Old Folks Are Worth A Fortune


Here is a humorous piece my mom gave me that was written by poet Shawn Jones.   I can identify with most of what it’s talking about, so thought I would pass it along.  Enjoy!

Old folks are worth a fortune,

With silver in their hair, gold in their teeth, stones in their kidneys, lead in their feet, and gas in their stomachs.

I have become a lot more social with the passing of the years  Some might call me a frivolous old gal.  I’m seeing five gentlemen every day.  As soon as I wake, Will Power helps me get out of bed.  Then I go see John.  Then Charley Horse comes along and when he is here he takes a lot of my time and attention.  When he leaves, Arthur Ritis shows up and stays the rest of the day.  (He doesn’t like to stay in one place very long, so he takes me from joint to joint.)  After such a busy day, I’m really tired and glad to go to bed–with Ben Gay.  What a life!

P.S.  The preacher came to call the other day.  He said that at my age, I should be thinking about the hereafter.  I told him I do–all the time.  No matter where I am–in the parlor, upstairs, in the kitchen, or down in the basement–I ask myself, “Now what am I here after?”


Elegy to a Changing World

Windmills (16)

I remember when the land was free and unfettered,
When uncluttered earth rose up to kiss the boundless sky.
Fields of grain rode the swells
And swirled around verdant islands tucked into the hillsides.
Summer winds played, unharnessed and untamed, over open slopes
And carelessly cast themselves off the mountaintops into space.

I remember when, once upon a time,
I found solace among these hills and fields and sky.
The air smelled fresh and sweet,
“Civilization” lay miles behind,
Simplicity ruled,
And I could breathe.

Now “progress” and “technology” blot the terrain,
And the land I once called home deems me a trespasser,
Warning me away with signs that proclaim I am no longer welcome.
If only I could edit these behemoths off the landscape as out of a picture. . .
But such power eludes me, and I can only look on as, mute and defiant, they stand,
Their proud blades raking the sky.

I remember when. . .and I weep.

 Windmills (1)

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