The Meter is Running
Rare is the poet who lives to old age but does not write about it.
In my poem, Confessions of a Procrastinator, I suggest poems
on growing old have all been written. There’s nothing more to say.
Poets across the ages, from Shakespeare to Maya Angelou,
have covered the subject in surplus, often in unoriginal repetition.
W.B. Yeats was gloomy, “An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick . . . .” Alora Knight is more upbeat,
“I'll make each day be a worthwhile event, with no regrets for
the life I have led.” It’s positive, more aligned with my thinking.
I like Robert Browning’s famous lines, “Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.” It’s simple and unabashed. What could be
more straight-forward or as free of dispirited poetic lamentation?
A recent study proclaims there are upsides to getting older.
Mental health, mood, well-being, and stress management
all improve, right up until the end of life. Imagine,
aging cast as something to look forward to, in vogue so to
Might it be okay again to compose a poem on growing old,
maybe with a cheerful theme? I wonder if any poets have
tied into this study as a source for a poem on aging.
I have no such poem in mind, but will save my notes,
keep recording my thoughts and impressions.
The meter is running. As time dictates, I will make the
necessary concessions, grudgingly. I’ll avoid the trivial and
meaningless. Visit sweet memories, often. I won’t allow
foreknowing to consume the enjoyment of today.
Mortality is natural, a unit of the biological blueprint,
in attunement with the workings of the universe.
I accept that — unless, at some point, I experience
a change in attitude.
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The poet on aging.