Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?
Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace
More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry
Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage
Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience
Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing
In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby
She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II
Annie received little compensation
This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty
To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home
With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse
Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
Reflections of imperfections
have shown me a way
that I can move mountains
through my power of faith
even though I can't see him
I know he is real
through the power of prayer
and a Love that I feel
It's growing inside me
like a flower in bloom
shall I reveal my powers
or is it too soon
I am reading the signs
through my darkness I find
a reason for belief in
the light of mankind
that I know shall overcome
the greatest of odds
the Love I seek amazes me
especially through the flaws
because now I am inspired
through the hero's that bring
my throne through the darkness
on which I return on as your King.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013
Nopalero = one who deals with/sells nopales [edible prickly pear cactus leafs/pads]
Aiiiii, Jimmy --
what shall we say, now that you've gone,
worst fear realized: your body discovered,
days later, in your filthy Mexican rooms,
amid the soiled paper littering the floors,
reeking of cat urine and layer upon layer
of dried and fresher feces.
These feral cats were your most faithful companions.
You thought yourself their benefactor and, perhaps, their savior.
We were told that, after your demise, when the door opened,
all 21 fled, never to return. You left us,
unbathed, smelly, shunned, just weeks before
your birthday, having almost (but not quite)
suffered through 80 years, the last 30
spent in bordertown Mexico. You, daily, crossed
the bridge to claim your mail -- which (for a fee)
promised to guarantee you would be a winner
of lotteries, sweepstakes, miraculous windfalls.
You subsisted on senior coffees at McD's,
on your pitiful government assistance.
You blamed your life on abuse by brothers
(all dead long before you) and you could not
understand why richer acquaintances --
virtually everyone -- were unwilling
to share with you their bounty.
In the plazas, you were a familiar sight,
selling whatever you could: you were "el viejo gringo,"
"el Jimmy," "el nopalero," and other less generous
(but, perhaps, appropriate) names.
You knew animals, had some expertise with birds.
Your chief preoccupation was yourself,
and your main complaint was
that you never got your just desserts.
But no one deserves to end as you did -- unclaimed,
a foreign body, interred in Mexico
in an unmarked pauper's grave:
a "fosa commun." You only wanted to be loved.
RIP my friend; I did not mean to be unkind.
James Milford Pierson, 27 February 1934 - 2 February 2014.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2014
Unleash the kitty
The little boy thought of himself witty
Locked up in his room infront of the screen
Submerged in the screams
A lasting string that will follow him to his teens
Internet tasted like mint, to him
Abundant and innovative, yet aromatic to
His flaming desires
And that national geographic!
Oh my oh my
Exotic women in their little strings
Covering their little things
Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015
I Love the elderly
so full of history
I love my generation
who kept me a mystery
I love the children
who's future, now bright
for I have died for them
to capture the light
for i understand
pain more than ever
once I released it
the anger got better
as it went away from the people
and into my music
without a single
reason to prove it
without a reason
to let Love's light in
I didn't, it found me
and lesser I sin
God and my father
both let me know
it would all be okay
so very long ago
even tho the road
would be full of pricks
even back then I'd tell them
you can all suck my dick.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013
With grace he jumps upon my lap,
deep humming in his throat.
He licks his soft, white mitten'd foot
and grooms his midnight coat.
Then settles down and settles in,
like many times before:
in all those springs and winters
since he came to my front door.
He’s never wrought an unclean act
inside my house . . my home.
He's shed a bit, but never even
dragged a dead rat home.
He's lazed about inside and out,
while others did not last.
His years pile up alongside mine,
with nearly nineteen passed.
I sadden thinking of the friends
that left me through those years.
His time as well, grows shorter now,
along with mine, I fear.
But he knows nothing of this truth,
as he settles in my lap.
No dread upon his whiskered face,
this loving, gentle cat.
And as he holds sly death at bay,
for as long as he can fend;
I hope and pray a peaceful trip,
escorts him to his end.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Big blundering beast
Poor fish have no chance whatsoever
Neither does the slowest runner in your group
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
A cat sniffs the crooked brown dough of the sullen moon;
The tempting smell of warm bread seems held by a glass sky
Old age, carefully steps on the glass, always ready to cry
Like they`d learn again to walk,holding an invisible balloon.
With glassy eyes looking at the strange baked moon,
The large dynasty of the unemployed and ex-miners,
Ecologists and readers of Bible, embarrassed beginners
Cannot "hear at a little distance", in the brown afternoon;
But a short-sighted misanthropist, observed while acting
As a conductor of the strike`s syncopation turned in syncope:
“Even the doctor with infinite awkwardness used his stethoscope;
I think, -because, no one can communicate only through feelings”
The brown cat in the street, shining eyes round about;
All cars seem gathered in the same frozen town;
The only birch tree from the hill was cut down;
Mourning neighbors live in their permanent doubt
To protest against solitude, and so many noisy cars;
And obviously, too many accidents in the town;
“Wait on the zebra…Don`t cross Mr. Brown!”
Lonely crowds, picture of still life with cellulars…
Seasons buried the face in tired brown fountains,
Long dirty brown drifts of snow and brown sensations
Step with ugly brown clay, and let traces for generations,
Because, cyanide used to pull gold from Red Mountains;
Everybody is in such a brown hurry towards nowhere.
Halt!Mr. Brown looks for his cat; the firemen help him to sit.
The cat climbed the moon, ready in a hurry to taste it;
Winter and cat stay with claws out;silence and the brown vault.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014
Age unto its self
is like a cat to a bird-
belly low to ground-
without a warning heard.
Surprise found in my eyes
is the same for all old men-
same look that’s on the bird
that the cat comes drags in.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2008
of old age
but I can't comprehend
why you left so fast
parted your bony corpse
that precise fur
gleaming fall coat
the black and orange-
a contrast so unique
why does age creep up-
eliminating your organs
toying with your mind
into accepting the fate-
and though each death withholds happiness
smiles are forgotten
we use the muscles to avoid tears-
those that are supposedly helpful to endure
my friend my pet, my sidekick
waking me up throughout the nights with a purr
4 am tortured me
but now I lye awake at 4
awaiting your purring- your presence
How do you move on when they become a part of you-
an pure unconditional love
Copyright © Sarah Casey | Year Posted 2014
A beautiful day in Ayr
Because its so breezy and fair
Chasing seagulls and sand in my hair
Copyright © jimmy mccurdie | Year Posted 2015
The gone is a Dream
I drove passed my Savannah this afternoon mist covered yet,
the sun rays got through and bathed my dream in
wondrous mystic. I haven`t been here since last summer
my piece of Africa with tall grass and lion pride.
Every summer for twenty years I rode my scooter here and
knew ever blade of grass, olive trees and vines and I was
never attacked by any animals, not even the crocodiles in
the ditches bothered to make a splash.
Only once when I had strayed too far where the mountain
range appears the gypsies had a camp hidden behind
cypresses, their dogs gave chase, and I had to drive for my life.
Perhaps, it was not quite like that but the Savannah was there
a place to dream and be a boy again when summers lasted
forever and trees where for climbing to the top and laugh
at the funny looking adults.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2015