Poetic words were hard to come by in this viral crisis, as emotions waver from tears to laughter, depending on how you can best handle it. Versions of my ramblings have ranged from too angry to very silly as I struggled to find something in between. I’ve tried my best to express the feelings of frustration in these stanzas, after weeks of blogging about it – just hoping there’s a cure. 

Secure A Cure

Just wake me up,
After this is done.
The fat lady sings,
Once recovery’s begun.

These nasty germs,
It must be said.
“Kill them dead,
Before they spread!”

If I live on,
Beyond this threat.
I hope there’s things,
I won’t regret.

Social distancing,
Will be just history.
Once we solve,
This viral mystery.

Greet me with a hug,
Or shake my hand.
Then side-by-side,
Close we’ll stand.

This worldwide mess,
Will come to pass.
An infestation,
Spread in mass.

Maybe a cough,
A bit of a fever?
Are you a giver,
Or a receiver?

The first symptoms,
Are just like the flu.
As bad as the plague,
But something new.

An invisible enemy,
Like nothing before.
It steals toilet paper,
From your favorite store.

It took March Madness,
All fun for that matter.
Comfort food in isolation,
Made us a little fatter.

You have to keep,
Six feet away,
Or this bad bug,
Will have its way.

It makes some hoard,
Then strikes you sick.
Wash your hands,
And do it quick.

Masks can’t cover,
This silent threat.
Staying home,
Is your best bet.

Stop touching your face,
Hide your ignition key.
Just sit on the couch,
And binge watch TV.

These past few weeks,
Have been a blur.
Someone please,
Secure a cure!

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

It’s back to reality and the deserted streets of downtown Portland. A discussion with my son in the Florida restaurant business has me worried about the future of his family. I’m back at my desk trying to craft a few words to summarize our trip to Arizona and decided on a poem:

Viral Spiral 

Instead of spreading,
Irish Cheer.
Or toasting with,
A Guinness beer.

We saw our savings,
Go down the drain.
While toilet paper,
Made folks insane.

Our Courtyard Hotel,
Was a ghost town.
Cancellations,
Began to abound.

The six of us,
Of thirteen planned.
Dined on meatloaf,
And washed our hands.

Rather than,
A baseball game.
The world became,
A viral shame.

We shared a dream,
About “eating a peach.”
And talked of cars,
Priced out-of-reach.

Two more went home,
We were down to four.
No tourney to watch,
Not a single score.

But a double rainbow,
Held fortunate appeal.
And Ted served up,
A “delicate” meal.

So off to Marana,
A full day early.
While life as we knew it,
Turned really squirrelly.

The sun came out,
As we quarantined.
A viral spiral,
Now forced to heed.

We met the neighbors,
And the construction crew.
Watching them “crown,”
Was something to do.

The restaurants were open,
Through St. Pat’s eve.
But most were shuttered,
By time to leave.

We made a brief escape,
To Dillinger’s hotel.
And the ladies did Tubac,
Intrigued by a bell.

The guys went to Sam’s,
To find the shelves bare.
Yet our hosts were gracious,
Their goodies to share.

It was a memorable reunion,
Despite a world of trouble.
We were comfortable and safe,
In the Laegeler bubble.

The wine case we brought,
That soothed our woes.
We shipped back full,
Of wipes & dirty clothes.

copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

It’s always good to hear from friends, especially those who conjure-up fond memories of a Rolling Stones concert 39 years ago (December 1, 1981). We took a group in the WMEE 97 FM van to the now non-existent Pontiac Silverdome to see the show, also featuring Santana and Iggy Pop. It was a gathering of co-workers and companions well worth trying to recreate. Her thought was to see their stop on this year’s tour through Nashville. Unfortunately, I’m in Bali, unless the Corona Virus disrupts our travel plans. The question always comes to mind: Will this be the last chance to see them together? As I learned after watching Tom Petty play at Seattle’s Safeco Field, you never know if there will be a next time? He died a month later. Mick (Michael Phillip) and Keith are both now 76, Charlie 78, and Ronnie 72, so for each of the last ten years I’ve expected a farewell tour or worse. Iggy Pop and Carlos Santana are also 72, as I look back to that unforgettable Detroit concert. These guys should all be retired like me. 

As I talked with my friend about possibilities to get together, I’m amazed that forty years have passed since we first met. Anymore, our friendship is limited to birthday conversations and an occasional meal. Two thousand miles separate us, but every time we talk it seems like only yesterday when we saw each other every day at the office and even traveled together. (See Post #1038). I would love to get together again in Nashville. After all, life can take unexpected shifts. I joked with her how pleased I was to read the recent Indiana University Magazine obituaries without finding another lost classmate.

My mood has been dark these past few weeks while trying to fight-off this nasty cough. Running has been a challenge every morning and sleep has been restless. I try to keep my writing and poetry humorous, but my words took a more serious twist this morning, as I contemplate my inevitable mortality. 

My Last Breath 

As I close my eyes,
Take a final blink.
I want it to be,
A playful wink.

Like I know something,
No one else does.
I don’t know why?
Just because!

I’ll have a last laugh,
Put a smile on my face.
Make every effort,
To go out with grace.

I’ll take my secret,
To the grave.
And with this last breath,
Pretend to act brave.

Like it’s no big deal,
To leave forever.
And all earthly ties,
To suddenly sever.

Into the unknown,
I’ll boldly venture.
And face the start,
Of this next adventure.

All I’ve accomplished,
The love I’ve felt.
I’m satisfied with,
The hand I’ve been dealt.

I have no regrets,
I’ll exit with style.
I take my first steps.
And leave you a smile.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

“Kidneys are the Coolest” is the slogan for everybodypees.org. OK, maybe it’s not a real website or lost funding, because the link no longer exists. The point is that it’s a natural thing and certainly worthy of a little toilet humor. I’ve gotten carried away with bladder poetry, but challenged myself to write just one more after the phrase “it’s a pisser” came up in recent conversation with my friends. An unfriendly bladder is undoubtedly my biggest hassle in retirement. As a result, here’s another entry in the “of questionable bad taste” category:

It’s A Pisser

My bladder’s heavy,
I need relief.
Just not AGAIN,
Oh, Good Grief!

Every two hours,
Nature calls.
A little dribble,
Not Niagara Falls.

The shut-off’s missing,
Inside my weenie.
I seem to be taking,
To perpetual pee.

It’s my aging,
Urinary tract.
Non-stop action,
Like a NASCAR track.

Seems more comes OUT,
Than what GOES IN.
Excuse me please,
Need to go AGAIN.

Perhaps a clothespin,
Might stop this leak?
Relief from relief,
Is all I seek.

It’s a Pisser,
Being like me.
To carry around,
This much pee.

It’s a Pisser,
But what to do?
At least it’s not,
Number TWO.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

I remain healthy in retirement, so it’s not worth complaining about some of the minor issues of old age. I prefer to be humorous when it comes to my weak bladder. Perhaps I’ve been a bit obsessive about writing regarding my frequent trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night with the thought “Not Again?” I know you’re also probably saying, “not another poem about pee? Not Again?” I can’t honestly promise this will be my last stab at toilet humor. The first reference to this “problem” was three years ago and has been mentioned in 18 different posts. What I’ve found is that many fellow seniors can relate to this subject so it’s important to make others feel that they’re not alone. It’s worth a chuckle or two.

Senior Curse

I could once sleep ‘til noon,
Without interruption.
But now my bladder,
Is a constant disruption.

What now is a dribble,
Was once a squirt.
Instead it’s a trickle.
No longer a spurt.

Every two hours,
I have to go.
I can feel the urge,
Starting to grow.

I never pass,
A place to pee.
I no longer drink,
Coffee or tea.

Caffeine’s my enemy,
Beer’s even worse.
I’m a sad victim,
Of the Senior Curse.

If I hold it too long,
It might spring a leak.
But despite any strain,
It still comes out weak.

The Force isn’t with me,
As I step to the plate.
Even those times,
When I just can’t wait.

My tank seems full,
But no Tiger’s in there.
Sometimes old age,
Just isn’t fair.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

Last night, I cut-back on my evening fluid intake, hoping that I could reduce the number of overnight bathroom trips. The frustration of the night before fueled a drastic need for change in dealing with my overactive bladder (OAB). I got out of bed at least five times, after several late night cups of tea, two vodka tonics, and multiple Diet Cokes. First, I have to learn to manage or eliminate my caffeine, chocolate, and alcohol urges. Secondly, I’ll also strive to strengthen my pelvic floor through exercise and consciously restrict liquids. Simply cutting-back resulted in a last night’s good sleep, interrupted by only two bladder interruptions, so the goal now becomes a seamless seven hours. 

I once liked getting-up multiple times in the middle of the night. There was never any trouble getting back to sleeps, and it made me feel like I was stretching time before the alarm rang. However, now I’m not working and no longer at the mercy of a wake-up call. I like the idea of a friendlier bladder and less-disruptive sleep. To get there, I’m going to have to make changes without resorting to medication. As I contemplate this matter of the bladder, I leave you with this silly poem that will have to be filed under the category of “in questionable bad taste.”

Bladder Matter 2

Disturbing news,
It’s a bladder matter.
Urinary Incontinence,
There’s nothing sadder.

Toilet Talk,
And discharge jokes.
Uncomfortable jest,
For proper folks.

It’s a touchy topic,
Some shamed to speak.
But the last thing you want,
Is a tell-tale leak.

Input equals output,
No room for doubt.
What goes in,
Must come out.

It’s bladder-related,
Anatomy one-oh-one.
But when it fails,
It’s never fun.

If it’s overactive,
Without control.
You need something,
To plug that Hole.

It might get irritable,
Cause for panic.
Restroom closed?
Don’t get frantic.

In the Overnight hours
When you seek relief.
It can frequently be,
A sleep depriving thief.

And God forbid,
When there’s no stream.
It can make,
A grown man scream.

When the doctor asks,
For you to cough.
There’s no need,
To get pissed off.

What comes before pee,
In the alphabet?
Oooo, so soothing,
No better does it get.

When the bag gets full,
Before you need a mop.
With the urge to go,
You’re forced to stop.

Or Like a race horse,
You start to prance.
My mom called it,
“The Tinkle dance.”

When nature calls,
Don’t dare diddle.
Before you make,
A puddle of piddle.

Politely you ask,
To take care of biz.
But we all know,
You’re taking a whiz.

If you can’t hold it,
Be more than glad.
That you’re wearing,
A Maxi Pad.

As we get older,
Here’s the key:
Never pass,
A place to pee.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

For more bladder humor see Post #941. Apparently, the topic has been top-of-mind before.