Poyetry

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Boomer Sonnet

Taking off from Shakespeare's beautiful sonnet LXXIII (click on the title to this post to link to a website offering sonnets LXXI-LXXX, and see the original), I tried a humorous take on our modern refusal to recognize creeping age. As a boomer myself, I see these tendencies in myself and my fellows.

That time of year, thou may’st in me behold
When few leaves, or none at all still hang,
Upon the branches black and wet and cold.
Those bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang –
I cannot bear to see portents, and so I don’t.
I close my mind to achey joints and wheezy hoots.
I play pick up games with younger guys who won’t
Push too hard, or crowd me when I shoot.
I die my hair, use wrinkle cream.
I dress too hip for a gal my age.
I ride a bike and never dream
I’ll ever reach that wheelchair stage.

That time of year, thou dost in me behold
When stridently I deny I ever will get old.

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