Future Plans

Photo by Ravi Patel on Unsplash

When I am an old, old woman I may very well be

living all alone like many another before me

and I rather look forward to the day when I shall have

a tumbledown house on a hill top and behave

just as I wish to. No more need to be proud—

at the tag end of life one is at last allowed

to be answerable to no one. Then I shall wear

a shapeless felt hat clapped on over my white hair,

sneakers with holes for the toes, and a ragged dress.

My house shall be always in a deep-drifted mess,

my overgrown garden a jungle. I shall keep a crew

of cats and dogs, with perhaps a goat or two

for my agate-eyed familiars. And what delight

I shall take in the vagaries of day and night,

in the wind in the branches, in the rain on the roof!

I shall toss like an old leaf, weather-mad, without reproof.

I’ll wake when I please, and when I please I shall doze;

whatever I think, I shall say; and I suppose

that with such a habit of speech I’ll be let well alone

to mumble plain truth like an old dog with a bare bone.

~ Kate Barnes

(from Where the Deer Were)

When You Are Old

Source: The Book Potato

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced among the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

~ William Butler Yeats

When You Are Old

Source: The Book Potato

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced among the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

~ William Butler Yeats

Promises

Credit: red_coat.jpg by hotblack

“We’re always being made promises," she said. "You make them yourself and you listen to others giving theirs. Politicians are always going on about providing a better quality of life for people as they get older, and a health service in which nobody ever gets bedsores. Banks promise you high interest rates, some food promises to make you lose weight if you eat it, and body creams guarantee old age with fewer wrinkles. Life is quite simply a matter of cruising along in your own little boat through a constantly changing but never-ending stream of promises. And how many do we remember? We forget the ones we would like to remember, and we remember the ones we’d prefer to forget. Broken promises are like shadows dancing around in the twilight. The older I become, the more clearly I see them."

~ Henning Mankell

Promises

Credit: red_coat.jpg by hotblack

“We’re always being made promises," she said. "You make them yourself and you listen to others giving theirs. Politicians are always going on about providing a better quality of life for people as they get older, and a health service in which nobody ever gets bedsores. Banks promise you high interest rates, some food promises to make you lose weight if you eat it, and body creams guarantee old age with fewer wrinkles. Life is quite simply a matter of cruising along in your own little boat through a constantly changing but never-ending stream of promises. And how many do we remember? We forget the ones we would like to remember, and we remember the ones we’d prefer to forget. Broken promises are like shadows dancing around in the twilight. The older I become, the more clearly I see them."

~ Henning Mankell

Poem: Glass of Water and Coffee Pot

Glass of Water and a Coffee Pot by Jean-Baptiste Simèon Chardin

after Chardin

These rooms of wood, of tongue-and-groove, open out
on a garden of white-washed walls and a maple tree,
a new Spring bright among the weathered stone and brick.
We find things that are old and used, well-made, well worn
and beautiful because of this. The balance
intimate between that glass of water’s clarity and light
and the pot’s grave darkness: an order so luminous
and fine you needn’t measure it with a rule, just look.
The papery whiteness of the garlic heads is the same light
held in the water glass, the same light lifting a gleam
from the blackened coffee pot that’s somehow managed
to make it through, to find harmony here
on this stone shelf, happiness of the hand and heart,
to keep its heat and still pour clean and true.

~ Robin Robertson

Poem: Glass of Water and Coffee Pot

Glass of Water and a Coffee Pot by Jean-Baptiste Simèon Chardin

after Chardin

These rooms of wood, of tongue-and-groove, open out
on a garden of white-washed walls and a maple tree,
a new Spring bright among the weathered stone and brick.
We find things that are old and used, well-made, well worn
and beautiful because of this. The balance
intimate between that glass of water’s clarity and light
and the pot’s grave darkness: an order so luminous
and fine you needn’t measure it with a rule, just look.
The papery whiteness of the garlic heads is the same light
held in the water glass, the same light lifting a gleam
from the blackened coffee pot that’s somehow managed
to make it through, to find harmony here
on this stone shelf, happiness of the hand and heart,
to keep its heat and still pour clean and true.

~ Robin Robertson

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer

His God

Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com

After six days of diligent labour

he’d done it, he’d made his God.

He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,

wiping the sweat from his brow,

looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.

But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much

about as perfect as he could make him.

Though there were disappointments.

His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,

almost a falsetto,

instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots

voice he’d intended.

Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.

He never really got around to actually doing anything.

And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.

But then again, they seemed to happen

no matter whose God was pulling the reins.

He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket

they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.

They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.

His God could be a bit crass at times,

an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,

burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,

gawking at bums and breasts.

He had his good side though.

He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.

His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.

He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.

But he kept his creator company

on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.

His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.

But he was his.

And they grew old together.

The man and his God.

They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things

that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.

The man died.

His God looked down on him,

thought I’ll be damned!

And died too.

~ Bill Fewer