REJECTED AT 60
THE TROUBLE WITH GROWING OLD
So what is true and what not true I have no more to know.
You still want to worship but all the dusty idoltoes have turned up and gone into that dark night.
The unquestioned illusions of yesterday Lie crumpled like a cast-off garment And I, that garment's very form, Must somehow make today's illusions Fit and keep me warm. Do they print a size 14 pattern For half-a-body? Are there still wearable truths? Changing in degree but constant? Do I now know some that fit? This faithful cat watching my moods Those feeding, fliHing birds A child's trust and busy living Eternal music and unread books Untraveled places, nature's prizes, Afriend's care, a friend's need, God's timely answer to my cry for help. But after 40 years! Now the believed-in verities of marriage Are like faded, threadbare clothes; And I have no more to know... So late, so difficult, to design a new costume And fashion a whole new show. --Betty Hall Cobb, 1978
It's too late to buy
lilies and bonnets
for your mother· to kiss
her widow cheek
and reassure her you
won't let her die in
the Dewittville poorhouse.
Reassure and reassure
until exhausted you
think the unthinkable,
"I wish you were dead."
Believe, me, that
comes back to haunt you
all the fires of retribution
are not in the far future
that makes you cower in obeisance
to children and grandchildren:
the last you have to worship;
those you want to worship you.
That's the trouble with growing old.
There's no second chance;
and only a rare night
when you dream of being held.
That's why your eyes slide pagt
bed after bed of those
curled-up white cocoons
in nursing homes.
IN RESPONSE TO AFELLOW POET (on my 72nd birthday!) Silly old woman clothes spotted, hair awry, proud, stubborn, outspoken
old woman not 45, 57 or 65;
no more slaps on her behind, no
sly reaching to cup a 36 breast,
no whistles from scaffolded workmen,
no married men tapping at the back door.
Silly old woman
too enervated for others' pep or woes,
yet hurt if not included (the irony of
feeling useless if not able to help).
Silly old woman
can't even measure condiments,
remember her pills, climb the
dentist's stairs, control her body odors.
Silly old woman
longing, but not asking, for
her children's and friends' attention;
Always thanking God for their survival
because each loss cracks her heart,
turning it to that red stone, but
remembering, remembering, remembering.
Silly old woman
refusing denial, pity, gold, liquor, drugs,
learning each day about the inexorable need
to let go of all she has cherished.
How sweet it isn't. Oh, yeah!
--Betty Hall Cobb, 1/30/90 --Betty Hall Cobb, 2117/89 Betty Hall Cobb lives in Dunkirk, New York where she received a Bachelor of Science in education from State University of New York College at Fre donia in 1963. In 1988, at age 70, she finished an advanced course in creative writing, joined a lo cal women's writing group (Penelope), and sent out some 300 poems she had been writing for the past 50 years. Her poems have been published in World of Poetty, Sacramento, CA, The Buffalo News, and The Fig, published by State University of New York College at Fredonia.
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