Colin F. Jones

GROWING OLD

~ 1 ~

The ephemeral joys of early childhood,
Are lost to dormancy in middle age,
Restored again in geezer-hood,
An incipient new living stage,
While living life pro tempore,
When one is mesmerized by dreams,
Ebullient with youth’s high spirits,
Though life is not at all as it seems
For we hear not the tocsin,
That dims the perpetuation of the myth,
As we agonise towards destruction,
Of the precious mortal gift.
And there is no one passing by us,
To offer us a lift.

~ 2 ~

Pain if you are not active; pain if you are;
Knowing when to stop, before walking too far.
Things no longer accessible; every slope a hill,
Retreating to the shell against a vanishing will.
Lacking in importance; unable to compete,
Shat upon by rivals now knowing you are weak.
Knowing death is closer that the executioner awaits;
The lowering of your shield; your insignificant debates:
The church’s axiomatic truth inspiring insouciance no more,
With its bromidic sermons justifying Christian atrocity in war.
The deep sadness of truth that is discovered too late
As growing somnolent moments allay eventual fate:
Then, when we stop thinking, then it is all gone;
Then forgotten is life and all that was done.