Pre-Retired

Well I'm almost there ya know
that full retirement kinda place.
I'm not old enough to collect any money
can't find a job, with age lines upon my face!

So I guess I'm pre-retired?
I don't have another name, yet for it!
But if this is what retirement is like
where all you do is, just write poems and sit!

Then I'd rather be ten feet under
or something sorta like that!
I use to have a great figure
now all I am is a ball of, pre-retired FAT!

Wife still is working full time
and she looks a lot better than me!
She stays out all night after working
with her girlfriends, not me!

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poem by Linda Winchell
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What's So Funny About It?

I am appalled to see the humor
In what some view… as funny these days.
Crashing old Grannies…and what swear word best fits our personalities
“God help us! ”…is what I say.

Seems like we’re reverting backward
To those days… when Roman’s viewed Christian deaths a sport.
With all of those hyper reality shows
It is now most of our minds retreat.

It’s become mankind’s… addiction of choice
Finding pleasure… in the bizarre and the unknown.
But what are we really saying and doing?
When it is our children…our actions are shown.

We claim to be so civilized?
But this is not what our God has made for me and you.
He wants us to follow Him faithfully
But we seem to have… better and more exciting things to do.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Is That All There Is?

'Is this all there is too life? '
I over heard my husband say.
I worked and slaved my life away,
And worked for little pay.

Now I am retired, and working harder then, I ever did before.
Is this all there is?
I thought there would be so much more!

I am lucky if I'll live till I'm old,
All my friends I knew did not!
Is that what we had all worked our lives for,
And what is it we have got?

Cars' not paid for, the morgage still due,
Had to take a loan on the house,
For those braces for son Drew.

I am walking a bit much slower,
My legs and feet have pain.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Scents Of Christmas' Past

When just a small girl, I seem now to remember when,
There was a special scent of Christmas in our home,
How the Christmas evergreen’s pine perfume,
Room to room, would seem to roam.

Even sounds seemed different back then,
Then they do somehow today,
Don’t know if it’s because I’ve grown accustom to them,
Not filled with that child-like excitement,
In my remembered, childhood Christmas way.

Maybe it’s because the nest is empty now?
Of my children’s laughter and joy,
Somehow that’s what Christmas Day sounds should be,
Filled up with little children,
All playing with their Christmas toys.

So when on Christmas morning,
As they all would rise,
They’d all run down to view the miracle,

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Be My Valentine Jesus

Has anyone ever asked Jesus?
To be their Valentine?
I made a card just for Him
With a poem in which I’ve rhymed.

I could have done it in that normal verse
Written, ” Rose's are Red, Violet's Blue”
But I thought my dearest Savior Jesus
That I wanted to write something special, just for you.

I was going to cut the deepest of red paper
Into the shape of a GIANT red Valentine’s heart.
However, it didn’t seem like that was good enough
When I got my scissors out and tried to start.

Will you be my Valentine?
I would be so deeply honored if you would.
And I would be the envy of all my friends
To be seen, with a Valentine such as you.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Younger Years

Ninety Eight pounds soaking wet,
A Pirates treasure in a blouse, a true sunken chest.

Legs that seemed to have no beginning or end,
Uglyness viewed, she hadn't a friend.

Cinderella for Mom, Tom Boy for Dad,
Left to herself, of feelings alone and sad.

Abused by men that she loved beyond words,
Run away child, with her youths stollen years.

No one to talk to, back in those days,
Who would have believed, what this little girl would say?

Wasn't something you spread to neighbors or friends,
Just kept it all inside,
Where childrens pain have no end.

Mothers mid-life crisis she bore,

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poem by Linda Winchell
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Hair Styles I Remember

There are hairstyles I remember wearing
oh so long ago.
My father had a fit with most of them
told me, 'go comb that mess out before you go! '

I'd rat it up with the small toothed end of comb
so the base would hold it up.
Then took a brush to smooth it some
and then I sprayed it so it stuck!

The wind could blow its hardest
but my hair withstood its gail!
When anyone would touch my do
they said it felt as hard as nails!

There was one do called the, Bee Hive
It was hallowed out in the center.
Some gilrs would hide their smokes in there
and have a puff or two after schools dinner.

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poem by Linda Winchell
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My Retirement Years' (For everyone over 62!)

Has anyone else noticed
the new working standards and means?
for those of retirement years, is this what it seems?
That if your able bodied to still work
your employer makes your job harder and act like jerks?

They take you aside and tell you your doing bad
this makes for your day, to be unproductive, quite empty and sad!

You've given them, some of the best years of your life!
So you could have two and a half children, a home and a wife.

But now the environment, your working in cause
walking through your humble abode
with your hands, in outstretching of claws!

I'm over the hill they say, not wanted anymore!
they'd like to have me get so upset
That I would walk out their door!

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poem by Linda Winchell
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