The following poem was written for a contest at Wild Poetry Forum "Mirror Mirror on the Wall" in which the participant poets had to write a poem about themselves looking at themselves in the mirror. Any comments appreciated. The contest closes this evening, so I still have time to tweak it and improve it. Same can't be said for my sad old body. Ha ha.
...the maitre d' said, "You're looking good." People
only say that when you're old and saggy, and it just
irritates the bejesus out of me.
So there I was reflected in the mirror, saggy,
bulgy, potbellied, and yes, those titties derided
in a Merseyside pub in the Sixties (mates hustled
me out before I gave the bloke a knuckle sandwich),
and now it's the scrag-end of the year, chill
last leaves clinging to oak and sycamore.
A guy with hair like Jesus crosses the street
with a Starbuck's latt?. You don't see long hair
like that much anymore, but I never did wear
it long as Lennon ? just brushing my collar.
Never the hippie despite the odd flowered shirt
and rainbow pants evoking derision. What happened
to the agile boy with wavy hair, now this fat bald
bugger, pate a-shining in the glass? But I never knew
that lithe kid, never Michelangelo's David-presentable!
Right hip higher than the other, worse when tired
and a-hurting: an old geezer po-ate impersonating
a pale sack of bones awaiting the bone man to haul
him off in his cart with his knacker's-bound nag.
I still plug away even if I labor in a boneyard.
Oh, Father, look kindly down on me, I?m a satirist,
a proud and pathetic cartoon of myself; but pitiful
as I am, I am still your son enjoying your bounty.
Christopher T. George