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Phyllis Moorman

~ Author and Artist

Tag Archives: aging

Keeping Time

02 Friday Jun 2017

Posted by P Moorman in Inspiration, Life

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

aging, inspiration, Peace, time

File Jun 02, 3 06 49 PM

There was a time when
it seemed we didn’t age.
It was as if the clock was
constantly rewinding, or
perhaps time stood still.

A new hairdo; fresh makeup;
Megavitamins and the gym;
Stylish clothes on trim bodies–
All served to keep a body young.

But it’s the digital age, and
the numbers shout LED red
and click as the minutes pass,
a constant reminder that
time waits for no one.

I wish we could go back to yesteryear,
where people rose with the sun
without need of a musical alarm;
where day played out naturally
and shuttered to the descending curtain
of the setting sun. Then I could

swing like the pendulum
of the grandfather clock
that graced my grandmother’s mantle,

swaying ever so gently back and forth,
never pausing for sickness or glum;
never worrying about stray gray hairs;

never having to worry about
atomic clocks or losing track of time;
Just being content with the ebb and flow
of the life I’ve been given;
at peace with how I’ve kept time.

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Lady in Waiting

09 Tuesday Jun 2015

Posted by P Moorman in Art, Humor, Life, Love

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Tags

aging, art, humor, love, memories, poems, Poetry

Lady in Waiting

 

The mail-order bride catalog
said my wait was nearly over;
my station in life could be found
just around the corner. Which,
of course, I took literally and believed.

I thought it meant I was
to wait for you by the train station,
the one near my house. But…..

I’ve stood, waiting endlessly, for you to come.
I won’t vacate my post; I don’t want to miss you.

I hold my head high, hat perched slightly askew, and
watch as my threads are scorched by the sun and
dehydration turns my bones inside out.
Should I give up on you?

Prideful, I know I can’t have been wrong;
You just took a wrong turn. You’ll be here soon.
With fortitude of steel, I straighten my back,
and wait some more.

*********

Lafayette, CO has impressive Cultural Arts and annually displays sculptures throughout town.  This particular one was begging for this poem!

Artist: Victoria Ross Patti
Arvada, CO
Location: 211 N. Public Road; Mojo Coffee
Materials: Steel
Price: $3,800

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War on Recession

20 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by P Moorman in Humor, Life

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Tags

aging, humor, life, poems, Poetry, recession

I’ve declared war on recession;
It’s just gotten too personal for me.

My hairline continues to shrink
While my waistline continues to grow.
There’ll never be any equity there!

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The Last Dance

12 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by P Moorman in Life, Love, Nature, Philosophy

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

aging, celebrate, dance, life, living, love, poems, Poetry, sunrise, sunset

20131212-083416.jpg

Come dance with me at sunrise,
We’ll reminisce of yesterdays;
Let us celebrate in living,
‘Ere the sun sets on our life.

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Speakers of the House

13 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by P Moorman in Life, Love

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Tags

aging, childhood, home, house, life, live, poem, Poetry

20131113-100356.jpg

Floorboards cry for babies past,
Reminders of sleepless nights,
Pacing till dawn’s early light.

Ceilings silence previous bursts
Of jumping, romping youth
Full of energy, having fun.

Walls creak and bellow, a
Reminder of teenage music
Played at full plus volume.

Doors squeak, no longer
Oiled by the young adult,
Trying to enter past curfew.

These sounds of years gone by
Mingle with today’s noises, like
Careful, shuffled footsteps,
Daytime napper’s snores, and
Heaters warming old bones.

This house will far outlive us,
But we’ve left our special mark:
Stories of a life well lived,
Stories of a house well loved.

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Reflecting Forward

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by P Moorman in Life

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Tags

aging, grandma, grandmother, life, poems, Poetry

20131107-091130.jpg

She looked in the mirror
And her eyes glazed over.
When did she change?
How did it happen?

Plumped body,
Rounded curves,
Certainly not her
Youthful size 8.

Shortened stature
Flattened feet,
Now shoe size
A larger size 8.

Oh, and the
Wrinkled forehead
And lines beside the eyes–
What stories would they tell?

Past anguish, joys,
Loves and losses,
All reflecting in that
Old-fashioned mirror.

Staring intently, she falters,
“Grandma, is that you?”

With the shake of her head
And a blink of her eyes,
She’s returned to the present,
Comforted that traits she
Recently feared will be
Revered by her grandchildren, too.

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