Shades of Comic Genius (and Quinquagenarian Angst)

 

From Roger’s good friend – Graham

 

Sap is rising, shoots are sprouting and buds are throbbing in anticipation…

Today’s poem ‘Shades of Comic Genius’ offers an amusing take on a couple who rediscover the passions of youth in their later years. A blaze of glory as they surrender to the unbridled urges of nature and cast away, if briefly, the burden of age. It’s an enchanting example of the whimsical aspect in some of Roger’s writing.

Speaking of age, I imagine that cresting past that mid-life hill can be daunting for many of those in my generation. Especially if they find themselves single and there’s an incentive to maintain that sylph-like physique of youth! Although that objective does become a bit of a pipedream, unfortunately, as years advance.

It’s an unsightly truth that age and gravity conspire to steer one’s finest assets on a southward migration. Looking in the mirror recently, I was reminded of one of those mudslide events that you might see in a disaster movie. Although I consider myself fortunate that I can still glimpse my feet between shoegazing moobs. (It’s certainly a stark contrast with the type of ‘hangovers’ I faced during my student days.) Sitting in the bath the other day was reminiscent of a baggy old armchair that had become waterlogged.

As if that wasn’t bad enough I was disappointed recently when my young niece asked me why I appeared to be frowning in some of the family photos. I had to explain that I was just facing down slightly and the mouth was sagging. She was kind enough to offer the assistance of a photo enhancer app although I gratefully declined. (Fastening a large bulldog clip to the back of the scalp might be more effective?)

I remember poor Rog complaining about ten years ago about his midriff getting wider. He was worried about becoming ‘bell-shaped’. I couldn’t think of anything diplomatic to say so I suggested that at least, he’d be the ‘belle of the ball’. Fortunately he was immune to my cheeky banter and laughed. Latterly, his avoidance of dairy products seemed to stop the expanding girth which was some consolation.

Much of the time we tried to laugh about our frailties and work around them. Or imagine, at least, that our salad days hadn’t entirely withered on the vine. Anyway, it’s good to throw caution to the wind sometimes; budding with memories from the bloom of youth…

 

*  *  *

 

‘She said she was approaching forty, and I couldn't help wondering from what direction’. Bob Hope (British-born American entertainer).

 

*  *  *

 

SHADES OF COMIC GENIUS
(For old[er] people everywhere)

We stripped naked under a leafy sky,
saw our bodies turn gold,
for a while forgot about growing old

Rediscovering youth’s feisty passion
we surfed its glorious tide,
put aches, pains and home truths aside

A balmy breeze gave us its blessing
and songbirds sang amen
while halcyon days revisited us again

Though years pass and take their toll,
the spirit of adventure remains
to seize the day, throw off its chains

If love is the greatest adventure of all,
sex is but half the story,
a shared empathy, its power and glory

We dressed quickly, nature applauding
bodies frayed at the seams
acknowledging its comedy of dreams

 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010. From the collection On the Battlefields of Love

 

*  *  *

 

I’ve also included a jokey poem that I found in an old email which never quite made the grade for publication (‘Senior Moments…’) . However, it ties in so well I’ve included it. I think older readers will appreciate it...

 

SENIOR MOMENTS or GROWING OLD WITH CHUCKLES
(And, no, Chuckles is not my cat.)

This little poem of mine
may well be missing the occasional line
since senior moments with me
are as common as sugar or milk in a cup
of coffee or tea

Whenever out and about,
I rely on my trusty walking stick’s support,
but will often raise the alarm
when I put it aside and it chooses to hide
(usually on my arm)

An easy to follow recipe
(meant to impress old friends visiting me)
might well prove a mistake
when I get proportions sufficiently wrong
to make us all feel sick

I have hurried for buses
only to find I’m soon counting my losses
for its heading (miles) away
from whatever destination I’d had in mind
and forgetting that anyway

A positive thinking person,
I refuse to let senior moments get me down,
but love to laugh at them
among friends over a few drinks in the pub,
ever toasting, ‘Carpe Diem’

 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Points of View

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

Rising above a deteriorating quality of life these days, mostly due to various health issues, I am rarely in the mood to reply to emails unless they are from friends and/or about poetry or such passions as also provide mind-body spirit with creative therapy as well as a healthy emotional diet.  However, someone who signs themselves ’an elderly male reader’ has expressed despair at being “...unable, for various reasons, to make love to my partner of nearly thirty years.” and worries that the partner “... is already  looking elsewhere, and I will be left alone...”

I am in no position to advise as I have been without a partner for the best part of a lifetime, but I have been in love and I strongly suspect that this reader has nothing to fear. It is important, though, that he and his partner talk about this. Too many of us fail to discuss our more intimate concerns with loved ones; either we are embarrassed and/ or fear the possible outcome. Whatever, it is always better to know than just suspect; the latter can only loose all manner of demons upon us, not the least being jealousy.

As regular readers will know, years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer has left me with no appetite for sex in any form; even porn mags don’t turn me on. At first, it left me feeling emotionally inadequate, and I missed the sheer pleasure of lovemaking. Now, though, I take pleasure even more pleasure in such simple delights as meeting up and putting the world to rights (as if!) with friends and/or visiting places I love, whether for real or in my imagination.  

While I don’t miss sex anymore, I can appreciate that it's not the same for everyone, nor do all men of a certain age lose either their appetite for sex or their ability/ inclination to perform. Even so, the expression ‘making love’ is something of a misnomer, to say the least; love is not made, it is created between soulmates who are mutually inspired by letting it grow and mature. 

There is great pleasure to be taken from sex between partners who are physically attracted to one another, and nothing wrong with it at all, but whether or not they fall in love, that is something else altogether.

A heart-to-heart between this reader and his partner will establish the emotional paths both need to take; should the partner need to continue satisfying his or her sexual appetite the reader should try not  see this as a poor reflection on their love for one another. Easier said than done, I agree, but life is rarely easy in every way. Such are the ways of love that they, too, are no less inclined to test mind-body-spirit from time to time, trusting it to pass with flying colours... or not, as the case maybe.

POINTS OF VIEW

At open windows by the sea,
listening to waves telling and retelling
stirring tales of derring-do,
discovery and exploration, lifting
spirits while breaking hearts
of those left counting days and nights
before any returns on dreams
likely to leave pride in tears, love in pain,
time after time, and time again 

At open windows on cornfields,
leafy woodlands and all manner of bird
and beast sure to nurture
its natural surroundings in the time left
before the human race,
cocksure of ways and means to match
any end-of-world scenarios,
continues to confuse its images of progress
with paths of peace and happiness 

At open windows on the world,
expecting even more from its seasons,
in demonstrating our worth,
nature and human nature, each as vulnerable
as the other to kindness
and neglect, pride, disrespect. even violence
as weathered during Earth Mother’s
labour pains for both peopling and colouring
landscapes worth the nurturing 

At dead of night, left to reflect
on such life-forces as have inspired us
to let love light up our lives, thereby creating
a kinder, wiser personal space, addressing
past mistakes, shying away
from a Here-and-Now that’s dependent
on algorithms as may well suffice,
but never replace innate sensibilities, life forces
defining Earth Mother for centuries... 

Reminding nature-and-human-nature how progress
is best judged by its capacity for alleviating distress

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

[Note: This post-poem also appears on my general poetry blog today.] RT

Waking Up to Life

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

One of the (many) problems of living with prostate cancer and being treated with hormone therapy (Zoladex) is that its success depends on keeping testosterone at bay. 

Most of the time, I have no sexual urges so am relatively content. Every so often, though, a rush of testosterone creates the urges while failing to address bodily functions anywhere near adequately. (In other words, I can barely get an erection, if at all!) Being sensually rather than sexually active is even more frustrating than being without a regular partner, given that there are usually brief encounters to be had if you know where to go. Knowing where to go, but well aware it would be a complete waste of time, however, now that can be soul-destroying. 

Oh well, I just have to keep looking on the bright side of life and be thankful that (75 soon) I am still here to tell the sorry tale. Stay positive, I am always telling people so I guess I need to practise what I preach! (I do, mostly, but now and again I allow myself to lapse into whinge-mode…)

Not in any wasteland, though, not me, not any more. There is more to life than wanting what we can't have; we just have to find ways of making the most of what is available to us and, no, that doesn't mean having to settle for less. The human condition is incredibly adaptable to its circumstances, just as the human spirit can rise above even the worst life throws at us ... if we let it.

What's done is done, and gone. No one gets their time over again, neither the good parts nor the bad. What we can do, though, each and every one of us, regardless of any socio-cultural-religious or other forces working for or against us, is start looking ahead, resolve to make the most not only of what we have, but who we are in a Here-and-Now that has the potential to let us play not only as constructive a role in our past-present-future as any personae we may have previously adopted, but all the more so for a positive thinking mindset.

WAKING UP TO LIFE

Overslept,
dreams preventing deep sleeping,
or eyes opening,
taking m places I'd rather not go
but can't stay away
because they are an integral part
of my history

Overslept,
revisiting brief, intimate encounters
(high hopes dashed)
that promised everything, but left me
stranded in a wasteland,
worse off than ever for misreading
not seizing the day

Overslept,
cuddling up to a pillow, surrendering
to the surreal,
long enough to leave all emotion spent
on fuelling imagination 
into meeting more pro-active demands,
body stalling 

Waking up,
faces on the ceiling floating wry smiles
for a sleepy-head
sick of taking each day as it comes, only
to be left stranded
on some lonely wasteland without a clue,
body on stand-by

Getting up,
resolving not to include a dead yesterday
in my calculations,
no more truck with illusion and delusion
needs must get real, start
exchanging negatives for positives by way
of mind-body-spirit 

Starting over,
(finally) getting to grips with life as it is,
people as they are,
learning to laugh again (even at myself)
finding silver linings
wherever I look, no going by any text book, 
and all the better for it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

(Note: This poem also appears on both poetry blogs today given that issues it raises  may well affect us at some point in our lives, regardless of  ethnicity, culture, gender, sexual persuasion or, yes, growing old...] RNT

Passing Through

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

A new poem today, written for lovely lady, mother of a friend from my student days some 50 years ago; she will be 97 today. In the meantime, I am hoping to find a publisher for a new collection of poems; if not, I will self-publish again. Whatever, I will post details on the blogs 

Now, growing old is rarely if ever easy for anyone, but especially for men and women living alone without much of a support network. For many, too, there is a sense of time running out, an end to all we have known and loved. 

Ah, but love never dies and the human spirit, unique in its own way to each and every one of us, is immortal. 

Life as we know it allows us to pass through time (as we know it) but - as history and family history teach us - there is far more to time than any Here-and-Now; a kind act here, a kind word there, whether to a loved one or total stranger, may well reverberate across centuries, engaging with a living mind-body-spirit here, there, everywhere … 

Where world religions would have it that any after-life takes us to a Heaven or Hell of sorts, I believe we make our own Heaven, our own Hell, in the course of our own lifetime; not least, courtesy of Love and Conscience. 

I put it to you that, just as followers of any religion are entitled to our respect for their points of view, those of us who subscribe to no religious dogma are no less entitled to the same. As I often ask in the blogs, instead of putting someone in the wrong, even despising them for engaging with points of view other than our own … what’s wrong with agreeing to differ?

PASSING THROUGH 

The years, they pass,
and childhood becomes a dream
to treasure as we grow old
among such memories as inspired us
to enjoy such seasons
of our life as mind-body-spirit
chooses to see us through
each winter of the heart to that spring
where bluebirds sing

The hears, they pass,
and the Garden of Life sees changes,
for better, for worse,
while the human spirit sees us through
happy times and sad,
a positive thinking mindset
taking pride of place,
sure to inspire the human heart to sing,
come into its own

The years, they pass,
but nothing and no one left behind,
for first among equals 
remains the Spirit of Love, inspiring us
to see past-present-future
as a continuum, no end in sight,
and love, it never dies,
passing through generation to generation
in 'live' imagination

The years, they pass, but treat us as they may,
the kinder human spirit ne'er calls it a day

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: This poem also appears on my general poetry blog today]

A Life in the Day of an Armchair

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

Regular readers will know that I am not well these days, although a positive thinking mind-body-spirit prevails.  When we are young, we think we are invincible, but life invariably proves us no less vulnerable to its eternal ups and downs than anyone else. I guess, the secret of any upbeat heart is to keep focusing the inner eye on the ups and let the downs go into free fall. Easier said than done, of course, as a feisty youth passes into an uncertain middle age, yet one we can continue take no small pleasure in rising above if not outmanoeuvring more ups and downs. Then, one day we wake up and realise we not only growing old, but all the more vulnerable for that.

We all have to find our own way through life, and old age is no exception to that golden rule; whether we are fortunate enough to have loved ones with whom to share it or not. Some people look back with anger, others with an increasing bitterness for feeling that their future offers so much less. Neither attitude helps anyone, least of all ourselves. Oh, there will be moments, yes, and plenty of them, when we find the winter of our years darker, for whatever reason, than we anticipated; we may even feel cheated, deserving better. Whatever, there is much to be said for the old adage - 'There’s no point in crying over spilt milk.' What’s done is done, what’s past is past, and it is down to us to make the best of the Here-and-Now, rather than dwell on the worst. Never easy, especially if you’re lonely, poor, unwell,hospitalised or homeless…but there is another old adage that has served me well since my recovery from a mental breakdown many years ago – 'Where there’s life, there’s hope.'

Lose hope, and that may well be the beginning of our end, yet I say to you from personal experience that human nature is full of surprises, and can help us turn our lives around as and when push comes to shove... if we let it; not perhaps immediately, but that’s not only life for you, that’s time, too, its partner in crime.

Now and then readers and other associates ask me if I regret being gay. I ask them, in turn, how does anyone reconcile themselves to living a life that does not draw upon who we are rather than whom anyone else would have us be, no matter how well-meaning? The bottom line is that we are responsible for ourselves as well as looking out for others; at the very least, honesty demands we accept that responsibility, sooner or later...does it not?  Certain judgemental societies and individuals worldwide would do well to keep that in mind.

Sadly, not all LGBT folks can be open about their sexuality for various socio-cultural-religious reasons in certain countries and communities around the world, including here in the UK. Closet life is tough, closet love even tougher, but we should never underestimate the power of the human spirit to help us make the best of the good times and take the bad times in our stride. The bigots among us may win many battles, be be sure that we will win the war.

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF AN ARMCHAIR

The world, it’s passing me by;

though time slow enough for me to ask questions

about the whys and wherefores

of life, it only answers me with more questions,

demanding I look closer to home,
ask of mind-body-spirit how and why
it has brought me to this
dismal failure of expectation and imagination
if ever there was one

So, what is ‘this’ that I find harder

to bear as memories assail me (good, bad and ugly),

now offering comfort enough

to bring a smile to my face, now torturing me

with errors that, unmade,
may well have seen latter days kinder
than a tearful armchair
failing to empathise with a mind-body-spirit
finding itself wanting

My window on life misting over;

a splatter of raindrops reciting poems, calling to mind

faces, voices, seeing me through

all my whys and wherefores, their being on hand,
answers in themselves
to any questions I may well have asked
of mind-bod-spirit
had I envisaged then any such Here-and-Now
as, this, even as I speak

Ah, but where inclined to look back on this life in tears,
find the sum of its joys come to rise above its fears

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2019

Through a (closet) Keyhole

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

Gay, straight or transgender, there is a temptation, especially as we grow old, to look back on our lives if only because there seems more to look back on than forward to. (Not so, as who knows that tomorrow will bring? ,We always need to think positively about that however hard gets sometimes as body fails to keep sync with heart.) There is a further temptation to dwell on our mistakes, bad choices, missed opportunities; we all make them. The result of such negative reflection is that we may well lose sight of all the positives… many of which we may not even be aware,

Some years ago, I visited an old school friend who confided that he was gay, and I was the first person whom he had told. He was ill and had only a few years to live although neither of us had an inkling of this at the time. What bothered him most was that he saw his life as nothing more or less than a string of missed opportunities. “It’s all been such a waste of time,” he groaned, “my whole life,”

My friend had chosen a career in teaching.  I visited him on his 65th birthday, and he let me browse his cards, many from ex-pupils whom he had clearly given cause to remember him fondly, One card included the photo of a young man, his wife and three children, and he had written: ‘You were right. Trust your instincts, and you can do anything you put your mind to, however much other people try to tell you it’s in your best interests to do something else.’ It seems he had joined the police, and made his way well up the promotion ladder against the advice of family, friends and several teachers who had seen a promising career for him as, yes, - a teacher.

There were similar comments on other cards from ex-pupils whom he had plainly influenced for the better and they were clearly grateful.

A waste of a life, indeed…! I think not, and am glad I managed to convince him of that as he died a week later so I never saw him again.

Gay or straight, much of what we achieve in this life, we never get to see through to the end if we are aware of it at all. A word here, a word there, to the right person at the right time can make  the world of difference between their doing well instead of badly…and the chances are, we will never know.

Yes,I try to encourage gay people to .come out, but we are all different and all caught up in different sets of circumstances, some of which make being openly gay impossible. (This is why I despise the practise of 'outing' people.)

Yes, there are far better ways of getting a life than in a closet, but it isn't only LGBT people who have inside knowledge of closets; who doesn't have a secret close to their heart for fear of the harm it might do themselves and/ or others were it to be discovered?

A life without love in it? No way. My friend, for example, loved his job, loved nature, loved travelling ... no disrespect to sex, but there is more to life (and love) than that.

THROUGH A (CLOSET) KEYHOLE

I grow old alone,
those who may have grieved me
gone into that unknown
some call Heaven,
Paradise or whatever, anything other
than Death

Death, a cruel word,
metaphor for a ghost, last spotted
peering over the shoulder
of one such as I
in a bedroom mirror, grown anxious
for sleep

Sleep, harbinger
of dreams, good, bad or too ugly
to ever contemplate
in the light of day
where alphabet lanterns spelling out
my darkness

Darkness, companion
to personal space if sure to keep
a (very) discreet distance
since it would not do
to discover even tenuous connections
in circulation

Secrets, running rings
around me, less able to send them
to those dusty archives
of mind-body-spirit
than younger personae less concerned
with repercussions

Repercussions, haunts
of bygone days, years of answering
to outward appearances,
inner self suffocating
in a closet I let few in, and among those,
nobody to love

Love, always so near
yet so far, on the tip of my tongue
but at the last minute
struck dumb
for centuries of homophobic propaganda
finding its mark

Ah, but what’s that I hear?
voices out of nowhere reminding me
of words said, soon forgot,
(and to whom)
thanking me for lending a guiding hand
to get a life

Alone, yes, but lonely no more
for invisible hands warmly shaking mine
re-awakening sensibilities
half-forgotten;
of despair for a life with little to show for it,
nothing to speak of

Through the keyhole, head high,
no need to make my peace with mortality,
having done my best
for an upbeat heart
in as free a spirit of peace, kindness and love
as I can speak of

Would that I could have spoken out
than let bigotry have its wicked way with me
through formative years
that all but provided
a rope to hang by, but though a time of strife,
I've had a life


Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Growing Old with Pride

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

Readers often comment that I appear to be having a love affair with rhyme.

Is it ‘a generation thing’ they want to know, perhaps because most modern poetry is blank verse, and all the more abstract for it. Well, maybe it’s ‘a generation thing’ and maybe not. Whatever, I find rhyme a useful tool in getting my meanings across without the reader having to struggle to understand various abstracts.  As far as I am concerned, there are no hard and fast rights or wrongs about writing poetry except for critics of the nit-picking variety.

I do write blank verse occasionally, but I find rhyme - including internal and ‘hidden’ rhyme – brings me closer to the reader, and hopefully vice versa.

I will be 70 this year and get so fed up with people of my generation – gay and straight, male and female – heaving sighs of regret for all they haven’t done with their lives.  We need to harvest what we have done, memories of people and places collected along the way, and take pleasure in the trains of thought these generate instead of complaining about the quickness of time leaving us only too little of it to spare. Besides, it is never too late to start giving Time a run for its o'clocks...

A reader who says he hates rhyming verse also writes in now and then to ask, ‘why do you bother with the gay stuff?’ Well, why not, since I am gay?

Enough said…

GROWING OLD WITH PRIDE 

Much of life may have passed me by,

much of love left me (so) alone,

much of truth left me high and dry,

its flair for logic cut me to the bone

Much of time has seen dreams fail me,

much of space left me in freefall,

much of dogma done its best to nail me

to this tarred fence, that graffiti wall

Much of society, I’d prefer not to serve

much as a sentence without parole;

much of the world, we can but observe

turns on china plate or begging bowl

Much of my body has failed to treasure

harvest moons stumbled across,

much of my mind, to conventions told

a lion’s share of lies…at no great loss

Yet, for the life of me, adrenalin flows

for the loves it has known and live on

where a Joy of Being flowers and grows,

regardless of time, space, or reason

For much of me looking back with regret,

more of me lives for each new day;

more of me still, to nature, forever in debt,

not least for birthing me human and gay 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Close Encounters of the Third Age

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

A gay friend, growing old(er) like me, recently commented with some bitterness that he probably would not be on his own in the winter of his years if he wasn’t gay. ‘Gay relationships are so fragile,’ he said.

Bollocks!

True, many people find themselves on their own as they get old(er). Some relationships are too fragile to stand the test of time, but that has more to do with people not working at them than their sexuality. (Far too many people take their partners for granted.)  Sadly, some partners die while others fade away into a mist of wishful thinking.

Whatever, the Spirit of Love (in all its various shapes and forms) will be a good companion for life if we but let it. Moreover, gay or straight, male or female, we are never too old for romance, and never let anyone tell you differently.

The way some people pour scorn on relationships between old(er) people where clearly more than just platonic makes me so angry. Take no notice. They are just jealous.

Okay, sex isn’t everything, but nice work if you can get it…

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD AGE

Clouds broke,

made us run for shelter

in a shop doorway;

you spoke first,

but I didn’t catch a word

for wind and rain

I could but trust

my smile would convey

all I wanted to say

as you closed in,

put your mouth to an ear

straining to hear

Breath on my face

sweeter than a love poem,

and I was smitten,

half-forgotten

dreams of youth returning

my embrace

A dull, grey, day,

bringing people together,

no matter we’re gay

or past our prime

for the Rainmaker doesn’t

give a damn

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011