Poems by Cynthia C. Naspinski

You find you're getting hairier though not atop your head.
You somehow sustain injuries while sleeping in your bed.
Your arm is not quite long enough to make the fine print clear.
You walk into a room then think - Now why'd I come in here?

You only use your mobile phone to send texts and to talk.
You don't change into workout gear just to take a walk.
You phone in for your takeout and you pick up your own order.
You need your kids to help set up the new HD recorder.

You frequent ATMs so you can have some cash on hand.
You venture to the beach but just to walk along the sand.
Before going somewhere new, you check the parking situation.
Your generation's music now plays on the oldies station.

You type a text one handed using just your index finger.
You'd struggle to identify a top ten song or singer.
When faced with going out at night you'd rather watch TV.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor is a distant memory.

You don't trust direct debit and you still get paper bills.
It's starting to get harder to keep track of all your pills.
You keep forgetting passwords, so you now just have the one.
You're alarmed to find your surgeon looks ridiculously young.

Most things are sagging lower but your waistband's sitting higher.
When scrolling to your year of birth your finger starts to tire.
You no longer feel confident when climbing up a ladder.
A good chunk of your nighttime is spent emptying your bladder.

You miss the end of movies 'cause you can't help nodding off.
You're not sure which is harder, bending down or straightening up.
TV shows are hard to follow because all the actors mumble.
Your friends no longer laugh when you trip or take a tumble.

Instead of squeezing pimples you're now plucking out stray hairs.
Loud music now annoys you but your television blares.
You find yourself declaring things like, "It will outlast me!"
Your doctor recommends you get a colonoscopy.

Regardless of how many of these signs apply to you,
A healthy sense of humour is the key to help you through.
Laughter's the best medicine, life needn't be so bleak.
Just don't laugh too hard in case you spring a little leak!

I know that stink! I have no doubts
That Mom has cooked up Brussels sprouts.
Of all the things that I despise,
The Brussels sprout would take first prize.

I've blocked my nose and tried to swallow,
Guzzled lots of milk to follow,
But I can tell you nothing works
'Cause in my mouth the taste still lurks.

Once I slipped one in my pocket,
But after dinner I forgot it.
Next day I shoved my hand in there
And gave myself a nasty scare.

In Mom's pot plant I used to hide
A sprout or two, but then IT DIED!
And now my sister's learned to count,
I can't add to her sprout amount.

My dog won't even help me out.
He will not eat a Brussels sprout.
He'll lick his butt, eat possum poop,
But to eat sprouts he will not stoop.

Maybe it is just as well
Because his farts already smell.
He does not need a Brussels sprout
To turbocharge what's coming out!

Please Mom, can we work out a deal
That gets me out of this here meal?
I'd clear the table, do the dishes,
Be your genie, grant you wishes.

I'd clean my room a little later
And feed the dog (that little traitor!).
I'd pull weeds till my hands blister.
I'd even play nice with my sister.

But Mom, it would be best all around
If other veggies could be found,
So we could all just go without
The gross, revolting Brussels sprout!

Tummies flat and waists so tiny,
Perky breasts and cleavage shiny,
Photoshopped into 'perfection,'
On display for our inspection.

Body shapes manipulated,
Filtered, tweaked, exaggerated.
Legs made longer, thighs made lean,
Create a thigh gap in between.

Natural looking, beachy hair
Arranged and styled with utmost care.
Air-brushed bodies, smooth and tight;
Erased stretch marks and cellulite.

Flawless, poreless faces glowing,
Not a line or blemish showing.
Eyes and teeth are whitened, brightened,
Cheekbones contoured, jawlines tightened.

Plumped and pouty lips abound,
Rounded bubble butts astound.
Provocative, contorted posing
Taunt and flaunt in skin-tight clothing.

Workouts, pills, restrictive diets,
You can look like this - just try it.
Makeup, supplements, and creams;
We'll profit from your beauty dreams.

Insidiously, this toxic stream
Eats away our self-esteem,
So when we take in our reflection,
All we see is imperfection.

Restful sleep has proved elusive.
Lack of it is not conducive
To my overall wellbeing,
As I stare up at the ceiling.

Niggling aches and pains compound
To stop my sleep from being sound.
I toss and turn from side to side,
But all positions have been tried.

I am by all accounts quite round,
But when it comes to sleep, I've found
I wish I were more octagon -
A full eight sides to rotate on.

To lie flat on my back does tempt,
Though soon I find I must pre-empt
The snores I'm told will wake the dead
By rolling on my side instead.

And finally, I find my groove,
Then curse because I have to move.
The electric blanket's getting hot
And on this side the switch is not.

If comfyness arrives too late,
I'll feel the urge to urinate.
And once that tickle is perceived,
It soon demands to be relieved.

I do my utmost to ignore,
But know I'll have to go before
This little twinge of urgency
Becomes full blown emergency.

I hit the loo and park it there
With just a nanosec to spare.
Sit a while and contemplate
How so much could accumulate!

Back in bed, it starts again,
The quest to find my inner zen.
Must stop my thoughts from swirling round,
The ideal pozzy must be found.

At last my eyelids start to droop.
Don't need to pee, don't need to poop.
But then with dread I feel the heat
Rising upwards from my feet.

A damned hot flush is taking hold
And now I'm longing for the cold!
Sheet and quilt are tossed aside,
Must suffer through till it subsides.

Once again, I know I've failed.
Won't wake bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I'll have no pep, I'll have no zing.
Rise and shine is not my thing.

I can't believe it's come to this.
I've tried my hardest to resist.
In order to not feel like crap,
I must embrace the nanna nap!

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
You truly are a beauty.
I used to love to put you up,
Now it's a dreaded duty.

Lugging you out from storage
Gets more strenuous each year,
And assembling all your branchy parts
Does not fill me with cheer.

Then each and every little stem
I tediously unflatten.
Your artificial symmetry,
It doesn't...just...happen.

Next challenge is your tree lights,
Which I always have to wrangle.
No matter how I've coiled them,
They unwind in a tangle.

A few choice words escape me
As I clear the final knot,
Then turn to find the other end
Has formed another clot.

I string them from your branches,
Draping with the greatest care,
To find that I've run out of lights,
Your bottom third still bare.

After some more botched attempts
They're artfully arranged.
Your lights are nice and even
Though I'm feeling quite deranged.

These days the decorating
Doesn't hold the same appeal.
Now that the kids are all grown up,
It's left for me to deal.

I miss the days when they were young,
We'd trim your boughs together.
With Christmas carols playing,
They are memories I treasure.

Your ornaments now look just right
From every viewing angle,
But at your back against the wall,
The not so nice ones dangle.

At long last the job is done.
It's taken me all day;
Too worn out to appreciate
Your beautiful display.

On Christmas Day you play your part,
All twinkling in resplendence,
With family all gathered round
And opening their presents.

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
A sight extraordinary;
Must steel myself to pack you up,
It's almost February!