Category: Age

I fear I’m now a very dowdy dresser
Who hides in shades of camouflage and beige,
When once I was outrageous and flamboyant,
I guess it’s just a sign of my old age.

Where once I sported amethyst and scarlet,
Now navy blue is my idea of smart,
No tourmaline or flashy shades of orange
Can make old biddies like me fit the part.

The part that says invisible and silent
Is what is right for old girls such as me,
That we must fade away into the background,
And do whatever we do, quietly.

I’m getting rather tired of dowdy dressing,
Invisible is not my cup of tea,
So if you see an old girl dressed in scarlet,
You never know, that old girl might be me!

Lynne Joyce 20.03.2016

Nowadays, when on a train,
I always seem to be
Seated facing backwards,
Quite unwillingly.

Even though I try to book
A forward facing seat
I still end up facing backwards,
Is this malice or defeat?

Maybe, the train people
Think that a my age,
I should sit with my back to the engine,
Because I’m at the ‘past it’ stage.

It may be that their thinking is
Because I’m old I’m weak,
I don’t have the guts to protest,
I’ll be quiet and not speak.

I might well be old and feeble,
But I will never be
Too old to raise a protest.
I don’t do timidity.

Years back, when I was younger,
I was always forward facing
Looking at what was to come,
Seeing life rush past me, racing.

And though I’m over sixty
Looking forward’s what I do,
For what’s gone is gone forever
And I prefer a forward view.

So give me a forward facing seat
And let me view the future,
I will not dwell upon the past,
I’m a forward looking creature.

© Lynne Joyce 16.10.2012

The clatter of heels alerted me
To a woman with a strut
And a very tidy figure
With a very rounded butt.

She wore a skin tight strappy top
And a tiny micro skirt
And shoes with heels so high that
They really must have hurt.

Her hair was short and spiky
And very neatly trimmed,
She wore designer glasses,
Squares framed and scarlet rimmed.

Obviously a gym freak,
Her muscle tone was tight,
Though she was well presented,
It didn’t look quite right.

Her tan was quite authentic,
Not sprayed on for effect,
But all this looked incongruous
For she was turkey-necked.

Her face betrayed her age as
It had wrinkles everywhere,
With facial muscles sagging,
And silver in her hair.

If she had gone for elegance
This lady would look good,
But choosing the teenage tart’s look
Meant that she never could.

Once past the age of fifty
One’s hemlines should go down
Lest you look like this lady,
The oldest slapper in town.

© Lynne Joyce 13.05.2012

– verse written after seeing this mother in Sterling Services whose son was obviously embarrassed by her attire.

Son to Mother

Are you wearing those pants for a joke, Ma,
Are you wearing those pants for a joke?
Can’t you buy something new, you’re not broke, Ma,
Can’t you buy something new, you’re not broke?

Are you out to amuse or beguile, Ma,
Are you out to amuse or beguile?
Is that fun or just your lack of style, Ma,
Is that fun or just your lack of style?

Can I sit somewhere else, not with you, Ma,
Can I sit somewhere else, not with you,?
Can I leave just as soon as we’re through, Ma,
Can I leave just as soon as we’re through?

Do you have to embarrass me, Ma,
Do you have to embarrass me?
Oh I just cannot wait to break free, Ma,
Oh I just cannot wait to break free!

Mother to Son

Yes I’m wearing these pants for a joke, Son,
But I fear that the joke is on you,
For though you won’t live by my rules, Son,
You cannot control what I do.

When I told you that you shouldn’t smoke, Son,
You defied me and went your own way,
Then I found you were well into dope, Son,
But rebellion’s a game two can play.

Your drug use embarrasses me, Son,
So I thought I’d embarrass you back,
In the hope that you’d want to break free, Son,
Move out and so take your own flack.

When you leave I will be so relieved, Son,
No more coppers or visits to Court,
I can sit back and won’t bale you out, Son,
But let you take the grief when you’re caught.

The bad news is its time to grow up, Son,
I won’t save your skin any more,
Its my turn to break loose and have fun, Son,
Off you go, cheerio, there’s the door!

© Lynne Joyce 27.09.2009

Written after repeatedly seeing the family who come out to dine with an elderly woman who obviously suffers dementia, at Mejias Trés, Calpe.

Madness,
The state of being out of sync
With reality.

Dinner
The art of going out with
Such as she.

She who,
Throws her food and makes a fuss
Habitually

Because she
Cannot cope with the demands of
Family.

Tragedy,
When circumstance and life conflict
With clarity.

Dementia
The state of being out of sync
With sanity

© Lynne Joyce 28.09.2011.

Sixty five, impeccable,
She shops while dressed to kill,
Sharp jacket, matching cutoff pants,
She’s old but stylish still.

Her hands are finely manicured,
Well pedicured her feet,
Her clothing is immaculate,
Clean and pressed and neat.

Her hair is very simply dressed
No hair is out of place,
It’s natural grey colour
Matches her ageing face.

Cosmetics are used lightly
Further to enhance
This well presented lady’s
Style and elegance.

I wonder as I watch her fill
Designer shopping bags
Why some, like her, age gracefully,
While some become old hags?

© Lynne Joyce May 2011, Mercadona Calpe.

I turned into a grumpy old woman
The day I became sixty three,
And I am quite happy to own that
Its what I’m entitled to be.

My friend wants to try meditation
To get rid of her grumpy bits,
I pleaded with her to forget it,
For at our age, grumpiness fits.

We’ve a right to complain about children
Who are noisy and thoughtless and rude,
We’re entitled to make our objections
To men who are loutish and crude.

What’s wrong with us issuing protests
To people who bitch and complain,
But reject the advice that we give them
And repeat the same patterns again?

No one can convince me its grumpy
To object when our rights are infringed,
To set standards and boundaries and limits
And make sure they’re never impinged.

So call me a grumpy old woman,
Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn,
I’m a grumpy old bat in my sixties,
This is me and I love what I am!

Lynne Joyce, 26.04.2011

Do not buy into the cult of youth,
Juvenile joys do not endure,
Do not envy the youthful and uncouth,
Revere instead the older and more mature.

Youth is not the church to worship in,
For there should be no shame in age,
There is no merit in a flawless skin,
Those with advancing age are sage.

Do not deceive about the passing years,
Years give you knowledge and experience,
Do not buy into media-fuelled fears,
Old age does not mean abstinence.

Reject the face-lift and the magic creams
Wrinkles and sagging faces should be worn
As evidence of life and lived out dreams,
And of joys re-born.

Don’t be seduced by the cult of youth,
Just being young deserves no praise,
Age gives an insight into truth
Youth is a short and passing phase.

Do not sit quiet and be patronised
By those made arrogant by youthfulness
You are a living gem, not fossilised,
Precious, not old and valueless.

Carry your years and experience
Openly, with pride and dignity,
Make those who suffer inexperience
Respect your wisdom and authority.

© Lynne Joyce, 08.08.2007.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my dignity I’ll keep,
Bugger wrinkles, bugger sags,
Just help me lift my shopping bags.

Sod the age spots and the grey,
And flab that will not go away,
Just help me win the hardest fight
To learn to love my cellulite.

Help me understand that health,
Is much more valuable than wealth,
But if I’m sick in my decline,
Please make sure I don’t whinge or whine.

Let people who encounter me
Not care how old I seem to be,
Let them value if they can,
Not what I look like, what I AM!

© Lynne Joyce

Looks are not important once you’re sixty,
You are free to be as ugly as you please,
Everyone expects you to be wrinkly,
And have a figure drifting to your knees.

Grey hair is a pensioner’s obligation,
Thin and in a style that’s out of date,
Nobody expects you to be sylph-like
Until you reach a scraggy eighty- eight.

Nobody believes you have opinions,
Or the right to tell them what you think,
Nobody’s surprised your speech is slurry
Whether it’s from ageing or from drink.

Once sixty, your achievements are as nothing
Anything you did no longer counts,
Nobody believes you are a thinker,
Though you might have degrees in vast amounts.

Suddenly you don’t have any value,
No intellect, no worth, no sex appeal,
People don’t talk to you but about you,
Uncaring about how this makes you feel.

Suddenly it’s as if your life is worthless,
And you are hanging round on borrowed time,
Everyone expects you to wear Cardies
And baggy pants, another fashion crime.

But all this stuff can be a liberation,
For you’re no longer bounded by the rules,
So go on, you’re allowed to be outrageous,
And damn the tiny-minded, ageist fools!

Lynne Joyce 07.12.2009 (62nd birthday)

Once upon a time
When my face glowed anticipation
I was a shiny fire engine,
A tin toy drum.

Later, older, I became
Dolls house and tricycle,
Paintbox & plasticine,
Mittens on string.

Post adolescence
Radiant, young & beautiful
I was parties & champagne corks,
And bright engagement rings.

In my fabulous forties
I was racy and lacy,
Satin pyjamas,
And weekends away.

I became in later years
Perfume & diamonds,
Sophisticated restaurants
And rides in balloons.

Now at 57
I am a leather back pack,
Wrinkled, sturdy, designer but practical,
Undoubtedly expensive but boring as hell.

But inside this back pack,
This sturdy Katana,
There are fireworks and tight rope walks
And changing the World.

There is dancing and singing
Carousing and outrageousness
Humour and mischief
And drunken reveling.

Inside the phone compartment,
Designed for pickpockets,
There are plans for revolution,
And a blueprint for revenge

On anyone who makes me
A sturdy leather back pack
Sturdy and practical,
But boring as Hell.

Lynne Joyce 07.12.2004 (My birthday)

I’ve got fat hips and a belly
That are made of Rowntrees jelly
In a rather sickly shade of pinky beige,
I’ve got loads of cellulite,
So I cover up at night
All the dimply bits that give away my age.

I’ve got a pair of knackered knees,
And a physio, if you please,
So my orthopaedic surgeon’s living well.
I have a surgeon for my face
Who simply can’t keep pace
With the damage I engendered when I fell.

He can fill the dented bits
But its well beyond his wits
To undo damage done by partying and drink.
He would like to do botox
To turn back my facial clock,
Because I’m a great deal older than you think.

But I don’t give a light
About bags and cellulite,
Or about my saggy, dimply, ageing skin,
Because what really matters
Is not about the wrappers,
It’s about the special woman that’s within.

Lynne Joyce, 02-05-2007.