THE BEAUTY OF

WOMEN FOR MEN OF

MIDDLE AND OLDER

AGE

Collection of poems

Jaroslav Bálek

Table of Contents

OPENING POEM

SPORTSWOMEN

NOISY

CYCLIST

TOURIST

POSTWOMAN

MANAGER

TELEPHONE OPERATOR

NURSE

SALESWOMAN

TEACHER

INTELLECTUAL

MANNEQUIN

MASSAGE THERAPIST

UROLOGIST

OPERATOR

DANCER

PERFECT

ACCOMPANIED

SURPRISING

RETURNING

STICKY

SEARCHING

AMAZON

FLEXIBLE

EXPERIENCED

SPLIT

RESTLESS

SLEEPY

ACTIVE

EXCITING

COLD

SMILING

NARCISSIST

SHAMELESSNESS

GODDESS

SEDUCTRESS

WAGGIRL

ENGAGED LADY

CONFIDENT

Shy

GLUTTONOUS

CHALLENGING

ASYMMETRICAL

COMBATIVE

DISSATISFIELD

CHEEKY

UNMISSABLE

STUNNED

DIVERSE

HAIRY

BLONDE

DARK-HAIRED GIRL

REDHEAD

EYED

BESPECTACLED

NOT PRETTY

UNEXPRESSIVE

PAINTED

CROWNED WITH JEWELS

REVEALED

VEILED

RED

BLACK

WHITE

YELLOW

SMALL

OPENING POEM

It seems that in their younger days,

men often go their careless ways.

They take for granted beauty’s grace,

unmoved by every lovely face.

For girls are many, fresh and bright,

in high school halls and college light.

At work, at parties, on the floor,

at games and dances—plenty more. It’s charming, yes, but can annoy,

this constant buzz, this flirty ploy.

Yet as the years begin to race,

such charms grow rare, they lose their place.

The way men look at women’s grace

begins to shift with time and pace.

At twenty, eyes are sharp and bold,

at fifty, softer, more controlled.

Young men pursue the dazzling kind,

with perfect form and flawless mind.

But older men, with wiser eyes,

see deeper truths beneath disguise.

But they’re still drawn to youth’s enchanting glow,

to carefree joy they used to know.

Desire returns, a sudden spark,

that lights their hearts and clears the dark.

It lifts them up, it makes them strong,

they feel they still, somehow, belong.

With vigor, strength, and newfound grace,

they chase again the youthful girls.

And then regret begins to creep—

what did they lose, what didn’t keep? Why did they study dusty books,

and not the art of loving looks?

Though time may steal their memory’s flame,

one thing they’ll always still proclaim:

No matter what they may forget,

a woman—they remember yet.

For she’s the reason, deep inside,

he strives, he dreams, he swells with pride.

She is the muse, the guiding light,

the dream that dances out of sight.

She gives him strength, she makes him whole,

she stirs his heart, she shapes his soul.

He is a hunter, bold and keen,

drawn to the thrill, the in-between.

And like all warriors, proud and loud,

he boasts of battles, head unbowed.

Of conquests real—or just believed—

of loves he lost or once conceived.

But there are girls, so young, so fair,

who seek a man with silver hair.

They find him calm, assured, and wise,

a steady hand, a sweet surprise.

He gives them peace, a safe embrace,

a slower, deeper kind of pace.

And though she never says it so,

she makes him feel the years that show.

It slows him down, yet lifts him high,

he smiles and thinks, “I still can try.”

Though age may whisper, “Let it be,”

he answers, “There’s still fire in me.”

Of course, the older men confess,

they like love’s troubles less and less.

For Aphrodite rules the game, but plays it wild, without much shame.

Her son, young Eros, aims his dart,

and none are safe from aching heart.

He brings us joy, but also pain,

a kiss, a wound, a sweet refrain.

Even Zeus, in ancient lore,

knew what Eros had in store.

He tried to end him at his birth,

but Aphrodite proved his worth.

And so his arrows fly anew,

with bliss and sorrow in their hue.

They pierce us deep, they lift, they burn, and leave us longing in return.

So men, though drawn to love’s delight,

approach with caution, hold it tight.

They crave her touch, her scent, her song,

yet fear they might not last too long.

And married men, though once quite bold,

now faithful grow as they grow old.

Probably not from some noble moral code—

but simply… they are lazy and don’t hit the road.

SPORTSWOMEN

My cottage neighbor, full of grace,

an athlete, always in a race.

She dashes barefoot through the green,

in gear that’s sleek and ultra-clean.

Then off she goes, a quick disguise,

she swaps her clothes before my eyes.

She grabs her bike, no time to spare,

and vanishes into the air.

Sometimes she stretches down the lane, while I am working, feeling plain.

She knows I watch—she doesn’t mind,

she’s proud to show her limber spine.

And truth be told, I quite admire

this neighbor full of zest and fire.

It’s not so bad, I must confess,

to live near such a sight, no more, no less.

NOISY

Another neighbor, loud and bright,

Now normally, I’d roll my eyes