Like me right now; this ‘poem’ may sound jarring to the ear and feel thick to the tounge, yet somewhere inside there is ‘promise’. Sometimes you just have to go looking for it…and not trouble? I hope you enjoy it? 
Excess not Age
by Ian Weatherburn
I’m not geriatric. I know this quite well.
And yet; here it is so late at night
I sit and type this reluctant ode
In the weak yellow light of a beside lamp,
To a stomach that’s not feeling so swell.
It grumbles, gurgles, moans and does mutter.
The red wine, meat and bread felt alright;
Until down my gullet and stomach it rode
Causing my head to spin, my stomach to cramp.
As I lay there restless I could feel my heart flutter.
A birthday had passed, a new age had befell
This old man here, he’d lost some of his might.
The mind was still willing, his body a toad?
What would tomorrow bring, a wheelchair? A ramp?
It was so frustrating; this feeling unwell.
Could it be the red meat, the real Woolworths butter?
Dreams and sweet sleep wouldn’t come yet tonight.
So into the arms of an old friend I strode;
My computer, my keyboard, dear old WinAmp.
And just then she decided to spurt and to stutter!
Was this sympathy? Did she too feel unwell?
Or was it a request to perform that gave fright?
Together we may just retire to the comode
And spend the night there; even make camp.
No; a minor glitch in the CMOS, the boot screen did tell.
So now we’re back up; let’s continue the groundswell
Of blogging and rhyme and other computing delight.
Let the cramps and the nausea return to normal mode.
This nonsense we’ll root out, on it we’ll stamp!
Perhaps it was excess not age. Please don’t tell!
I love it!!!! I can totally relate, the mind is willing but the body finds it hard to keep up!
It is so lovely to see you writing poetry again. I was looking through my collections the other day and found a couple of your poems from ages past, will send them to you privately, so you can keep them, or maybe share them with the world.
Hope you had a wonderful birthday, a great day on Sunday and get a peaceful nights sleep after your visit to the ‘commode’.
All my love
Your sister
Oh dear me, not again. Mind you if red meat and wine make you write lovely poetry go for it. I can so understand your relationship with your computer, I remember so many many nights sitting at my old typewriter writing myself a letter, telling myself that I was going to be Ok and that my typewriter would always be there for me as my friend, my crutch I suppose. Between the 3 of us we were meant to write words onto paper. Love the poem.
I really really hope that you post some of the poems that Beverly is referring to. You are an exceptional writer and I would love to see more of it.