'Intelligent Design' my foot !
How in Heaven could he overlook
the need, now I' m old and running down,
for somewhere to wind me up again ?

When young, old age was just a rumour
justifiably ignored.
Although old folk were sometimes seen,
they could be properly forgotten
as alien embarrassments
in a world of wonder
waiting to be explored.

No knowledge then of the waiting tumour,
evolution's handicap.
Maturity too busy also,
earning a living, settling down,
companioning partners, raising kids,
to notice the closing trap.

Still nothing need disturb the humour
contemplating life ahead -
the traffic lights are mostly green
and if they're amber, you nip past them;
you can't wait for red.

But all the colours in the future
start to darken into dread.
There's a roadblock on the highway
which will stop you dead.

Debilitation and dementia
mark the progress of your ailment
for which there isn't any treatment.

So say goodbye to all your former
happiness (no use to rage)

and hello to your terminal trauma

of old age.

Lately I must renew my driving licence
but always receive my TV licence free.
I get the government winter fuel payment
and a buss pass that's invaluable to me.

I don't now need to look for paid employment
(I get more money from my pensions than I spend)
so I could pass my time in full enjoyment
before my life's inevitable end.

But life needs satisfaction as well as pleasure
and helping plants grow does fill up the daytime
while leaving the evenings free for ample leisure
with various choices for my adult playtime.

Except for nature, sport and a couple of quiz shows
I've almost given up watching live TV,
preferring music to dispel my mood lows
as more effective than stand-up comedy.

I really love the 'classic' catchy pop songs,
those filtered as the best from sixty years
of musical composition which well belongs
among the cultural triumphs of my peers.

So I frequent the local clubs and bar halls
that play the sort of music that I like
without the probability of bar brawls
or an egocentric oaf that hogs the mike.

Sometimes the bouncer checking ID at the door
looks at my licence and belches with surprise
since he hasn't yet seen me take the dance floor
pretending to be a youngster in disguise.

But I have a net of wrinkles on my face;
my jowls droop from sunken cheeks to chin;
my uncut hair's a probable disgrace;
my un-ironed body has drapes of sagging skin.

And yet I can't stop thinking I'm attractive
(if only girls wouldn't judge the book by the cover)
though I don't aspire to anything seductive;
I have no fantasies of being a lover.

But I love the vitality of female butterflies
dancing to the rhythm of the music
while around them buzz the male hoverflies
well on their way to being booze sick.

The woman beside me queueing at the bar,
looking like a tourist, at last is bold
enough to ask "Please, how old you are?"
and smiles at my standard reply "Too old."

But too glib really; really just a pup;
still young at heart; but lacking potency!
Perhaps it's time to hang my slippers up
as superhero - Teenage OAP.

It was never irrational fearing the edge
of the world if you thought it was flat.
On the basis it couldn't continue for ever
you'd tumble through space until 'splat'.

But why then do poets who should know much better
still fear the right edge of the page ?
Their lines now continually jump to the left
as if they're unable to gauge

how far they dare go away from the pack
till timidity forces them back.
Without the assurance of rythym and rhyme
it's just backward steps all the time.

I have a little poe tree;
nothing will it bare
about my human frailty
but what I hereby share.

There's very little silver
and even less that's gold
and as for Spain's fair daughter
I wouldn't be so bold.

Resolutions

I have to work hard at not believing in an afterlife where we will meet again and love each other for eternity.
I need to remind myself that wanting something to be true doesn't make it true.
I have to respect the scientific facts, however lacking in comfort.
I must resist the temptation of consolation.

We have the choice of so many media
there's no excuse for being bored
yet youngsters moan "There's nothing to do here . ."
 - better amused than ever before !

What we want most is just entertainment,
something to entertain our minds -
clothes for the king, invisible raiment,
no matter it deceives or blinds:

too many papers, too many pages,
too many glossy magazines;
too many programmes aired on the wireless,
too many channels on TV;

not enough news to fill all the spaces,
not enough facts to inform views,
not enough people wanting to progress
but loads of dross from which to choose -

journalists seeking prize-winning inches,
columnists needing new ideas,
cameramen chasing passionate clinches
(editors' circulation fears!).

But for the peasants tending their livestock,
fetching the water, weeding fields,
what do they think of watching the sun-clock
hour after hour till daylight yields?

What do they think of during the darkness,
chores all completed, free to muse ?
No entertainment centre to access,
probably not even numbing booze !

How do they manage minus presenters,
make-over experts, fashion tips,
new revelations daring the censors,
interview sound bites, image clips ?

Might they just notice nature more often
rather than crass consumer goods ?
Might they just pay their old folk attention,
play with their children in the woods ?

Or do they just create superstition
(something to occupy their minds)
fairies and ghosts or even religion -
imagination of all kinds ?

Once started up our brains don't stop humming,
fuelled by language, never still;
even in sleep our dreams just keep coming;
blanking out thought is beyond our will.

We are all evolution's last victims
plagued by our brains and language skill,
peak of mutation's random bizarre whims,
ultimate unsuccessful frill !

As with the physical, so with the mental -
nature abhors a vacuum:
pity we try to make life too gentle
using hot air like opium !