Ode Age
May 15, 2023
Photo Credit: Rod Long via Unsplash
by Marty Kafka
The salves and pills,
those oily creams,
the sticky, stinky ointments,
all of these for treating
my age-owed ailments, disappointments,
and embarrassments I must endure because,
for sure my wrinkling scaffold,
blued from ageing’s pox ‘n’ bruises,
sums of symptoms,
some reclusive, some elusive,
some concussive, some contusive,
others plain old itchy “nuisancives.”
But my wounds, are all egalitarian,
so for this cranky antiquarian,
now a mid-septuagenarian,
whose hand-picked pharmaceuticals,
maintain his organ’s cuticles,
I sing to you with proudest praise,
from my personal band
and all its aides,
that I‘m still alive, to celebrate
my ever-golding days.
Don’t pity me, my deepest aches,
and don’t refrain from sharp rebuke,
‘cause from this latest stage of life,
I will only sink down lower,
but I will never ever cower,
from more of life’s cold showers,
from my rheumatoidal bumps,
sudden bangs and bruising lumps,
more salves but fewer soothers,
more sores, my sores,
four score more sores,
some painful lalapaloozas,
but none of them,
not even hemorrhoidal oozers,
will keep me from
my future jogging shoe-zers.
Just grant me yet,
A few more rounds,
to mount my mournful cries,
my greed for wounds,
my pills, my creams,
my ever-swelling
swells and swoons,
cast none of these aside for me,
I’ll treat them like my bride-to-be.
I shout out loud to my tomorrows,
embrace the claims for future sorrows,
and with side-effects un-toward,
I’ll gladly swallow great pill hordes,
celebrate with salves and ointments,
new eyeglasses, dental implants,
the unanticipated painful spills,
the ones that bear no fruits, nor frills,
the fevers that bring me shaking chills,
to all of these I’ll be the choir,
sing bold religious hymns of praise,
for all my up-and-coming days,
my age-owed-wisdoms
will guide my craze,
to all of these I’ll jump and shout
Just bring it on,
Please God
Just Bring It On!