Some of the students' poems in my courses "Creativity & Aging" and "Humanities, Aging, & Family Living," focus on responses to the losses inherent in the aging process. Many of these poems contain dark, forbidding images and emphasize the vulnerability, fragility, and alienation of old age.

The first poem contains wonderful images--concrete, detailed, with a strong control of tone (the poet's attitude toward the subject matter). We SEE the hospice and FEEL the discomfort felt by the observer. But the last four lines of the poem were less effective because the poet began to TELL rather than SHOW. Let's begin with the most effective part of the poem:

Everything in the place was yellow
Slender-stemmed jonquils at the door
Canaries chirping in the atrium
Even the checkered floor tiles
Right out of the Wizard of Oz

The elevator to 2E was a transition zone
Bright fluorescence and too stark
But the doors opened to the yellow brick road
And we were reassured

An airy hallway lined with crisp, calico curtains
A chapel to our left
The common room with thick, rich carpeting
And a huge fireplace to our right
We knew this was the place John had described

He was so frail and dim by comparison
It must have been the cancer
His yellow was different
Fragile like parchment
Yet full, bloated, overpowering to the senses

But the last four lines of the poem seemed hurried and less effective because of the lack of images:

It felt good to get outside
The warm sun on our faces was renewing
Reassuring
Tempering our mood.

Too often poets feel a need to explain, to make clear by TELLING the reader what the emotions were, rather than by SHOWING the reader what the emotions were using poetic images in the context of the poetic line.

The next poem may verge toward the sentimental; yet it maintains control of specific, concrete images to make its point.

Oh, how can this be?
You and I are losing me
Some day soon
May be morning
May be noon
I will no longer be the me
You and I know as me,
And the answer seems to be
Words, and thoughts, frequently scramble
And my conversations seem to ramble.

Oh, how can this be?
You and I are losing me.
What do I see when I look into your eyes?
And neighbors come just to pry?
Confusion, hurt, pity, and pain
For I am ill and not insane.

Oh, how can this be?
You and I are losing me?
Oh, help me pray,
"Lord, please come to me and take me
Home with you for all eternity."
What can we do to keep from losing me?
"Nothing," say the experts.

Oh, how can this be?
You and I are losing me?
But in my confused and foggy state,
To You I plea,
"Love me--Remember me--Help me
To be--For as long as I can be
The me we know as me."

The next poem takes a similar approach to the one above, this time focusing on the questions a confused, possibly demented, individual keeps asking.

Where am I?
Who are you?

How did I get here? How did I get this way?

Where is my home?
Who is coming to see me?

How did this happen to me?

What is going to happen next?
Will I forget everyone I ever loved?

How will I take care of myself?
How will I pay my bills?

Will my memory ever come back?
Am I losing my mind?

Will you still love me?

The next student again realizes the VOICE of the old person in this dramatic monologue. I appreciate the way she creates a character who is at once demanding, unapologetic, judgmental, cranky, desperate.

Where did it all go?
I used to have money.
After my husband died I had money from
the life insurance and from selling the farm.
Where did it all go? Figuring the bills.
Need to pay the electric.
Here's the phone.
Remember the mortgage.
Not enough left.
Still need groceries.
Need some stamps, too.
How much longer can we keep going? If Bill didn't drink and smoke it all away,
Or if my sons would repay what they borrowed,
If Bill could get his farm payments monthly instead of yearly,
If I sold the house and moved into the Manor,
Would it work then? Not sure what to do.
Kids and grandkids have been generous.
Sent me money for Christmas.
How long will it last?
Tired of scrimping and saving.
Never go anywhere.
Never do anything.
Wonder if I can afford to go
to my grandson's wrestling meet
at the high school tonight.
Don't like to go out,
But I like to watch him.
My sons used to wrestle.
Usually in bed by 6:30 now.
Like to read book to relax and go to sleep.
Bill's TV is blaring in the next bedroom.
He's deaf and drunk again.
Old fool.
How long can we stay in this house?
Well, it's the 8th. Don't have to worry
about bills for a few weeks yet.
Goodnight.

The next poem uses the "journey" metaphor effectively to tell the story of an old person who is facing a loss of independence and autonomy.

My journey began as a child
I was told what to do
"GO TO BED"
"DRINK YOUR MILK"
I was learning to maneuver my broad wings
Trying to soar over the world below
Dependent for my life

My journey continued through adult life
I as doing as I wanted to do
FLYING
FLYING
I was in control of my wings
Independent. Living my life.

Now my journey begins as an aged woman
I still feel I can do as I wish
But now you tell me what to do
"YOU NEED YOUR REST"
"DRINK YOUR FLUIDS"
My feathers are being plucked, slowly.
One by one
You limit my flight day by day.

Look upon me carefully
See me living
See my wings spread wider than ever before

Do not end my journey
It is not time
"I CAN FLY"
"I CAN FLY"

Other examples of student poetry: