Vitality left me, I am awkward and slow,
crooked appendages shake to and fro.
Cease the day, cease the night, for the
young that’s old age’s plight.
Decrepit body, features sunken to my skull,
bellows of skin hang from jaw.
White hair and skin; I look like someone
who was bleached from within.
Aah! Sweet youth! Dashing in all directions:
bouncy, bubbly, brisk, bright and brass,
all pink and rosy cheeked, tight cropped
head, sparkling eyes, thin waisted, tight
Oh! To be young again.
I’d rather white hair, than a full crop
set on a corkscrew head. Scattered brained,
hardly trained, standing around in a stoup.
My white hair a sign. It’s a compliment for
solving life’s predicaments. With each
solution a new sprout of silver. A brilliant
dome, a silver star.
Bright, brass, prime hay? To bright to ask
for advice, to brass to use it if given,
and to prime for anything approaching the
I have served my time in youth and never go
back except to collect a memory.
If you think old age is for napping
just ask Charlie Chaplin. Not an old bull
with a crumpled horn, but a silvered eagle,
soaring from it’s ground history, steely eyed,
keenly aware of where and how to use life’s
energy, and yet graciously available to counsel
any or all who would listen.
If I had a choice, “Golden Youth or Silver Age”? I’d
have silver with no hesitation.
Sliver glitters as gold, only in a different light.