Sadly, I have not written a poem in awhile, one of my favorite things to do.  One is tucked inside every Limoges box gift I give my wife. This means I haven’t been very attentive to her growing collection that has been part of our relationship since the beginning.  In going back through my notes, it’s been since late October that I did my last rhyme for a sports post, after our trip to Pittsburgh. A Halloween Limoges box was lost in the mail, so I stepped up for Christmas with a pricy Disney collectable of Minnie Mouse shopping. 

I felt it appropriate for our upcoming trip to Disney World with my wife’s daughter, who we haven’t seen since April and our move here to Florida. Her husband has never been to an amusement park, let alone the Disney experience. My wife is getting me, at my request, hearing aids – so ears for everyone this Christmas!

Ears for Everyone 

A Disney World,
Family Reunion.
Christmas cheer,
And Florida sun.

Megan & Mitch,
Will “Be our Guests.”
Star Wars rides,
Our ultimate quest.

The Animal Kingdom,
Is our first stop.
Avatar Flight,
Then Everest’s top.

Epcot fireworks,
After Il Mulino.
Too bad we missed,
Tahoe and Reno.

Fires and Covid,
Have thwarted travel.
Let’s hope this trip,
Doesn’t come unraveled.

Disney Limoges,
Seemed appropriate.
Minnie Mouse ears,
The perfect fit.

On Christmas Day,
The Falcon awaits.
Once we conquer,
The lines and gates.

Haunted Mansion,
Tower of Terror.
It’s A Small World,
If you dare!

The Castle will explode,
When our days are done.
Let’s hope any hassles,
Are outweighed by fun.

Then the holiday finale,
On our new lanai.
Unwrapping gifts,
With my Grand Guys.

No dishes at Debsie’s
Just yours and mine.
We may even break out,
The Homer wine.

Only Miranda and Ben,
Are missing this feast.
Eventually, they’ll get here,
But Kauai, at least.

My 23rd Christmas,
Of Loving beautiful you.
And I’m excited,
I’m getting ears, too!

Copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com

Another attempt at poetry to express my feelings. I’ve crossed another decade of life and wonder what is ahead in the twilight of my life?

What will Life Be Like?

I’m slow and out of balance,
When I try to run.
What will it be like,
When I’m Seventy-one?

It hurts to bend over,
Just to tie a shoe.
How stiff will I be,
When I’m Seventy-two?

In three more years,
Where will I be?
And what will life bring,
When I’m Seventy-three?

I would like to know,
What the years have in store.
What will it be like,
When I’m Seventy-four?

How much longer,
Will I be alive?
What will I be doing,
When I’m Seventy-five?

Time remaining,
Slowly ticks.
Who will be left,,
When I’m Seventy-six?

Life can be hell,
Is there truly a heaven?
Will living still matter,
When I’m Seventy-seven?

Midnight’s approaching,
It’s getting late.
Will the clock keep ticking,
When I’m Seventy-eight?

So many questions,
As I run out of time.
What’s left to offer,
If I turn Seventy-nine?

Suddenly I’m eighty,
Have I done it all?
Another decade,
Any way to stall?

Will I make it,
Past 100 years?
I find little pleasure,
In outliving my peers.

Copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com 

I finally got my new passport in the mail, so I’m ready for International travel once again. I find it odd that there’s not a more secure way to apply and receive these documents other than the U.S. Mail. I was worried when I had to return my current passport that had yet to expire, concerned that it might get hijacked, lost, or stolen. It’s like having a colonoscopy, good for another ten years. Thankfully, everything went smoothly. Now, if there was just someplace to go. 

We got a few more home decorations hung yesterday as we continue to prepare for October guests. Friends and family are headed this way, starting in just a few weeks. Today, would normally be “Tourist Thursday” but my wife accepted a friend’s offer to go shopping and visit a Selby Gardens, a place I’ve already been. That clears me for lunch with my son and granddaughter while the cleaning crew does its work. As long as my wife stays busy, she’s happy, plus we’ll have an extensive touristy experience together in Pittsburgh next week. 

I’m all set for my CTA scan in a few weeks. Computed Tomography Angiography is what it’s short for, combining a coronary angiogram with an injection of dye to track blood flow though the heart.  It’s like taking your car in for a routine service check, it seems like they always find more to fix. I’m sure that after seventy years I have several rusted out parts. It reminds me of a poem I wrote many years ago (See Post #17):

Rust In Peace

People say I’m younger,
Than others my age look.
That my body’s youthful,
In any fitness book.

They like the way I dress,
And my childish grin.
My hair’s still there,
My figure thin.

But trapped inside,
Many years of stress.
Anger and pain,
I must confess.

Disappointment,
Pain and loss.
Troubles at home,
A demanding boss.

Looks good outside,
But rusty inside.
So many cracks,
I’m able to hide.

Like a vintage auto,
Shiny and sleek.
But my undercarriage,
Is rusted out and weak.

Blood pressure high,
Reflexes slow.
Another gasket,
About to blow.

Used to be fast,
Much in demand.
Cocky and confident,
The world in hand.

Just a few wrinkles,
Teeth still white.
A couple of dents,
From a fist fight.

Tan and fit,
You think I’m lookin’ good.
Just wait until,
You look under my hood.

Looks good outside,
But rusty inside.
So many cracks,
I’m able to hide.

Like a vintage auto,
Shiny and sleek.
But my undercarriage,
Is rusted out and weak.

Rev up my engine,
And hear it sputter.
My arteries clogged,
With too much butter.

A little beer gut,
But you should see my liver.
A little soft in spots,
But I can still deliver.

In no time flat,
Zero to Eighty.
Driven only on Sunday,
By an old lady.

When my time runs out,
They’ll look at me and say.
What a good looking corpse,
He even hid the gray.

Looks good outside,
But rusty inside.
So many cracks,
I’m able to hide.

Like a vintage auto,
Shiny and sleek.
But my undercarriage,
Is rusted out and weak

johnstonwrites.com
Copyright April 2009

It’s been about two months since I’ve written my last poem. This will be number 244 that I have included in this blog. (See Poem  Category). My wife likens our new retirement home to a camp where she spends her mornings doing various activities like the dog park, water aerobics, yoga, tap classes, or just water walking. I go off and do my separate schedule of running, swimming, and writing. In the afternoons, while I try to retreat to the TV in my office, she plans what she calls “cabin activities,” that might include making a restaurant reservation or a field trip to a nearby historical sight. She’s very busy in her new retirement life…I’ve tried to capture it in this poem:

Camp Islandwalk

Imagine being a child,
Way back when.
Would you go back,
And live that life again?

Summers away from home,
With other kids like you.
New Friends to make,
So many things to do.

Activity schedules,
Swimming in the pools.
Canoeing in the river,
Fewer adult rules.

Games and singalongs,
Sneaking out at night.
Campfire smores,
Fresh air, starlight.

Ghost tales,
Scavenger hunts.
Talent shows.
High dive stunts.

The years have passed by,
We’ve grown more mature.
Or are we just like,
The kids we once were?

We no longer have jobs.
Just like back then.
School’s out,
We’re at camp once again.

Resort community,
Blue skies and sun.
We do what we want,
Days filled with fun.

Side-by-side cabins,
Retirement bliss.
Those working days,
We’ll never miss.

Pickle-ball matches,
A park for dogs.
But watch out for gators,
And thumbnail frogs.

Water aerobics,
Clubs for us each.
Tap dancing, yoga,
Or go to the beach.

Here we are in Venice,
Where life is good.
At Camp Islandwalk,
Our second childhood.

Copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com

We went for a drive yesterday, up and down Highway 41. What a mess – and it’s not even tourist season.  My wife mentioned something about a song she heard on the radio and thought maybe I could do better. I might just have to collaborate with the neighborhood band – Paradise Pickers.

Highway 41 Blues

Stop and go,
Construction cones.
Distracted drivers,
On cell phones.

Another stop sign,
Right lane closed.
Sunday drivers,
Nothing flows.

Expecting to get there,
Well, I’ve got news.
Start Singing the Highway,
Forty-One blues.

It gets even worse,
When the snowbirds arrive.
Sitting on phone books,
Trying to drive.

The line of cars,
Is like a parade.
When these part-timers,
Start to invade.

Jacked-up trucks,
With Confederate flags.
Souped-up golf carts,
Equipped for the drags.

Like the Daytona 500,
Some make it a race.
While others crawl along,
At a sea turtle’s pace.

Pale-skinned families,
Put their toes in the sand.
And suffer from red necks,
Instead of getting tanned.

Down the Gulf Coast,
They come in droves.
With their beach chairs,
And Jimmy Buffet clothes.

Fireworks and booze,
Are bought along the way.
And it’s best us residents,
Stay out of their way.

Think this traffic,
Is perhaps over-hyped?
After a month in town,
I got side-swiped.

Start spreading sunscreen,
And the bumper car news.
By singing these Highway,
Forty-One Blues.

copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com

As you can see, I’m starting to think like the natives in making the switch from tourist to resident. I did, however, just get my car back from the body shop after my Highway 41 incident. Be careful out there!

The Beatles managed to cushion the sting of getting old by creating songs like “When I’m Sixty-Four.” But, what happens after that? Sixty-Five is still a milestone even though 66 is now the official retirement age. My wife’s 65th happens to come at a time when Bucket Lists tend to be on hold. In the past year, our trips to Bali, Egypt, Hawaii, Norway, and Russia have all been cancelled. So, what do you do to celebrate in these troubled times? You rely on family, so this is what this year’s birthday poem is all about, hidden inside another Limoges box gift. We’ll travel back to Portland via San Francisco and officially celebrate at the ballpark. My wife is not a baseball fan, rather just glad to spend time with her two daughters.

Admittedly, both of us are a bit reluctant to leave our new Florida home, especially after just getting situated. However, we’ll gladly sing “Happy Birthday” over a Ghirardelli chocolate sundae and dine at Sonoma’s Wit and Wisdom restaurant. We’ll return to our seven-year home of Portland and visit friends and relatives, say hi to Tally’s little dog buddy Falco, and think about our long journey down to Florida that included several hospital visits for kidney stones. There will be no stylish jewelry or other lavish gifts on this occasion, just time with loved ones and the traditional French box. 

As an appropriate tribute to our nearby Florida Gulf beaches, this year’s porcelain BD box is a colorful beach umbrella with chair and cocktail. On our 10th wedding anniversary (diamond), I somehow got away with buying her a Charlie Brown Baseball Diamond Limoges box in lieu of the real thing. She thought it was a clever way to avoid gifting her another pricy stone (although other gifts were involved). I also once took her on a 50th birthday trip to San Diego and ended up in the ER after a kidney stone attack on the beach, claiming to have given her a special stone. Well, this year it was her turn for kidney issues, but with the much more serious consequences of surgery. Rock and Stone jokes have become a part of our conversations on many occasions. They once again appear in this poem:

More Than Sixty-Four 

You’re celebrating,
Sixty- five years.
Looking much younger,
Than your peers.

With two girls,
One barely forty.
Driving a Lexus,
Considered sporty.

Life is good,
A brand new home.
You’ve seen Tahiti,
And even Rome.

Early retirement,
A nearby beach.
Sun and surf,
A little of each.

Dream kitchen,
Back yard pool.
But a husband,
Who’s low on fuel.

Water aerobics,
Dog Park friends.
The fun at Islandwalk,
Never ends.

I’m sure you envisioned,
A bucket list location.
To mark this Birthday,
Milestone occasion.

But the Covid bug,
Took that all away.
So here we are,
Where the Giants play.

Cities by the Bay,
With those you love.
But don’t forget,
To bring your glove.

Or maybe some bling?
But the way I see it.
It’s been a year when,
“Stones” aren’t appropriate.

At the very least,
It’s a “diamond” setting.
Next year’s 66th,
Will be better-I’m betting.

Instead we’re gathered,
At Miranda’s new home.
The background for,
This Birthday poem.

Some Sonoma Sipping,
And Ghirardelli.
Wit and Wisdom,
Will fill your belly.

Megan is next,
Who we left behind.
More birthday love,
That you won’t mInd.

Party in Portland,
Stretching your big day.
Then back to the beach,
And more Gulf play.

Under the umbrella,
Toes in the sand.
Coast to coast,
Isn’t life grand.

Copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com