Still Here: Poetry, Aging, and the Music of Being Alive

April is National Poetry Month, a time to slow down and let words touch the heart in ways we sometimes forget are possible. It's a gentle reminder that poetry is not just something we read in school or see tucked away in a book. It lives in our everyday life and in everything we think and feel. Often, we cannot verbalize those thoughts and feelings, but poetry does that for us.

Poetry has a quiet power. It doesn't shout or demand our attention. Poems wait patiently for us to come close. And when we do, it opens up a little world we might not have noticed. That world consists of simple lines that can say what we can't.

We're invited to remember how much poetry can bring to our lives in April. It can comfort us when we're hurting, lift us when we're low, and even help us see beauty in the ordinary. A poem doesn't need to rhyme or be fancy to matter. It just needs to be honest. It can be one person quietly telling the truth of what it feels like to be human, and another saying, yes, I know that feeling, too.

During this month, you might find a poem by chance or seek one out on purpose. Either way, it can be like finding a letter written just for you. And if you feel inspired, you might even try writing one yourself. Not to impress anyone, but just to let your heart speak.

National Poetry Month is not only about celebrating poets. It's about celebrating what poetry does for all of us. It reminds us we are not alone, that our emotions are shared, and that there is meaning even in the small moments.

So, as April unfolds, maybe take a little time to read a poem, write one, or notice the poetry already around you, in the way the trees are blooming, in the sound of a child's laughter, or in the memory of someone you love. That's poetry, too. And this month, we honor it all.

Two Poems I Wrote with Help

Writing poetry about aging, health challenges, and the weight of growing older is healing and meaningful for me and others who may quietly feel the same.

These are my Poems

Writing poetry about aging, health challenges, and the weight of growing older is healing and meaningful for me and others who may quietly feel the same:

When the Mirror Stops Lying--Allan N Schwartz

I used to walk without thinking

Now I think before every step

My legs, once steady,

Whisper caution

With every unsure stride

I wake with creaks

I never invited

A body that once held youth

Now holds stories

Written in pain,

In pills,

In pauses

I am not who I was

But I'm still here

And that matters more

Than I sometimes let myself believe

Loneliness visits me

Not as a storm

But as a quiet knock

At night,

When the silence settles in

And memory becomes

Too loud

I miss who I was

I miss her too—

The one I shared my days with

I still talk to her

Even if the room doesn't answer

But I have not stopped being

I still feel joy

When my dog curls beside me

When the sky opens

With soft afternoon light

Aging has taken much

But not my soul

Not my eyes, still searching

Not my heart,

Still tender

Still full

I am describing the sorrow of witnessing the quiet struggles of others while living through your own. As I write this, I am thinking of a wonderful elderly woman who is a fellow resident in the Independent Living Community, who is experiencing significant physical problems that are causing her adult daughters to move into a skilled nursing facility. It is something I feel but cannot put into words. I want to voice that feeling in a poem that holds the pain and the quiet dignity of it all.

The Hallways We Share—Allan N Schwartz

I walk these hallways

Where time walks too,

Slow, careful,

Like all of us here

Learning again

How to move through the day

Their faces

Tell the truth

That no one else wants to say

Not the magazines

Or the noisy world outside

Bent backs,

Hollowed eyes,

Walkers clacking like tired metronomes

And hands that shake

As they reach for

Something steady

They try

My God, they try

To dress, to smile,

To joke over breakfast

But I see it—

The flicker of confusion

The heavy breath

The quiet frustration

Of not being able

To do

What used to be simple

And I feel it in me too

In the ache that won't let go

In the sadness that comes

Not in floods

But in slow drips

When I least expect it

Sometimes I look away

Because looking feels

Like breaking

Like seeing my own face

In someone else's sorrow

But I can't look away forever

Because they are me

And I am them

Each of us holding

What time has taken

And what it hasn't yet

Still here

Still trying

Still human

And that matters

Even when it hurts

(Please know that I am not a poet and had help in writing these two poems.)

Aging is difficult. I often joke with people about what happened. I'm 82, and just yesterday, I was 18.