A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree and all the ladies, half my age, are smiling at me. Or so it seems – maybe they’re just smiling near me. It’s hard to see with such watery eyes, as if I’m looking through melting ice. Each spring beckons me out the door, but I’m moving slower than the year before and can’t keep up as the ladies walk past. When did these women get so fast? Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Tag Archives: Aging
Firm and Round and, Dare I Say, Juicy
Brisk day. Winter is certainly coming to Roanoke. I zip up my coat as I accelerate my pace down Church Street. But it’s not too cold. I can still admire my profile as I pass the abandoned storefront’s window. Firm chin. Prominent nose. All good. New pants. Let’s see how they’re holding up. Nicely snug in the crotch. What the ffffffffffff …?
Where the hell is my ass? I used to have one. I remember it fondly. Many women, and even more men, commented on it favorably. It was firm and round and, dare I say, juicy. But where is it now?
As president of Pungent Sound Community Bank, I’m a man accustomed to acquiring things. Ties, shoes, automobiles, boats, homes, sexual partners, penicillin. The list goes on and on. But is this what I can expect as I approach my winter years? A gradual loss? Incremental divestments and shedding? Have I wasted my life on meaningless acquisitions that I will inevitably lose?
At least my mane remains full and majestic. I’m a Blue Ridge Mountain Lion. Let’s take a quick look. What the . . . what’s happening to my hairline? When did that start? Motherfffffff …….
Titmouse Beak, President of Pungent Sound Community Bank
Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door
A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies, half my age, are smiling at me.
Or so it seems –
maybe they’re just smiling near me.
It’s hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I’m looking through melting ice.
Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I’m moving slower than the year before
and can’t keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Thin Resentment
There was his strength that now is gone. There is his memory of strength that cruelly consumes and there is our failure to find any solace. There is my feeble suspicion that somehow he allowed this to happen and my thin resentment that this will be my inheritance. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Great White Heron in a Floppy Hat
My father, long retired and recently afraid of becoming irrelevant, has become a pest. A master gardener, himself, he has volunteered to teach the Wampanoag children of Cape Cod how to grow vegetables the way 80 year old white men do - by stabbing cold metal hand shovels into the sandy soil and throwing dry seeds in the gaping wounds. The Wampanoag women of Cape Cod prefer their traditional methods. The warm heels of their feet create the needed homes for the pregnant seeds. Dad visits their community garden unannounced, uninvited, and unaware he may be perceived as a great white heron in a floppy hat attempting to poach fish from their pond. The tortured history here would recommend a gentler approach, but he is forever surprised by the frosty welcome. He suspects they want his money more than his help. His plans for Thanksgiving, my sister and I think, are bound to make matters worse. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door
A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me. Or so it seems - maybe they're just smiling near me. It's hard to see with such watery eyes, as if I'm looking through melting ice. Each spring beckons me out the door, but I'm moving slower than the year before and can't keep up as the ladies walk past. When did these women get so fast? Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
A Portrait of the Pretend Poet as an Old Man
And then the flatulence - as always, without warning, permission or consideration.
It cares not whether I am surrounded by friends or strangers in a stuffy room where winter prohibits windows from being opened. Or whether I'm in a compact car filled with awkward silence and Serena - a winter woman I was trying to seduce. If only I could be a cow in a rolling meadow carpeted with buttercups.
Cows aren't bothered by flatulent friends. They find nothing funny about the lack of control age inflicts. Cows, with their wise, soulful eyes, know nothing dignified happens near the end.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door
A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me. Or so it seems - maybe they're just smiling near me. It's hard to see with such watery eyes, as if I'm looking through melting ice. Each spring beckons me out the door, but I'm moving slower than the year before and can't keep up as the ladies walk past. When did these women get so fast? Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 