When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
Warning by Jenny Joseph

What’s it to me? …
A knotted and nasty old poet of introverted time
wearing five-dollar sweats
dressing in black on black like a fly
with silver earrings tinkling softly in the winter breeze
What’s it to me? …

A Madwoman, a Madonna, a Medusa
Traipsing neighborhood streets, city parks and country lanes
Nibbling on sharp yellow cheese and glossy red apples
Sitting down on some wayward curb to sigh in wonder at
noisy birds and children, wizened old men, whiskered grandmothers
Dogs walking their humans by the side of the road
Feral cats scratching out a living of pigeon stuffed with stale bread

Muttering, muttering, whispering, watching, writing
Writing long poems and short about what it was to be us
through clocked days trapped in pointless, punctilious youth
Enjoying now the wild, gnarly randomness of life
and the music of our dusty blue souls jingling as we walk …
What’s it to me? What’s it to this so lately untamable me?

© 2013, Jamie Dedes


Aging has its many downsides. We’re not going to explore them this week. Instead we’re going to explore the joys. For me this would be feeling free to honor my inner eccentric. How about YOU? What are the joys you find in aging?  If you’re still young, use your imagination. Tell us about the joys of your aging in your poem/s.

  • please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
  • please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose


Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.

IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.

PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.  

Deadline:  Monday, November 25 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.

Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro.  It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you.

You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.

Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights and encourages activist poetry.  Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.

About / Testimonials / Disclosure / Facebook / Medium

Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications:  Jamie Dedes, Versifier of Truth, Womawords Literary Press, November 19, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019

“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.”  Lucille Clifton


  1. Hello Jamie!! I am on time to join this week. I have missed participating! Here is my submission entitled “When I Am An Old Woman”

    I want to be
    A old woman
    With a squishy tummy
    From having babies and eating chocolate chip cookies
    I would have wrinkles in all the right places
    I would wear my grey hair the same way as I wore it when it was my black hair
    I would wear a bright print top
    And swingy pants made of linen
    I would sit in my rocker
    On my front porch
    Under a retractable awning
    A glass of sweet tea on the table next to me
    With a battery powered fan next to it
    Just in case it got too hot
    I’d have my knitting in a bag
    But I wouldn’t take it out
    I would watch the street
    I would watch the sidewalk
    I would wave to the kids as they walked to school
    I would give the stink eye to unfamiliar cars
    I would greet the UPS driver and chat up the mail carrier
    I would chide the dog owner who didn’t pick up what their dog put down
    I would smile to the mama with the sleeping baby
    I would listen to the birds and the squirrels, the ambulance and the fire trucks
    I would only glance at the air planes overhead
    And when the sun is high enough, I would pull back the awning
    And let the sun kiss my un-sunscreened face.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. So glad to be back! Although I didn’t realize my poem so closely resembled that of “Warning” – I had not read the full poem until you posted it (although I had heard of the Red Hat Society since my mom joined a group). Ah well – imitation is the sincerest form….

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Respected Jamie Ji

    Something It Is To Me Surely,

    Something it is to me surely,
    something is
    my shirt hangs loose and long
    from the shoulders, I have no worries
    I am smart, silver streaks do not bother
    I still wear the ‘jhumka earings’ I can smile
    I cover my head, no hairstyle, am free of the
    chair and clip in the hair
    Wow what freedom has come-

    I am free. I have nothing to hold
    I am more bold, when cold, I wear socks
    as I please,
    I am a bit old, not much for
    I can sit of the floor, need not reach for
    the stick, nor for the bottle ‘on the rocks’
    no cigarettes please, just coffee hot
    Something it is to me surely
    something is

    dark glasses help me to see, what I
    wish, what fun to be served and waited upon
    Old is gold, and Grand and Great Grand
    I am soft and stern at the same time
    I am there among laughter and hugs
    I am a bit old not much
    I am just seven with a zero I say
    I am fine my wrinkles may show
    I am now eight with a zero I say
    I still love am loved how lucky I say
    Without me, value me-

    something it is to me surely something is
    It is love and respect as I love all and bow
    and I pray and I pray and soon I may not be
    If I have been good, I will be young as seven
    and I will not grow old again, for I will be in heaven

    Liked by 1 person

  3. endgame adjustments

    it’s easy to have a blast at 65
    just don’t do it in your pants
    for your once reliable digestive tract
    is now a trickster
    and sometimes pretends one substance
    is another
    so be discreet
    hie thee to a bathroom stall
    and relax
    and enjoy
    one of life’s unsung pleasures

    your tract reaches into its bag of tricks
    and inexplicably delays the countdown
    and subsequent blastoff

    and then you must wait
    r e l a x
    pretend you have all
    t h e t i m e
    i n
    t h e w o r l d

    except you don’t
    and if the parcel is still
    on the loading dock five minutes on
    it is time to go fishing
    with ernest hemingway
    marlin fishing
    for the extreme rocking motion
    papa uses when he has a marlin on the line
    sometimes is a sufficient propellent
    for the contents of the large intestine to offload
    so catch that marlin

    but that doesn’t always work
    so it’s time for desperate measures
    make yourself laugh
    cough like a firefighter
    find something to sneeze at

    in this extreme
    i must refer you to Project DJT
    and ask you to form
    the most real image in your mind
    of Inauguration Day 2021

    now, if that
    doesn’t Scare You Shitless,
    NOTHING will!

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Bliss

    One summer
    night, after
    a trip to the
    American West,
    and comfort in seeing family
    and an old
    a contentment

    The torch was now passed
    to the next generation,
    and we’d lived to be
    witness to the 30 years
    onward that we’d
    travelled to arrive at
    the current nuptial.

    Unanticipated and fleeting,
    the gladness
    when it appears
    sometimes in the aftermath,
    can be all the more memorable.

    –Olive Branch

    Liked by 1 person

  5. My first response Jamie ●

    OLD EYES *

    When my old age comes 

    I”ll not be upset 

    Thinking I too have to leave this world 

    Keeping my old eyes on the velvety sky 

    I will count innumerable stars 

    I know that this counting will remain incomplete 

    Though time goes on 

    There is an impression of events 

    While counting stars I will remember my left days of past 

    Then I will come to my mirror 

    Reflection of sunrays on it will make my existence happy 

    I will recall my glorious past 

    And collect a jug of honey 

    With full of vivacity

    Thus I will be a sparkling beauty of innersense .

    Kakali Das Ghosh 

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Purple

    Noiseless as autumn footfalls,
    clematis vines reach higher on
    the trellis into the blinding
    sun. The season unravels gently

    preserving a trail of beliefs from
    the echoes of coral jasmine gathered
    in two orange-smudged childhood
    baskets of burnished brass, reserved
    for practising faith with garlands
    and incense, to the intrinsic
    rituals of coral jasmine itself:
    simple beginnings and growth. The
    flamboyant carpet of bauhinia petals
    below my feet (now past its
    prime) coils into rich chains

    of understanding, edging unbroken
    days and nights towards reflection
    on natural systems and those
    flashes of purple autumn stillness.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Growing old I enjoy it
    Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
    You don’t find it annoying
    I am too old
    I need rest, and medicine ….yeah,
    I raised a good, and gentleman
    I am old but who are we kidding?
    if only there were just one
    I cough with half my mouth
    Son, I can’t stay in the air for a long long time
    Well, you treat us like we are dying ….yeah
    Growing old I enjoy it
    Ah, when I get off my bed I rub my back
    You don’t find it annoying
    I am too old
    I need rest, and medicine

    Liked by 2 people

  8. To Biddy

    Scatter radiances of milk
    on her icy sod.
    Let each brightness warm her earth.

    Broadcast flames of oats
    on her waters, stoke embers of fish.
    Let her waves be ablaze with shoals.

    Brush and scrub your home for her visit.
    Put her bread and butter on windowsills.
    Make her a bed of twigs for her rest.

    Waxing light polishes
    her crone wrinkles
    into maiden’s roundness.

    Make her a doll
    out of primroses
    and snowdrops.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. love and gratitude from LA

    -cheveux indisciplines-

    i love the color of my hair
    brown red and in some places pink
    my tired legs and lined filled hands
    eyes that stare flat beyond the sky
    and a mind that has lost the hard shell
    of youthful indulgence and inexperience
    i love my lips still round and plump
    and the new found freedom
    of spouting my own thoughts
    that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom
    i love my face
    oh those expression lines
    that will never be usurped by botox
    my cheek bones high and tight
    to frame a genuine smile at the wind
    i love my hair when she gets wild
    and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills
    stroll in the Rolls Royce isles
    worn out Chucks with the strategic tears
    where the toes are too tight
    salesmen follow me with Lysol cans
    and their neat white gloves
    that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi
    the hair a right of passage glorious
    furious bright riot
    reminding me that my agedness
    is a catalyst to the third eye lens
    from where i can finally see
    the dimensions of the world
    the good and the bad
    and really only give a dam
    about the moments that matter

    Liked by 1 person

    (Clarissa Simmens)

    In secret grasses
    Wild flowers thrive, watching me
    An aging Goth Granny
    Freely pedaling
    Tiring easily
    Suddenly seeing
    I’ve become paprika
    A shadow of cayenne
    O, but the beat
    The music thrums
    Through overloud speakers
    Legs moving faster
    Lungs gasping
    Singing voice rasping
    Sure will pay for it
    Tonight when the yard is
    But worth every moment…

    Liked by 3 people

    (Clarissa Simmens)

    Following middle of the night
    Poetry ideas
    Into oblivion
    Darkness magics the words
    So Stygian
    Yet moonlight
    Like blankets
    Shields and comforts
    Transforming a stressed face
    Into a softened glow
    As the mask melts
    Lost in a
    Mythology unrecognized
    Although semiotically using
    Correct signs, symbols and
    Elemental scents
    Winter disguised
    It is the unrecorded that
    Separating historically
    Asking the clouds rhetorically
    Who will I be this decade
    Because I certainly don’t know
    That other person from the last
    And moving back in time
    Across an invisible line
    Is a very different
    Young adult
    And I think
    To my great surprise
    I like this old one best…

    Liked by 3 people

  12. . yes we come older .

    I just copy and paste
    the whole thing,
    they can take it or leave

    i do find that
    much does not
    matter now,
    all that fiddly stuff,
    all that desiring
    things, when all around us
    is ready.

    i like the birds
    and such like
    little things.

    glad of the heal.

    yes a sensitive soul, when all is quiet,
    small sounds, voices interrupt
    the day.

    is best we listen.

    just now the planes fly over, the dog runs out looking up, barking.

    it is pleasant here again today,
    a piece of mind.


    Liked by 3 people

  13. My Friction Ridges

    Seventeenth week of mam’s pregnancy
    my fetus friction ridges fully form
    arch, loop and whorl,

    My basal layer buckles and folds
    in several directions, forces complex shapes.
    Not barkskin growth rings
    light and dark, a seasonal response.

    Rather as if someone thumbs out my face
    or mine tbeirs, erase facial recognition
    on a photo, stain the image
    with sand dune ripples, tropical fish stripes,
    convecting fluid patterns,

    von Karman vortices, air or liquid currents
    move in opposite directions, curl clouds.

    Insects speed and manoeuvre
    borrow energy from their wing made
    von Karman vortices,

    this blotted face buckles and folds
    with age.

    Liked by 2 people

  14. Old Are Young

    My wrinkles disappear,
    No more crow’s feet.

    Knees lack pain when I get up,
    or walk stairs. Mind so pin sharp

    it hurts. Touch my toes,
    cartwheel, run marathons.

    I’ve had to throw away my false teeth,
    As I’ve grown new ones.

    Age means less struggle.
    Life should be struggle.

    Age means less pain .
    Everything should hurt.

    I tell my wrinkled grandkids.
    Never grow old. Wish it on no one.
    (From “A World Where”, Nixes Mate Press, 2017)

    Liked by 2 people

  15. Hi Jamie,
    Here’s my First response:

    My Decrepit Is Good

    Bring on grey hairs turn to silver.
    Bring on sharp pain in the knees
    as I hobble downstairs.

    Bring on memory loss
    as I know no different.
    Bring me my stick,
    my arrow of desire.

    Bring it all on, fuzzy brain,
    misty sight, zimmer frame,
    adult nappy’s, oxygen through
    plastic tubes, a knowing.

    Bring on wrinkles, laugh lines,
    tang of autumn, radical spice
    of spring, footskate winter,
    wild summer, all natural process.

    Liked by 2 people

  16. ..we are older now..

    may be i am soft like
    gentle ways.

    we went to the mountain
    sat at the base chatting,
    looking up.

    walking the path, the sun
    caught our shoulders,

    at the salmon leap, we paused
    at the lack of fish.

    grass grew greener,
    we are older now,



    Liked by 2 people

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