Poems by: Mary Lou Wehunt




When I look into the mirror
all that I can see
is my old reflection
looking back at me

Yesteryear’s reflected youth
disappeared from view – replaced –
for reflected in that same old mirror
is the image of my old face!

So, I add a little cream,
some pretty colours, pink hues,
in hopes that the same old mirror
shows the bright face that I once knew.

But, alas, despite all my efforts
that simply is not the case,
for all I see in that darn old mirror
is, of course, my old face!

Direct result of little pleasures,
triumphs and despairs, which
left their marks in lines and sags,
to show a life lived there.

(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)



I fancy myself a willowy old woman;
hair gently piled a-top my head;
Found dead in my garden
at the age of one-hundred-two

Should this be;
Do not weep for me,
I have laid down my head
In a bed of turnip greens;

I shall leave you the turnips
But take with me the daisies,
My most delightful friends
who taught me to dance in the garden.

(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)



He captivates me with innuendos, the
Slight suggestions slanting my heart
In a way it should never be slanted
For it is not real, after all, never real;

Just a player playing the game of love
And lust from afar, so far away there is little hope
For any transference of innuendos into realities;
The real truth is that there is nothing to it at all.

Must I accept this? Must I not care?
I must have missed these games before
Because I can’t remember playing them,
I was in earnest being earnest.
(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)


Weaving of an Ordinary Day, My 64th Birthday

Bad language spoken;
Babies crying;
Overcooked biscuits
because mother insisted they be
left for another two minutes.

Dolls being stolen
between Lexi & Mattie
Scarves for blankets being offered
to even the score;

Dishes left to clean later while I slipped into
a tub filled with hot water and crystals that
smelled of passion flowers by are labeled Green Tea;

Just another day; just another Sunday
to miss church for the tending to others.

No, please do not bake a cake! Or fix a dish
for I am not in the mood to celebrate.
It’s just another day, the same as the day before
for tending to others while I let myself slip away.

Today is not memorable, there is nothing remarkable,
easy, or serene about it to report to you;
Just the usual trysts and tasks that daily surround and
weave in and out of an ordinary day. My 64th birthday.
(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)



The joy of love is pure and uncompromised
The smiles of a sunlit morning, and
The long delicious gazes of the evening
When the lights are dim and the covers are turned;

It has been many years of turned sheets and
The dropping of bedclothes for the two of us
And still the gentle touch of your fingertips gliding
Over my curves leaves me breathless with anticipation;

Breathless as if it were the first time.
(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)


Women of a Certain Age

We are uncommonly tenacious to our younger sisters, for
We are: Women of a Certain Age

We have survived more adversity, dears, and
We have counted to ten more times than you;

We are experienced – more broadened – more seasoned
We are of greater ability to spring back after strong winds hit;

We have more stilts and blocks built by wisdom’s hand dealt us
We have endured it, endured it all; and we still endure it, but

We want you to know to have no fear, dears
We want you to know that there go you, in time, dears.

We are Women of a Certain Age
(copyrights: mlwehunt@gmail.com)







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