Idling Hard

Things not worth doing may be worth not doing well;
When you are doing nothing, your best will not do.
From career you retire in idleness to dwell
Unless you find former nothings to amuse you.

Work is a labor, perhaps a burden to bear,
And yet a purpose and a process to move us.
We wish relief from exertion in our soft chair,
Until endless rest changes it to immobile truss.

Then we must idle hard to recapture what’s lost;
Do to be doing and fighting not to be done.
I need not be better than Seuss, Whitman, or Frost,
As long as I can fill the hours and still have fun.

Memo to Self

And now you find yourself retired -
Done that for which you were hired.
You'll not do that familiar chore -
Those duties are your role no more.

You might sit, a bump on a log,
Or simply croak like a bullfrog.
Nowhere to go, so stay in bed,
No more to do, dream on instead.

But that job was not your whole self.
You have not been put on the shelf.
Don't stew and get idly all vexed -
Stand up, take stock, and ask "What's next?"

The 300

"Incentivized Retirement"


Three hundred were chosen to never return;
Not one more cent from the tax-payers to earn.
It is time for their leisure, like it or not,
With hopes their legacy will not be forgot.

With warmest regards, they were shown to the door.
Their pensions were drawn with a little bit more.
Fare thee well, the State said, we wish you the best,
But, for cost savings, of you, we must divest.

So, off we march with duty, hope, and regrets –
May three hundred martyrs make smaller budgets.
We may not suffer as much as those we leave,
As we drop our burdens on you who receive.

But we leave you also with our thoughts and thanks
For happy and fruitful times among your ranks.
Many years you have been our partners and friends,
And, in our hearts, that fellowship never ends.

Legacy

When you tell the tale of my passing through,
Will only kind words be what is spoken?
Will you forget the times I frustrated you
With nit-picking obstinacy unbroken?

Will my help in building what you tore down
Be swept away with its demolition?
Will lasting memory be of my frown
And not of my skills as Data Magician?

I am tired now and would wish to rest
With the products of my past glories.
Though I sought to have always done my best,
You have gone elsewhere to hear new stories.

I cannot guide you on your chosen path,
But am I willing to tag on behind?
My years of service now but simple math
As to retirement I slowly grind.

Campfire Songs for the Retirement Roundup

Ghost Workers Whom We Hire

(to tune of: "Ghost Riders in the Sky")
An old employee went to work, the same as any day,
And while he settled at his desk, ready to earn his pay,
All at once on his screen arrived an ominous warning;
He was summoned to meet with H.R. later that morning.

Their files were very thick and they archived everything.
They smiled at him as he sat; it was cold and menacing.
Your work, they said, is excellent – we've noticed for some time –
We'd like to keep you with us yet 'though you are past your prime.

Yippie-yi-yay
Yippie-yi-ooh
Some folks ne'er get away.

As he looked 'round the room to see if they might be joking,
He saw the glint in their eyes and that their ears were smoking.
Piles of paper on the table, waiting for blood to sign,
A pledge forever more to vow, “My soul e'er shall be thine.”

We heard you say that you were worried about retirement,
What you could do to fill your days, after your employment.
So if you prefer here to stay to ever play our games,
We will make a place at our side in our eternal flames.

Yippie-yi-yay
Yippie-yi-ooh
Ghost workers whom we hire.
Ghost workers whom we hire.
Ghost workers whom we hire.

---

Don’t Throw Me Out

(to tune of: "Don't Fence Me In")
Oh, I have years, lots of years of experience to share
Don’t throw me out.
Let me work at my job nestled in my old chair
Don’t throw me out.
Let me come in each day and smell my mornin’ coffee
And listen to the news and swap tales with my posse.
Set me out to greet visitors in the lobby,
(but) Don’t throw me out.

Just wait a bit, do not cashier my old career
Underneath pensioning feet.
While here I sit, let me produce those facts obtuse
That I so oft do repeat.

I want to feel that my life still has some meaning,
As I near those retirement pastures greening;
I know to work’s end I am now careening
(but) Don’t throw me out.

Oh, give me time, just a bit more time to linger.
Don’t throw me out.
Let me find in my mind how to leave this wringer.
Don’t throw me out.
Let me be my old self ‘til I plan another
And enjoy what has been before the next other,
Or let me train my own replacement if you’d rather
(but) Don’t throw me out.

Just four more years, in your employ me to deploy
Wherever I can help out.
To ease my fears, let me fulfill with my tried skill
‘Til this job I can do without.

I want to roam someday in that slower pasture
And sleep until noon with no disaster,
But I have many leisure skills yet to master
(so, please) Don’t throw me out.

---

On The Off Ramp

(To tune of: "On the Road Again" (Willie Nelson version))
On the ramp at last -
Time is coming to exit from my jobs past,
That life I live working to do my daily tasks
And I can see approaching its end so fast.
On the ramp at last.

Doing things that I've been asked,
So many things that may be later trashed.

O, I'll need to say goodbye to work amassed.
On the ramp at last -
Like a load of bricks, they built my self image,
They filled my day's glass,
Giving me the reasons to join the scrimmage.

That's the way
To the off ramp at last.
Say farewell to all those whose path I crossed
In the life I worked doing my daily tasks

And leave directions to all the chores I pass
From the ramp at last.
Like a trail of breadcrumbs to lead them to the clue
Through my notes so vast
Hoping they can find what, without me, to do

That's the way
To the off ramp at last.
Just can't stay fore'er in the happy past --
The life I will live is coming near at last

And I need to get ready, so very fast -
Now that I have reached the ramp at last.

---

Get Along Little Dougie

(To tune of: "Get Along, Little Dogie" )
Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, get along, little Dougie;
It's your retirement to face on your own.
Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, get along, little Dougie;
You know that it's time for you to head home.

Your parents did raise you to work for your living,
And you try to do so, if ne'er too hard.
While we appreciate the effort you're giving,
We are still all signing the farewell card.

Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, move along, little Dougie;
It's your retirement to face on your own.
Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, move along, little Dougie;
You know that it's time for you to stay home.

Some folks join the old rat race for security
That's where they get it most awfully wrong.
You can run 'round the track well past maturity,
But there comes a time when you should be gone.

Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, move over, little Dougie;
You made your fortune, if ever you will.
Whoopee-ti-yi-yo, move over, little Dougie;
Leave so we'll have a position to fill.

---

O, My Old Job

(to tune of: "O, Shenandoah")

O, my old job, I'm bound to leave you.
I must leave forever.
O, my old job, I'm goin' to miss you.
Away, I'm bound away
To future mystery.

O, my old job, I'd loved my career.
I must leave forever.
O, my old job, beware what is dear.
Away, I'm bound away
To future mystery.

O, my old job, I planned to retire.
I must leave forever.
O, my old job, ne'er thought it so dire.
Away, I'm bound away
To future mystery.

O, my old job, you're always with me.
I must leave forever.
O, my old job, wherever I'll be.
Away, I'm bound away
To future mystery.

---

Sippy Cocktail Straws

(to tune of: "Tumbling Tumbleweeds")

Look at them rushing around,
Treading water, not to drown,
While at poolside I'll be found,
Sipping mai tais with my sippy cocktail straw.

Cares of the past are behind,
As I peacefully unwind –
Fixes are for others to find.
Sipping mai tais with my sippy cocktail straw.

I knew it was time to leave,
Time for my work's reprieve.

I will just rest right here
Now that I am off that tier,
No troubles to ever hear,
Sipping mai tais with my sippy cocktail straw.

I knew it was time to leave,
Time for my work's reprieve.

I will just rest right here
Now that I am off that tier,
No troubles to ever hear,
Sipping mai tais with my sippy cocktail straw.

Birthday Songs for the 1952 Cohort

2B62

(To tune of “As Time Goes By”)

We must remember this,
Standing at the abyss,
Years fly as years do fly,
Our aging we cannot deny
As time goes by.

And when, at sixty-two,
They say “you may be due
For pension to apply” --
Our past does bring our future nigh
As time goes by.

Those contributions
Cached for later date
Plus the interest
Added to our plate;
We’ll need income
To live out our fate --
On this we can rely.

It’s still the same old story
Counting inventory,
To last until we die.
The world will always want our money
As time goes by.

Do calculations
With too much unknown;
All speculations
Invoking a groan.
We need comfort
Even when we are grown --
That no one can deny.

For now, remember this,
We have a job, such bliss,
They’ll not yet say goodbye --
We’ll hang on if we try
As time goes by.

---

Don’t Sigh So Much, You Old-timer

(To extracts of the tune: Don’t Cry for Me Argentina)

Don’t sigh so much, you old-timer!
Your youth hasn’t really left you.
Although your wild days,
Your mad existence,
And those old promises
Fade in the distance.

Under the batterings of aging,
(Which you never invited in
Although they came anyway),
You grew by inch and mile.
Age is illusion,
It’s not a dilution.
Years add more layers,
But you are there all the time;
Time only hides you inside you.

Don’t sigh so much, you old-timer!
Your youth still plays within you
With the working you,
Husband-father you,
And all that is you;
So, Happy Birthday!

Who Hid My Cheese?

WHO HID MY CHEESE?

There are widely held beliefs that vocalization in the common house mouse (Mus musculus) are largely devoted to procreation and nurturing of the very young. Although selectively bred and altered for uses in laboratories for over a century, the study of the audible (to humans) and ultrasound speech of mice has remained in its infancy. Thus, I received the following with a great deal of skepticism, but consider it only fair to allow you, my readers, to draw your own conclusions.

My transcription from the near microscopic markings on the scraps of paper found on the floor of the Animal Care Facility may be somewhat inexact, but I have labored many a long hour over some years since their discovery to organize these materials. Nonetheless, gaps exist in the record that I have, perforce, needed to leave unfilled.

===

“George, can we go to the gym? Let's go to the gym, George. I like the gym.”

“Maybe later, Lenny. Algernon is coming over to help us plan for our future. We can't run the Boss' mazes forever. We need our own maze where we are free to decide whether we want to run today or just relax and have the cheese delivered.”

“But I like the wheel, George. I can run and run and run and I never get lost there, George.”

“Sure you do, Lenny. We'll have a wheel at our maze too and then you can run all day if you want. But we need to plan, we need to save to get there. Algernon's got a program for planful mice like us who want to get beyond this day-to-day working for the Boss.”

“Okay, George, if that is what you say, it's okay with me, George. But can we eat first? I'm hungry, George.”

“Yeah, go ahead. But try not to eat it all. We gotta think ahead.”

...

“So, the postponement of the immediate gratification of making a repast of every consumable good you find can yield you long term security. Allocating a small but steady contribution to the pooled trust fund provides all members with a dependable resource to support them in old age and disability when they have completed their working careers. Any questions?”

“Ah, Algernon, what's a con-sometable? It's good, right, Algernon?”

“It is the best, Lenny. The trust fund handles a variety of commodities; Agricultural and Manufactured. Seeds. Dairy. Pellets. And many more.”

“Algernon, if we eat what other mice are depositing for their future, what will they eat when the future gets here?”

“Well, George, the simple fact is that the shelf life of these non-durable goods means they won't last. The beneficiaries now provide an outlet for the commodity while it still has value and the depositors now receive credit towards the acquisitions more contemporary to the future date of their need.”

“But where do these 'acquisitions' come from?”

“The next generation, George. Your kids and your kids' kids. This a program for the ages. We are not a bunch of savages. A little help from everyone means everyone gets help when they need it.”

“Why won't the young mice just eat it? Or cache it away for themselves?”

“Decomposition in the latter case. Maybe obesity in the first. Waste does not preserve value, simple as that.”

“How much will we get back when we retire?”

“Okay, now, that's an interesting question.”

“Does it have an answer, Algernon?”

“Oh, certainly. But there are several variables involved, so the answer for you may not be the same as the answer for a different contributor. And since you do not yet have a history of contributions, it would be more a speculation than a guarantee to state a specific rate of return. But, be assured the system will take better care of you than having no support.”

“Well, okay, let's sign up. Is that okay with you, Lenny?”

“If you think we should, George. You understand these things, George.”

…

“George, do we got any more of those 'plan seeds' left?  I am hungry, George.”

“That's because you eat like six mice, Lenny. Here, I still have some.”

“Why are we getting fewer seeds, George?”

“Well, Algernon says that enrollment of new mice is down since the funding cutbacks at NIH and other research labs. It probably only temporary, he says.  Plus with all the exercise, nutrition, and medication we have been getting, there are more of us retired mice living longer.”

“Could we go back to work for the Boss, George? He fed us good.”

“No, he is not looking for old mice like us, Lenny. He cannot even support all the younger mice at the moment. I heard he set most of them out in the field to fend for themselves. Something about defaulting on a 'mortgage'.”

“What's a mort-gauge, George?”

“I am not sure. 'mort' comes from the Latin for death and a gauge is a device to measure, you know, like the treadmill the Boss used to have us run. So, I guess it is something to measure how dead or near dead you are.”

“I don't think I could run many laps on a mort-gauge anymore, George. I'm too hungry.”

“Well, I think they all expected us to be dead by now, Lenny. It will happen with their help or not.”

===

That is all I have been able to decipher from these mysterious scratching. I know nothing more of the fate of George, Lenny, Algernon, or any other mice from this facility.

Meeting with Myron

Meeting with Myron

As lord of the castle, one might expect I had more important matters to occupy my time and energies. But Myron is an old friend and has served my family and fiefdom for longer than anyone can recall. So here I am aside the moat, waiting unattended for him to tell me what is wrong this time.

“Oh, I am so sorry to trouble you, Charlie,” Myron addresses me as he has since I was a mere lad sharing an afternoon of fishing and swimming with him. “You are so kind to come down. I would come to see you, but I cannot fit through any of the gates.”

“Think naught of it, old friend. As steadfast and loyal of a protector as you have been all these years deserves my respect and attention.” I do not mention that his recent thrashing in the moat can be felt throughout the castle walls and floors and that nobody has slept well for two days with his nocturnal sobbing and moaning.

“Old! So you think so too!” wails Myron. “Yes, at last, the end draws near for me, Charlie.” He slumps down into the water until only his tear-filled eyes show above the surface.

“No, it is merely our friendship that is old. Myron, you are as ageless as the stones of the castle walls. You have lived in our moat while many generations of my family have come and gone and will do so for countless more.”

“Look, Charlie,” he says as he rears out of the water and turns to show me his side. “See that bare spot there. And here. And over there. I am falling apart.”

“Could you simply be molting? Maybe it is time for your next growth spurt,” I suggest cheerfully.

“Do you really think so, Charlie,” he brightens momentarily, but quickly sinks into the water again. “No, no, my molting days are ancient history – this is rot! Decay! The Slide to the End!”

“When did this skin change start, Myron? It seems early to be reaching such dire conclusions if we just need to cycle this stagnant water out with a nice fresh flow from the stream. I cannot remember when we did the last moat overhaul but we are probably overdue.”

“Fresh water would be nice,” Myron concedes. “Could we add some shady shrubs along the edge of the southside too?”

“Yes, certainly. I will have the chamberlain get the work started today.” Ah, problem solved, I think.

“It won't really do any good though,” Myron continues. “It'd be nice to be comfortable in my last days. Maybe we could carve a small grotto under the drawbridge where I could crawl in and finish out of the way. I don't want to be any trouble, Charlie.”

“You never have been any trouble, Myron.” I should have guessed that was too easy.

“That is not really my name, did you know?” he says quietly.

“What? Your name is not Myron? I have never heard anyone call you anything else. What is your real name?”

“Alas, even I do not know. Six hundred years ago at the next solstice I was bound by a wizard named Myron. He dealt in magical protections, Myron's Mystical Monitors. And I was a servant he sold to your ancestors. At first, they called me Myron's Moat Monster, then Myron's Monster, and finally, as the generations of castle dwellers passed, only Myron. So you might as well too.”

“Six hundred years?”

“Next solstice.”

“That is a long time. And you have never had a break in all that time. Is that what has you upset?”

“Oh, no, Charlie. At the next solstice my bewitchment will be over. I will no longer be the only thing I know how to be after all these centuries.”

“What will you do then?”

“I will do nothing. I will be nothing, Charlie. With my geas gone, I will have nothing.”

“But you will be free to do whatever you want, Myron. To go wherever you want. You could, of course, stay here if you wanted also.”

“No, the time for my retirement was set.” Myron sinks into the moat, sobbing.

What am I to do?  I did not make the rules that bind him and I have no power to change them.  Myron has made no preparation to be anything but what he is.  Many of us do not.  But what a misery to know with a date certain when such an end will come.

 

In Preparation

In Preparation

With anticipation, imagined or real,

Resources are mustered and new plans are made

In hope to ease the anxiety I feel

For the future to which I am conveyed.

Some target the “soon”, say the coming week,

And some the “perhaps never to arrive”.

But to be ready then, I now do seek

Skills and supplies I will need to survive.

At least, perhaps I should so endeavor

To stockpile for every contingency;

Fretfully to scheme for any whatever,

Cede now’s is for maybe’s emergency.

But, I think, I do not worry enough.

Oh, I trouble some for the tomorrows

And about where I will store all this stuff.

But not for doom and the fear it borrows.

‘Though misfortune may come to knock me down,

Should I forfeit the boons of here and now,

To sulk with a forced, self-afflicted frown

And cut discomfort’s delay as I bow?

And when that sad downfall never does drop

And I leave with preparations unused,

Will lost opportunity for no swap

For very bad investment be confused?

How like a lottery becomes this game –

To be near certain to lose a little

And so unlikely a fortune to claim

When from life a small caution we whittle.

And when we took too many tiny nicks

From comforts we had for those we had not,

It was not our future which we did fix,

But more woes into the present we brought.

Let’s prepare for the known generously,

But, for the multitude of maybes, wait.

Allow life’s heap to serve capriciously

For those things we should not anticipate.

The Chain of A Life

The Chain of A Life

Reflection on Reflecting

As I grow old, before I am cold,

And look back along my chain of life,

The twist and turns, the joys and burns,

Will I embrace both bonus and strife?

When put to task and Sphinx does ask

Whence four, two, three, or none,

How to divide in parts all the starts

In a life, portion by portion.

By place, by love, by stars above,

What measure best fits the chore?

Where, why, or when life takes a bend

To catalog the ground I explore.

How to explain links in the chain,

Passing from one phase to the next,

Might well depend on who will listen

And provide the ramblings context.

Since nobody queried my life to read

Is it to myself I speak?

For audience of one this job is done

With poetry as my corny technique.

Horizon Dreams

Horizon Dreams

To bed to sleep to retire tonight;

From daily tasks, find some rest.

Close the drapes and tuck the covers tight;

Day is done, sun has gone west.

To work to toil to earn tomorrow

Your due worth for every day,

Plus some for the future to borrow

When no more you earn your pay.

To home to stay to roost to the end;

Life taken at its new pace.

To leisure and ease you now descend;

Longtime patterns to replace.

The children are grown and moved away;

Their lives now their own to choose.

Some moments with you they pause to stay,

But their time, not yours to use.

To need to have no plan to follow;

Your tapestry unravels.

Listless lolling in a deep wallow;

Stay put, no daily travels.

To count not days, but the passing years,

For weeks are full of Sundays.

Go out, old man, and find new frontiers,

Lest you sink into malaise.