man about town.
This grumpy old geyser with the persistent frown.
For he is one of life's misunderstood.
Can't do now,what before, he could.
He's just an old chap hanging on by a thread.
Living for the time when he gets his own shed.

This shed won't be flash but, his alone
A place he can hide and hiss and moan.
A shiny brass lock with just one key.
His haven, his place, his sanctuary.
And when they knock upon the door.
He will be safe and their calls ignore.
He'll sit in his den in an old armchair.
Pretending he doesn't have a care.

He will hide away with his favourite stuff
They will not see it and cannot touch.
Perhaps a telly and a bottle of beer.
King of his castle, he'll have no fear.
A remote control and his favourite TV.
No soaps, or bake offs and sewing bees.
A place for just this chap alone
No wife, no family, or telephone.

It won't be a palace that is for sure.
Just a place to hide with his own front door.
No one will enter his secret lair,he's the
Head of the Pride they would not dare.
On the mysteries of life he will reflect.
He has a den, he will command respect
from all the old mates, who don't have a hide.
World weary and ageing not a scrap of pride.

But, you have a shed, and it's full to the brim.
With chisels and bikes and empty paint tins.
This could be the palace the place of your dreams.
If a skip could be ordered and your wife allowed in.
Oh yes, she would clear it out in a trice.
But you risk she would turn it to her sort of... nice.
'Til then your a chap hanging on by a thread.
Living for the time when you get your own shed!

Janet