Retirement Poems, Poetry about Retiring

After Retirement

I have crossed sixty;
Attention is failing.
With bright lights fading off slowly,
I felt unwanted.

Snake of thought-poetry
Moving through brain-thickets
Wonders – power and position
Were then reasons for people
Listening to me?

Now I have joined private sector
I rejuvenate in my new job
Among young professionals
Offering consultancy on infrastructure.

Mixing work with recreation,
Today my team played cricket
In Wadala East, and won two rounds,
To reach the semi-finals,
I got bouquet of flowers,
Making me happy.

Different lights
Are twinkling
From setting sky.

This poem was written/submitted by Daniel Trevelyn.

Before Retirement

The days are getting wonderfully Shorter now
To make them longer I don’t want to know how
From all of you I will soon have to depart
But, you will always remain in my heart
I will miss you, that I can say is true
My being will be feeling blue
Not about leaving the job for retirement ahead
More of not seeing all of you I will dread
Don’t forget the laughter and unique times we had to do
For I won’t forget what I went through with all of you
Some were the foundation of my working day
Many were my humor needed in every way
Few were trials to make a working day feel longer
And those that left before me made me stronger
If I happen to meet you another day
I will let you know if I am doing ok
And now the last thing to say as I said before
I will miss you all when I walk out the door

By: Susan Waltman

Driving the Wind from the Peaks

Sometimes when we grow old
we become like small stones hiding in the earth,
or we become like a fond memory that lost its way,
or we become the opposite of what we wanted,
contradicting our own dreams,
losing our reason for living
like fallen leaves that swirl in circles
and then move in no particular direction with no particular purpose
other than waking unassisted with the morning light.

Sometimes when we grow old
we become like mountains bursting from the earth,
powered by our own heartbeat,
lusting for tomorrow,
working hard to drive the wind from the peaks
so we can create our own spectacular reason for waking.

Sometimes when we grow old
our decision making gets tangled with the past
and we miss the friends and loved ones
who passed before our eyes into the darkness of history.

Sometimes when we grow old
we distort our thinking and forget that our children,
the genetic strings of our biology,
will also grow old
and will also make similar decisions
about how their genetic strings will remember them
as hiding stones or fallen leaves or bursting mountains
or as someone who was hell bent to drive the wind from the peaks.

This poem was written/submitted by Howard Dion.

Golden Old Age

“How do I know that my youth’s all spent?
Well, my get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
When I recall where my get up has been.
Old age is golden, so I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder, when I get into bed.
My years in a drawer and tea in a cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.
The sleep dims my eyes, I say to myself —
‘Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?’
And I am happy to say as I close my door,
My friends are the same, perhaps even more.
When I was young, my slippers were red,
I could kick of my heels right over my head,
When I grew older my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.
Now I am old, my slippers are black.
I walked to the store and puff my way back;
The reason I know my youth is all spent,
My get up and go has got up and went.
But I really don’t mind, when I think with a grin
Of all the grand places my get up has been.
Since I have retired from life’s competition,
I busy myself with complete repetition.
I get up each morning, dust off my wits,
Pick up my paper, and read the “Obits,”
If my name is missing, I know I’m not dead.
So I eat a good breakfast, and go back to bed.”

Learn to live well

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You’ve played, and loved, and ate, and drunk your fill:
Walk sober off; before a sprightlier age
Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage:
Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
Whom Folly pleases, and whose Follies please.

This poem was written/submitted by Alexander.

Let’s see now.

Let’s see now. How will I know when I am a senior.
Some places give me a senior’s discount at 55, some at 60 and some
at 65.
My government pension will be sent to me when I am 65.
My company will arbitrarily retire me at 65. (I’m going to beat them
to the punch and retire at 60.)
So that means that parts of our society think ‘senior’ begins at 55.
How will I personally know?
Well, with a little bit of luck, I don’t think I’ll ever know.
It’s all in how you play the game, isn’t it?

This poem was written/submitted by Sunny.


So it was
your last day of work
for days of service
you’ve earned
a watch, a pin, a shirt
believe it or not
not going to work
as a reminder will really hurt
You’ll have your days
all to yourself
and of course
there is your wealth
Don’t worry
You’ll get by going fishing
and such
We’ll miss you
since you’ve retired
at the least
you weren’t fired

By: Linda L. Chew


After thirty years the day of decision has come
It is time to consider quitting and reducing stress
You fear you will be bored and have the doldrums
Time to slow the rapid pace and go out for recess.

It’s a good idea to take time for some relaxation
Working overtime results in multi-digit taxation
Take a boat and paddle to a quiet fishing spot
Retirement is your reward for that stomach knot

Lift the years of pleasing the boss and immobility
Place them on the table next to responsibility
Let someone else be at the controls; take a cruise
It’s time to put away those heavy work shoes

By: Theresa Moore

Retirement Plan

When I am ancient – in a year or two,
and they figure I’m only fit for glue,
I’ll have had the time to think it through
and I’ll do some things I’ve been waiting to do.
I’ll be finicky, crotchety and crabby
and I’ll sit in the sun with an old grey tabby
and a chubby chihuahua on my lap
and I’ll give no quarter and take no crap.
And I’ll pull no punches and I won’t be kind
if it dulls the edge of the yataghan mind
which I’ll subdivide with my rapier wit
and I’ll give everybody a piece of it
tactless and indiscreet, albeit –
the truth according to how I see it,
with instructions on how the world should run
and almost everything ought to be done.
And no one will ever dare talk back
for fear it might give me a heart attack.
But I’ll be a wise and tough old bird
with a stubborn insistence on being heard
and I’ll stay around until I’m finished
with all my faculties undiminished
and my eyes will be clear and my hands will be steady
and I’ll die when I’m damn good and ready

This poem was written/submitted by Linda Stitt.

Retirement Poem

O, blest retirement! friend to life’s decline –
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labor with an age of ease!

This poem was written/submitted by Goldsmith.

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