Partners for Life

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

“The great thing about getting older is that you become much more mellow. Things aren’t as much black and white and you become much more tolerant. You can see the good things much more easily… “  - Maeve Binchy 

“Aging is not uncomplicated. Creativity is an extraordinary help against destructive demons.” - Ingmar Bergman

“We are not victims of aging, sickness and death. These are part of scenery, not the seer, who is immune to any form of change. This seer is the spirit, the expression of eternal being.” - Deepak Chopra

“The ordinary experiences of aging alter and clarify your view of past, present, and future.” - Edith Pearlman

Now, many if not most of us have to cope with various health issues as we grow old(er). Never easy. The trick is not to let it obscure our perspective on the bright(er) side of life, especially as it is reflected in the kinder side of human nature

PARTNERS FOR LIFE

Growing old,
quality of life much the poorer
just for that, barely 
in touch with a mind-body-spirit
often losing its way
among mixed feelings forever open
to misinterpretation,
of positive thoughts persistently overtaken
by naggings of disillusion?

Looking back
over some shadowy shoulder
at inspiring dreams
left unfulfilled like litter on the streets
where I have lived,
expecting more of a Here-and-Now
than it was able to give,
left wondering what Time may yet yield me
other than... a lonely eternity?

Alternative voices,
familiar enough to any heart-and-soul
having had to rise above
such negative thoughts as sure to haunt
even a positive thinker
whenever life take a turn for the worse,
(as often as not)
tasking us with the greater art of being human,
in starting over, yes, yet again

Oh, mind-and body!
unable to win through, but for letting in
and partnering a native spirit
defying description, invariably taking its cue
from a natural world
no less under threat than a heart-and-soul
continuing to be inspired,
forever working through stages of regeneration;
come mind-body-spirit, in unison.

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2023

[Note: I have been very unwell, but  working on another post-poem has contributed, in no small measure, to my starting to feel a lot better and more positive about looking on the bright(er) side of life...😉 Oh, and I hope some of you will have enjoyed browsing the post-poems in the blog archives during my absence, and will continue to do so.] RT

 

Addressing Time and Personal Space

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

While out shopping the other day, I overheard someone say, "Growing old is bad enough without having to deal with Covid-19 as well..." I can empathise, especially as I will be 76 in December. Even so, I take the same view as Her Majesty the Queen who, at 95, recently turned down a 'Golden Oldie' award on the grounds that "You're as old as you feel."  Or as young, as the case may well be.

Mind you, I defy anyone to say they never feel their age. Some days...!

Here in the UK we need to put our clocks back an hour before going to bed tonight. Oh, and still on the subject of time...😉

ADDRESSING TIME AND PERSONAL SPACE 

I grow older,
my life is full of ghosts
inclined to taunt
and haunt me with its ebb and flow
of hopes and dreams

I grow older,
needs must find ways
to adapt to changes
progressively haunting, taunting me
with mixed feelings 

I grow old,
looking back in anger, love
and tears for all I am
that’s bent on breaking ties that bind
mind-body-spirit 

Young, once,
a part of me that will always
bask in a kinder
past-present-future that insists I stay
the course...

Younger, once,
on a learning curve that’s taught me
to keep looking
on the bright(er) side of life, whatever
it throws at me 

Younger, once,
discovering the art of letting laughter
get the better of tears,
happy talk giving alter ego more time
to swim than sink 

I grow older,
memory bent on playing tricks on me
while imagination
conjures up a positive thinking mindset
that’s ageless 

I grow older... so?
If youth and old age are but seasons
of life, let’s engage
more with rainbows than rain, roses
than snowdrops? 

Time, having us run
its gauntlet, reasoning not the need;
Earth Mother,
taking me to heart who has given it
my best shot 

Me? I am humankind,
evolving in personae after personae
as its 'live 'poetry
reaps the harvest of such memories
as it can bear 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

Stumbling Blocks

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

While I continue to replace originals in my print collections with any later revised poems in preparation for publishing online at a later date, I have also decided that, once having completed the task, I will first publish a collection of the most  popular poems on the blogs; this way,  readers will be able to dip into them should Google delete my blogs once I have gone walkies with the Grim Reaper.

I have to confess that I am finding even  my early 70's heavy going on a daily basis. I am 74 now, live alone, and seem to deal with just about everything so much worse than I used to. Inclined to get everyday crises out of proportion, to say I am less than happy with my quality of life these days is an understatement. 

I used to be happy enough living on my own, but now I often feel isolated, probably because I have so much less of a social life these days. Even so, I have much to be thankful for, especially a best friend without whom my life would be unbearable. 
  
Life could be better, for sure, but it could also be much worse so...as good a reason as any to continue taking my cue from Monty Python, and always look on the bright side of life; well, nearly always... (My cue for visiting nearby Hampstead Heath, where the  peace and beauty of nature can always be relied upon to clear even the most dissatisfied mind-body-spirit.)
.
I guess growing old(er) was never meant to be an easy journey. Writing poetry helps; in my head, I can hear Ella Fitzgerald singing 'A Satisfied Mind', and do my best to achieve just that...

STUMBLING BLOCKS

Stumbling so, my years
across a shifting sea of sand;

the poetry of unshed tears

In a haze that never clears

though blind faith withstand,

stumbling so, my years

A sad heart’s secret fears

expected to make a last stand; 
the poetry of unshed tears

Deafened by global cheers

at some false god’s command,

stumbling so, my years

World, too, nursing its fears,

(failing to stay a logger’s hand);
the poetry of unshed tears

Peace, it all but disappears,
under layers of dissatisfied mind;

stumbling so, my years,

the poetry of unshed tears

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 'On the Battlefields of Love' by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Never let a Wrinkle have the Last Word

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I was 70 on the last winter solstice, and more than one person has expressed well-meaning sympathy for my growing old. Well, I am happy enough...most of the time.

Yes, I get aches and pains in unexpected and often inconvenient places and, yes, my treatment for prostate cancer doesn’t exactly agree with me. Even so, whenever I start feeling sorry for myself, and lamenting my lost youth, I recall a lovely old lady in her 90s whom I used to visit when I was on the staff of a local Home Library Service. She was housebound, and suffered with severe arthritis, but had a smile for everyone. I asked her once how she coped with not being able to get out and about. "Oh, but I do," she said without hesitation. "I read, watch videos and TV, listen to the radio...and let my imagination take me places you cannot imagine. Yes, I miss walking, of course I do, and neither my eyesight or hearing are are too good these days, but imagination...well, that lasts forever just so long as we give it its head and don't let real life have its wicked way with us..."

Life is what we make it at any age.  We all want different things from life, and it is down to each and every one of us to get the most out of the time we have, on the best terms available to us, instead of constantly brooding on the worst.

Did I say it was easy?

NEVER LET A WRINKLE HAVE THE LAST WORD

Growing old can be scary,

but there’s not much we can do

about it…?

So shall we take the dog

for walkies, put the world to rights

with next door’s cat, indulge

in some chat TV, watch a DVD

and leave it at that?

Ah, but there’s more

to life than our practising

the art of killing time

even if time is no friend

(or real enemy either)

Oh, and I haven’t heard

from so-and-so for ages so time

to get in touch and find out

when we can meet up, catch up,

(maybe even make up?)

The grapevine has it

a new class is starting up;

Now, was it art, crafts

or yoga? No matter, time enough

to find out more

I’ve always wanted

to do things folks said I couldn’t,

see places they said

I really shouldn’t ‘at my age’

(Yes, even then...)

Although time does us

no favours (or is it vice-versa?)

we can put records straight,

marginalise wishful thinking

and regret

Time to wake up, get up,

make up for missed opportunities,

(at least in part) though aches,

pains, and all sorts may have lots

to say about that

Time to call on an old pal

(Will Power) to haul him out

of his comfy armchair

and make damn sure he’ll start

pulling his weight

If growing old can be scary,

there’s no end to what we can do

about it…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2016

A Growing Sense of Where Reason Fears to Tread

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

As I grow old (born 1945) I can’t help wondering if I may well have made fewer mistakes in life had I put more trust in heartfelt sensibilities and less in the (arguably) devious designs of reason.

Whatever, what is done is done and can never be undone although (sometimes) compensated for if only in part…provided we have (or can find) the heart for it.

A GROWING SENSE OF WHERE REASON FEARS TO TREAD

Days, weeks, years,

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play

at mind games to confuse us

about time lines

Time lines, in a haze

of remembrance playing fast

and loose with Memory

where conscience

pulls our strings and leads us

into shadowy places

In shadowy places,

wandering as lost and alone

as a child whose parent,

but for one awful moment 

in time let fall the clinging hand

into unbearable space

An awful vacuum

this freedom once longed for

with, oh, such passion,

meant to fire the flames 

of ambition, not made scapegoat

for an untimely burn out

Responsibility, moral

obligations where bucks stop

at a scary self-searching

where none so blind as dare 

not see block any home truths

demanding a voice

Home truths, eroding

comfort zones, pulling rugs

from under feet bent

on standing up to be seen 

scoring points over alternatives

and so-called 'betters'

Alternatives, for better

or worse, we’ll never know

unless given a voice, 

allowed to speak, make a case

for setting mind-body-spirit free

from dogma's chains

Mind, body, human spirit

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play football 

with 'live' heads, scoring off-side

more often than not

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, 2019

As Time Goes By OR Love, a (Personal) History

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Time passes; we change, grow older, yet a loved one’s image remains much the same, ageless and timeless in our eyes … 

If we take an hourglass as a metaphor for life, time passing should never be thought of as its  gradually emptying but as its constantly in need of topping up ... with all the emotional resources available to us, especially love.

This poem is a villanelle.

AS TIME GOES BY

Brown hair, shades of grey,
whatever path I pursue;
time, ever slipping away…

Fun childhood days at play,
youth’s wild ways too;
brown hair, shades of grey

“Let’s laugh, not cry!” I say
(some wishes come true)
time, ever slipping away…

For every weepy Blues day,
golden moments too;
brown hair, shades of grey

Late, love, it came my way,
gave my heart to you;
time, ever slipping away…

Forever, love vowed to stay,
life’s tangled strands undo;
brown hair, shades of grey,
time, ever slipping away…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Keeping-Up-Appearances

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber.

Not so long ago, I spent an evening with a couple about my own age (68) who are so obsessed with looks that they have resorted to cosmetic surgery on more than one occasion. Ironically, the results are none too flattering. Besides, its's personality that counts more than looks, and don't let anyone tell you different. 

Respect comes into it to, doesn't it? Personally, I have more respect for the person who lets nature take its course and stays young in at heart than for the man or woman who prefers to kid themselves they have discovered the secret of eternal youth. The body may be a slave to time, but that doesn't have to be true of the spirit. The mind may well be vulnerable, but a strong dose of positive thinking and avoiding daytime TV has to be a good start. Couch potatoes do not age well in my experience.

Now, I ask you. Gay or straight, let;s stay young at heart by all means, but what’s wrong with growing old naturally?

Surely, it's enough that so many celebrities love to make fools of themselves by trying to turn back nature's clock without we ordinary men and women playing the same silly game?

On my opinion, cosmetic surgery is only ever justifiable in cases when people may have some kind of visible disfigurement that causes them distress. [It would probably cause them less distress if other people were less obsessed with outward appearances and more concerned with the person behind them.]

This poem is a kenning.

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

I’ll make a hunchback of you,

both feet arguing with waistline,

whitened teeth making tongue

abort any truer word in the offing

as if you have no real affinity

with the fix you’re in, only dimly

aware of any discomfort, unable

(or unwilling) to follow it through,

and carrying on regardless

I’ll make a fine fool of you,

object of scorn (though tempered

with compassion among family,

friends who may well stay silent,

fearing you confuse concern

with interference, pity, jealousy,

for preferring home truths

stay backward in coming forward

in case anyone notices

I’ll make a poor loser of you,

unless you choose to take me on;

recognize the enemy within

for what I am or else go as a lamb

to slaughter at the altar of vanity,

always seeking shelter from life’s

worst storms in love’s harbours,

but as a guest, no sense of belonging,

only a hungry yearning

I am foolish pride, oblivious to the fact

that my folly is perceived a poor act

Copyright, R. N. Taber 2007; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title Obsession in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; this rev. version, 2019.]

A Seasonal Magic

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update August 4th 2018: This poem was written before the effects of climate change began to make themselves well and truly felt...as during this, one of the hottest summers on record worldwide, Even so, every season in our lives is reflected one way or another in nature. In the latter, the keyword is renewal so, yes, I have no fear of death; pain, though, that is something else altogether.]

Some years ago,  I confided to friend (always an inspiration) on his 80th birthday that I sometimes felt scared of growing old. The lively 80 year-old in question told me not to worry. ‘Me, I think of myself as a tree going through its seasons, time after time, every one different and each, in its own way, as magical as any that have gone before,’ he said with a wry grin. .

‘What about winter?’ I asked sceptically.  

‘Time to enjoy a good rest and conserve our energy for whatever (or whoever) may be just around the next corner,’ came the unhesitating reply.

‘What if there’s no one and nothing?’ I persisted.

My elderly friend threw back his head and roared. ‘Well, if you’re that much of a pessimist it’s probably no more than you deserve.’

We both laughed, and I have never feared growing old since.

 (Image taken for the Internet)

A SEASONAL MAGIC

Often, as spring is fading,

I spot a face in clouds I know well,

as sure as a late lark working

the magic of its ages-old spell

Often, as summer is fading,

I hear a voice in my ears I know well,

as sure as a fine rain seducing

the trees with its ages-old spell

Often, as autumn is fading,

I feel caresses on my skin I know well,

as sure as a fair wind rising

to Earth Mother’s ages-old spell

Often, as winter is falling,

I surrender to an embrace I know well,

as sure as home fires reworking

what passes for an ages-old spell

Where a season’s colours fading

like the dream we knew only too well,

other lovers are discovering

the magic of its ages-old spell

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012]

Observations on the Human Nature of Cats

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

When I was much younger (I was born in 1945) I used to play with a local stray cat that would cadge food, shelter, and affection from just about anyone, until it grew old and didn’t want to do much other than laze around yawning for much of the time.  Every now and then, though, it would throw me a knowing look as if to say, ‘I may be getting old, but I can still climb trees in my sleep. One day you’ll know what I mean.’

Yes, well, that cat never said a truer word…

[Photo from the Internet]

  

OBSERVATIONS ON THE HUMAN NATURE OF CATS

No feeble cat, I haunt people and places

I have loved, glimpse in smiling faces

a hint of pain and weariness but quickly

overcome by a strength of spirit

and zest for life, feeding me the same

though I am lost for words, cannot

name this feeling in me that puts a spring

in my step, clears blurred vision, warming

bones that have seen better days

Home cat, alley cat, pedigree, strayed,

pacing the same boundaries laid

when the appetite for territory strong

and I made my presence felt among

peers, not always for the best of reasons

it has to be said, but my seasons

well spent, better instincts no less reliable

for feeling my way when Top Cat disagrees

for seeing, sadly, through misty eyes

To each living thing, a time must come

to set the spirit free, surrender

all temporal claim to a body seen us

through good times and bad,

made grave mistakes, done us proud,

no undoing or (ever) going back, 
on chances given us to make amends, 
live and let live among old enemies, never
having to forgive old friends

Black cat, white cat, tricks of light;

tiger, tiger, burning bright…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem (under the title Year of the Cat) appears in 1^st editions of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

A Perception of Ghosts

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update, June 15th 2019: A reader says he is left 'very confused' by my use of the term 'posthumous conscious' so I will try and be clearer. Take my old English teacher , 'Jock' Rankin, where I went to school in 1956-64. He has had a profound influence on my life (and poetry) although I had no way of appreciating just how much so at the time.  He died some years ago, but a part of him lives on in me, just as it does his family, friends, and probably many other young people he taught. Knowingly or unknowingly, we influence others, either by word or deed, even both, thereby archiving a little bit of ourselves in them. 

I often refer to  'Jock' Rankin in my blogs; hopefully, he lives on here as well as in the minds of all those who knew him in one capacity or another, although they may not realize it at the time, or any time for that matter. So it goes on... each and every one of us sowing seeds in each other that will grow as part of the human continuum for as long as humanity survives, and given its basic instinct for survival, I suspect that is likely to exceed all expectation.]

Meanwhile...

Now, as I grow old(er) there are times when childhood  seems like yesterday and even leaves stirring in the wind carry its echoes to my ears; the stronger the wind, the stronger the echoes, now happy and excited, now weepy and anxious, as I cannot help but reflect how life is much the same...

A PERCEPTION OF GHOSTS 

North wind,

roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Birdsong,

faintly among the trees like an echo

through my years

like tuneless whistling noises 

made by a child failing

to impress peers that mock,

and run away, 

never to know the hurt to self-esteem

left to contend with cruelty 

in all shapes and forms

left roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Wind drops,

nature’s opera taking off on wings 

of light into a blueness

such as a child feels when playing 

with imaginary friends,

happy and sad at the same time 

for meeting reality halfway, 

creating a safe place, yet less safe 

for being wide open

to fantasies, deserted, by the same 

once on-screen trolls insinuate all defences 

to loneliness

South wind,

gently stirring the last glowing coals

of a sunny day

Birdsong,

as strong among the trees in the twilight

of my years as shrieks

of joy uttered by a child when birthdays

finally arrived, in such times

as family get-togethers were mixed

signals of such love

as the child craved, feasted on, 

yet always left hungry, 

never (quite) able to satisfy an awareness

of a growing maturity always found wanting

in its nurture

Human hearts,

engaging with changeable perceptions on time

in personal space

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2021

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2013.]

Triumph of the Spirit

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

An earlier version of today’s poem first appeared in an anthology, All through My Life, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2000, and subsequently in my collection.

At the turn of the century, I was having a bad time. One major symptom of my depression was that I had become very self-conscious of my appearance, not least because society seemed obsessed with appearances.

By the time I had finished the poem, I felt considerably more positive about myself and life in general as well as far less about whether or not I looked the part for the kind of world in which I lived.

Time has moved on, carrying me along with it on a tide of growing if sometimes misplaced optimism. Sadly, though (as a general rule to which, thank goodness, there are many exceptions) many people worldwide continues to be obsessed with outward appearances whatever their socio-cultural-religious background.

Creative writing (indeed, any creative activity) is a wonderful therapy for the human spirit, especially when it all but spent, its batteries badly in need of recharging.

TRIUMPH OF THE SPIRIT

Had a visitor yesterday,
hair thin and grey, face lined
with age as if time
had turned a page too many,
drawn almost to a close
by nicotine fingers, cigarette
and wine stains on clothes;
a half-smile, cracked and dry
splitting papyrus skin,
mouldy lips sucking in dust
on a shelf near starved
of good company, deserving
far, far, better than this travesty
of humanity

Could it be that time
has committed this obscenity
or maggots in the soul?
Whatever, it won’t do at all,
I argued straight,
no punches pulled as outrage
lit a fire in me for this sad,
burnt-out page of human history;
if time and tide waste
no ceremony on us…so what?
Are we but slaves
to probability, bound to be all
we’re not, living among strangers
our tragedy?

No! Forget reflections in a mirror,
it’s the inner self will endure…

Copyright R, N. Taber 2001; 2013

[An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

The Lovers OR Quality Time

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s poem is a favourite of mine and appeared in several poetry magazines/anthologies before I included it in my first major collection; it was written in 1991 after a conversation over a garden hedge with an elderly man whose wife had died the previous year. He talked about the spirituality of love and togetherness in such a way that I was full of admiration and close to tears.

THE LOVERS or QUALITY TIME

Scarce we talked of love,

scarce we talked at all

I would scan the paper

while you got the tea

or prune my roses

while you watched me

out of the corner of one eye

at your herbaceous border

busy with a trowel

Scarce we talked of love,

scarce we talked at all 

I would fix whatever

while you made us a cuppa,

and when I’d finished

we would sip comfortably

in our favourite places

glancing up now and then to

read each other’s faces

Scarce we talked of love,

scarce we talked at all 

Now I prattle away

in a misty rain,

bring you roses where you lie

in a patch of cemetery,

birds for company,

wondering why, oh why?

Again and again

Scarce we talked of love

scarce we talked at all

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001

[Note: this poem was first published as 'The Lovers' in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; rev. ed. in e-format in preparation.]