It’s not the same face that I wore in my youth.
The eyes have grown dim and I’m long in the tooth.
My smile seems the same, and though voice is still deep
down lines made by laughter run tears that I weep.
I'm not the same man who was carefree and cool,
I fret and I frequently feel like a fool.
My kids come along to conspire and collude,
to snigger at Dad when he calls out, ‘Hey, Dude!’
There’s not the same joy, merely mocking and mirth
that jangles and jars, and I’m short of self-worth!
My joints ache at dawn and my thoughts are confused.
A tap on the wrist and I’m battered and bruised.
They’re not the same days that I loved as a child.
The nights have drawn in; they are no longer wild.
Don’t even suggest I just shrug off my fears:
That’s grasping at straws and just grinding the gears!
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 11th, 2025 01:39
- Comment from author about the poem: The rant of an aging poet on the wrong side of 60
- Category: Humor
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
A fun read for a guy that has a few years on you. Age is relative and I have to smile when I at 75 go through the check out and the checker calls me young man. A fun read and so well rhymed and with such good flow it gets a fave
Many thanks, SB. At the church where I work, many people are in their 70s and 80s. They often call me 'young man' - they don't seem to realise that I'm not much younger than they are. Again, thanks for appreciating the poem and the humour.
You are most welcome
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