Poem captures what it’s like to get older
Warren Cox is happily married to Robyn, his wife of 52 years. They have two daughters and three grandchildren. Warren’s hobbies include fishing (as often as possible) cooking, reading and writing poetry.
“This poem was born after a Saturday BBQ with a group of friends, all well and truly in their senior years. It didn't take long before the conversation turned to bad backs, knee replacements and of course failing memories. One of the group made us laugh when she said she could never remember where she puts her reminder notes. We all agreed that it was sometimes a trial but at least we were still here to laugh about it. I sat down the next day and put it all to rhyme.”
Who You Gonna Call?
Who you gonna call when you notice that you’re greying;
when you’re getting out of bed and the room starts swaying?
Who you gonna call when your knees start to creak
or you can’t remember where you put your teeth last week?
Who you gonna call when the print disappears,
or the kids ask what it is you’ve got behind your ears?
Who you gonna call when you slip upon the grass
and no matter how you try you just can’t get up off your…?
Who you gonna call when the credit cards fail
and it’s yet another week before you’re pension’s in the mail?
Who you gonna call when you can’t see without…
your tri-focal glasses – and the bludgers aren’t about?
Who you gonna call when your plumbing makes you wait
and no matter how you try you can’t increase the trickle rate?
Who you gonna call when you try with all your might
to get the button through the hole but it’s too bloody tight
Who you gonna call when the anti-ageing creams
make no difference to the wrinkles and the creases and the seams?
Who you gonna call when the final bell chimes
and it’s time that you were taking stock of all your life and times.
Who you gonna call when there’s no one left to call?
When the song is nearly ended and snow begins to fall?
When far far behind you are the wild and glory days,
but the memories are veiled; just a gossamery haze.
So you sit beside the fire in your favourite chair.
Try to conjure up the names of all of those who used to care.
Those who dried your tears and those who helped you smile.
Those who’ve gone before, and who have walked that final mile.
You breathe in very deeply. Your mind is now intent
on conjuring up the images of those who came and went
and you realise a truth that surely one day comes to all.
You’ve lived and loved a lifetime. Now who you gonna call.
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