Modern takes on old poems
RockyRoger
Shipmate
in Heaven
I love the thread with limericks derived from old poems. Some old and venerable poems, thiugh, deserve more extended consideration. Below is one which is, for this oldster, quite apposite:
No App-titude in Old Age
With apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning
How do I call you? Let me count the ways:
The icons are there, in serried arrays,
but sometimes they vanish,
Often for days.
What’s App, Messenger, Instagram and text,
and whatever they think is gonna come next.,
"Is easy", they say, but I'm just perplexed
and they twitter away
on something called ‘X’
I'm frozen immobile, my mind's gone to ice.
To talk to a loved one would be very nice,
But how to do it on my tiny device?
The new one is better - and smaller - I'm told,
but my battery's flat and my apps are too old.
Arthritic fingers don't work when they're cold!
I've lost my emojis, this aged has-been,
so I poke about dimly, reloading the screen.
What on earth am I doing with this wretched machine?
I wish it had valves, with their nice warming glow.
And nostalgic buttons, in dials or a row --
And 'Press button A' as it was long ago . . .
So how do I call you? Does only God know?
And grandchildren, of course.
With apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning
How do I call you? Let me count the ways:
The icons are there, in serried arrays,
but sometimes they vanish,
Often for days.
What’s App, Messenger, Instagram and text,
and whatever they think is gonna come next.,
"Is easy", they say, but I'm just perplexed
and they twitter away
on something called ‘X’
I'm frozen immobile, my mind's gone to ice.
To talk to a loved one would be very nice,
But how to do it on my tiny device?
The new one is better - and smaller - I'm told,
but my battery's flat and my apps are too old.
Arthritic fingers don't work when they're cold!
I've lost my emojis, this aged has-been,
so I poke about dimly, reloading the screen.
What on earth am I doing with this wretched machine?
I wish it had valves, with their nice warming glow.
And nostalgic buttons, in dials or a row --
And 'Press button A' as it was long ago . . .
So how do I call you? Does only God know?
And grandchildren, of course.
Comments
With homage to A E Housman
Horse Chestnuts are a lovely tree.
An invasive species, just like me.
Like me, it's in its autumn now,
And hung with conkers on the bough.
Young lads collect them; do they still play,
As they once did, back in the day,
When even I had fruit, and knew The Way?
Oh well, it's still a grand display.
I've used up threescore years and ten,
I won't be seeing them again,
And through my self-inflicted ills
I've lost those Blue Remembered Hills.
I now forget my yellow pills.
I'm over my allotted share
And live through yet another year.
The un-eked out treasures of the poor
I've grasped, unearned; now I'm unsure
I'll hear His knocking at my door.
I've given up philosophies,
And reading dull theologies;
I listen to long symphonies,
And never to the Daily News.
But should I spend my little time,
Ignoring all the dirt and grime,
To ruminate on the sublime?
I think, I hope, Our Lord agrees,
I'll trade the time spent on my knees,
For simple walks among the trees.