Old School

This is old school writing.
It is how I learned to write.
It is probably not for the
“younger generation.”

I write my thoughts.
Sometimes they rhyme.
People read my thoughts.
Sometimes they complain.

Nowadays, this should not
Just be words in stanzas.
There should be a video.
It would have me reading.

I would read the poem.
This way, you can just listen.
While you listen,
You can see me.

Nobody wants that.
Maybe just the words
Scrolling on the screen.
A lyric poem.

Watching it takes longer
Than just reading it.
Plus, before the video,
You can see an ad or two.

Also, the rest of the page
Should have stories about
My life, my wife, my dogs.
Anything that inspired me.

I am sorry, but I am old.
You do not have to film words.
You do not have to read to me.
I can read it by myself.

Stress Kills

When Woman has a bad day,
Man hears about it.
Loud and long.
Man finds this stressful.

Stress is bad.

When Man has a bad day,
Women hear about it.
Loud and not so long.
Woman should find this stressful.

Instead, Man is then asked,
Why are you blaming this on me?
So, now, Man has work stress.
Also, he owes Woman an apology
For the crime of attempted stress.

Man must apologizing to Woman
For something Woman does to Man.
Man does not know how to apologize.
Man does not understand the issue.
This is extremely stressful.

Double stress is really bad.

Man drops dead of stress.
Woman says, “He was so young.”
Woman takes a cruise to relax.
She throws Man’s ashes overboard.

No more stress.

Woman has a bad day.
She goes shopping
With her inheritance.
Finds some goodies.

No more stress.

Another Trip Around The Sun

I woke up this morning.
Blind Faith was playing in my head.
That was a good start.
I may be old, but I’m still not dead.

I couldn’t remember the rest of the song.
Just one line stuck, because the singing’s sublime.
I hadn’t had coffee, but also, I’m old.
“When I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time”

It’s “Can’t Find My Way Home”.
Thank you, Steve Winwood.
(Thank you Wikipedia for reminding me.)
It’s melancholy but it’s so good.

The only problem with the song
Is the stuck line that he penned.
There are better ways to start a birthday
Than by repeating “near the end.”

Another Year

This is the last day of the Big 6-0.
A year that sucked from head to toe.
I broke my ankle and my foot.
Then COVID made us all stay put.
I left the house to see the surgeon.
Otherwise home, a vestal virgin.
The most excitement we had seen?
The line to get our new vaccine.
The year couldn’t have been much worse,
But at least I avoided riding in a hearse.

Fall in Spring

I was rearranging my plants.
In my lucky sweat pants.
That’s not really my point.
I’ve wounded another joint.

It’s Spring and lovely as can be,
But I fell and tweaked my knee.
Watching my new plants stand tall,
And I’m wondering if I can crawl.

Everything is still locked down,
We’re just remaining in town.
Otherwise, I’d be on a ship,
But I still had my Spring Break trip.

My Year So Far

February was my 20th Anniversary.
We were going for a cruise.
So, in January, I broke my foot.
Oh, plus my ankle, too.
Cruise canceled.
Well, next year is 21.
That's almost the same.
Staying home. 
Avoiding all others.
Well, it will be over by May.
May, when we visit grandkids.
Wait. What?
Scrap that trip.
We have a Christmas cruise.
Yes, I know about cruises.
I'm not hopeful.
2019 kinda sucked.
2020 said, "Hold my beer."
I'm too old for this.
March, I was out of the splint.
I was out of the cast.
I was into a boot.

So, now I can travel.
It's my 60th birthday.
Time for a road trip.
Wait. What?

Sixty

Raise a glass, shed a tear, I’m getting old, the end is near.

Happy Birthday to me.
I’ll just watch some TV.
We’re all still on lockdown.
Happy Birthday to me.

I planned a little birthday trip,
It would’ve been quite fun.
Now, we’re quarantined at home,
The trip has been undone.

Sixty will be a Facetime birthday.
“It’s fun!”, my dear wife said.
I’ll see my brother’s smiling face,
And the top of my Mom’s head.

Happy Birthday to me.
I loathe Twenty-Twenty.
I’m going stir-crazy,
Happy Birthday to me.

Progress

Two weeks in a splint.
Don’t touch the ground!
Don’t breathe on it!
It’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Three weeks in a cast.
Don’t touch the ground!
Don’t scratch inside it!
The time will go by fast.

Four weeks in a boot.
Don’t touch the ground!
Don’t get it wet!
You’ve really learned to scoot.

One final week in the boot.
You may walk, if you please.
Please wash it!
You smell of old coot.

Ten weeks later,
It’s just a foot again.
(Still limping a bit.)