Aging Poems


Don't Grow Too Old

Don't ever grow too old for birthdays,
Fun-things that you used to do,
Don't give up your dreams because you
Feel that they have not come true.
Don't forget the sound of laughter,
Or the love in someone's eyes,
Don't trade memories for pleasures,
All that in a moment dies.

Don't give up your zest for living,
Saying you are much too old,
Is this what you feel, or is it
Something that you have been told?
There's a valley deep within us,
Where there is an eternal Spring,
Where there is no sound of sorrow,
And the birds forever sing.

Though your gait is not as steady now,
As once it used to be,
And your vision's clouding over things
You used to clearly see,
Do not let the weight of decades,
Turn you into bitter gall,
For with age there comes a wisdom,
That is a blessing to us all.

Hold your years up like a banner,
Wave it brightly in the sun,
When folks tell you life is over,
Tell them it has just begun.
Loneliness can never touch you,
If you won't allow it to,
And in sharing love with others,
... God will give it back to you.

Author Unknown

I'm Not Old... Just Mature

Today at the drugstore, the clerk was a gent.
From my purchase this chap took off ten percent.
I asked for the cause of a lesser amount;
And he answered, "Because of the Seniors Discount."

I went to McDonald's for a burger and fries;
And there, once again, got quite a surprise.
The clerk poured some coffee which he handed to me.
He said, "For you, Seniors, the coffee is free."

Understand... I'm not old... I'm merely mature;
But some things are changing, temporarily, I'm sure.
The newspaper print gets smaller each day,
And people speak softer... can't hear what they say.

My teeth are my own (I have the receipt.),
And my glasses identify people I meet.
Oh, I've slowed down a bit ... not a lot, I am sure.
You see, I'm not old... I'm only mature.

The gold in my hair has been bleached by the sun.
You should see all the damage that chlorine has done.
Washing my hair has turned it all white,
But don't call it gray... saying "blond" is just right.

My car is all paid for... not a nickel is owed.
Yet a kid yells, "Old duffer... get off of the road!"
My car has no scratches... not even a dent.
Still I get all that guff from a punk who's "Hell bent."

My friends all get older... much faster than me.
They seem much more wrinkled, from what I can see.
I've got "character lines," not wrinkles... for sure,
But don't call me old... just call me mature.

The steps in the houses they're building today
Are so high that they take ... your breath all away;
And the streets are much steeper than ten years ago.
That should explain why my walking is slow.

But I'm keeping up on what's hip and what's new,
And I think I can still dance a mean boogaloo.
I'm still in the running... in this I'm secure,
I'm not really old... I'm only mature.

Author unknown

Painting The Picture

When my hair is thin and silvered,
and my time of toil is through;
when I've many years behind me,
and ahead of me a few;
I shall want to sit, I reckon,
sort of dreaming in the sun;
and recall the roads I've traveled
and the many things I've done.

I hope there'll be no picture
that I'll hate to look upon;
when the time to paint it better
or to wipe it out, is gone.

I hope there'll be no vision
of a hasty word I've said
that has left a trail of sorrow,
like a whip welt, sore and red.

And I hope my old age dreaming
will bring back no bitter scene
of a time when I was selfish,
or a time when I was mean.

When I'm getting old and feeble,
and I'm far along life's way,
I don't want to sit regretting
any bygone yesterday.

I am painting now the picture
that I'll want someday to see;
I am filling in a canvas
that will soon come back to me.

Though nothing great is on it,
and though nothing there is fine,
I shall want to look it over
when I'm old, and call it mine.

So I do not dare to leave it
while the paint is warm and wet,
with a single thing upon it
that I later will regret.

Author Unknown

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