Old age isn't a death sentence, but simply a period when you can allow yourself a few more liberties and worry less about propriety. Wrinkles are a map of the years lived, and gray hair is a nobility spiced with a pinch of irony. In this collection of poems, we've tried to look at old age with humor, not forgetting the wisdom and experience it bestows. After all, laughter is the best medicine, especially when your knees start to creak and your memory falters. We invite you to immerse yourself in a world of funny observations and good-natured irony!<\/p>\n
\nWhere are the keys? They're gone again! And my glasses seem to have stopped working and gone off for a walk alone, into distant, unknown days. I can't remember your name, I only know that I love tea with jam and peace, and to forget about everything earthly.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nMorning Ritual<\/h2>\n
\nThe creaking of my joints is my alarm clock, It wakes me up earlier than any other. Stretch, groan, rise with difficulty, And think: "Well, here's another day!" Exercise is a feat, no less than a battle, Every movement is done with anguish. But you have to stay in shape, brothers, To avoid becoming the same old norm. And coffee, of course, a hot sip, To drive away sleep and fatigue as best I can. Now I'm ready for new endeavors, At least to read the newspapers and reminisce.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nFashion<\/h2>\n
\nFashion is fleeting, But I am eternal, endless. Everything that was, will pass, And I am as I was, so I stand. Let them wear leggings and shorts, Old comforts are dear to me. And a blanket, and slippers, and tea, That is my fashionable, faithful paradise.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nGrandchildren<\/h2>\n
\nGrandchildren are joy and peace, And a little bit of a worry. They run, make noise, shout, But without them I'm sad, brother. Their energy is like a charge, It invigorates me without a break. And even if they spoil and misbehave, I'm very, very happy to see them. And in the evening, when they're tired, They'll climb into my arms, And I'll quietly tell them a story, And we'll fall asleep peacefully together.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nHealth<\/h2>\n
\nMy back hurts, my waist aches, And my heart suddenly makes its voice heard. But I'm not discouraged, no, Because old age is also a color! I'll get checked out, take my pills, And I'll be full of energy again, like in childhood. The main thing is not to give up, not to lose heart, And to greet each day with a smile.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nInternet<\/h2>\n
\nMy grandchildren teach me how to write, How to search the internet. At first it's scary, then it's a thrill, And now I'm an internet guru, off I go! But sometimes, I admit, I get lost in the links, like in a dense forest. And instead of email, there's advertising, And instead of news, there's advertising.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nMemories<\/h2>\n
\nI remember my youth like a dream, the first dance, the first bell. How I loved, how I suffered, how I dreamed and how I waited. And though the years have flown by, the feelings in my heart have not cooled. And memories are a light, they warm me in response.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nCountry house<\/h2>\n
\nAt the dacha there is paradise, at the dacha there is work, Beds, flowerbeds, weeds here. But then the air is fresh and clean, And the harvest is like a proud leaf. And neighbors, and friends, And tea drinking until dark. At the dacha there is life, at the dacha there is home, Where I am happy and familiar.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nGlasses<\/h2>\n
\nGlasses are my faithful friend and brother, Without them I'm a blind soldier. I look for them in the morning, I look for them during the day, I even look for them before bed. They sit perfectly on my nose, And the world around me is like a reward. But sometimes, I admit, I forget to put them on, my friends!\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nDiet<\/h2>\n
\nDieting is torture, brother, especially when dessert makes you so happy. But the doctor says, "No!" And I sigh like a soul. But sometimes, secretly from everyone, I eat a cake, a small success. And even if my conscience gnaws at me, my soul sings!\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nDream<\/h2>\n
\nSleep is my best friend and healer, It drives away pain and sadness. I fall asleep quickly, like a baby, And I dream as if I were dancing. And sometimes they are strange, Sometimes they are funny, sometimes amusing. But sleep is rest, it is peace, And I love it very much, my dear.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nTV<\/h2>\n
\nTV is a window to the world, Where there's news, movies, and live broadcasts. I watch series and shows, And forget about all my suffering. But sometimes, I admit honestly, There's so much lies and meaninglessness. But what can you do, that's life, And TV is my whim.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nWisdom<\/h2>\n
\nWith age comes wisdom, and the heart finds peace. I'm no longer angry at trifles, and I appreciate the simple days. And I know that life is a gift, and we should rejoice in it like a fire. And love, and believe, and dream, and be grateful for every moment and wait.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nWalk<\/h2>\n
\nA walk is oxygen, And a round dance for health. I walk slowly, I don't rush, And I feel the world around me: Trees, birds, clouds, And the sun's gentle hand. A walk is life, it is light, And I am very, very happy about it, hello!\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nResult<\/h2>\n
\nOld age is not the end, It is a new crown of life. And even though there are wrinkles and gray hair, In my soul I am always young and strong. And I will live and I will sing, And I will rejoice, and love, and look at the world around me with a smile and warmth, And remember that life is home.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Old age is not a death sentence, but just a period when you can allow yourself a little more freedom and worry less about<\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-535","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stihi"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/535","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=535"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/535\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174680,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/535\/revisions\/174680"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=535"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=535"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=535"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}