Ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide
grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passions now abide
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now, alone bereft.
Grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left:
beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide;
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now alone, bereft.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside.
Beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide,
we conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.
We conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passion now abides,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief,
ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide.
Watch this girl...
she has her eyes
on a rising dandelion
sprouted in high grass,
a pensive girl,
weaving her way through the fields,
looking past weeds to her future,
making her way through a maze
of thistle solitude, on Saturday afternoons,
down hallways and classes on Tuesday,
teacher and stranger and parent
expectation, she approaches
a destination beyond home,
clutching the flower
to her budding breasts
Keep your eyes on her...
she is residue of the mute child,
now entrusted with a knowing mind
and well worn shoes,
still clutching the flower
to her breast...
She peers through pages of old photos,
scratching through scraps of half-heard
some color and clarity
with a dim vision of the girl
that held a prickly spine
of a spent dandelion
with compromise and resignation
Unable to mouth a sound,
I wish to warn
each teacher, each mentor, each censor of the flame...
I want to shout:
"Watch this girl...
who held a weightless flame
of windswept dream in her eyes,
making her way,
mediating between her reality
and every longing she ever had...
Look back to this girl
who has always maintained
an unblinking gaze on the white star
of dandelion in her hand"
8) "One could not pluck a flower without troubling a star."
Is it our age or present circumstances
that see childlike eyes grow dim
or is it living within our reality years
that lend whimsical thoughts so slim
If one could ride the notes in play
through a child’s imagination
One could laugh and dance anew
around each magical creation
Into the cosmos we could fly
gliding on winged compositions
On breathless notes of whimsy chance
exploring without constrictions
If one could row a boat through time
back into their youthful days
and reunite with that childlike wonder
it’s here I think we’d stay
©Debra Squyres 2014
Dimly lit, I sit
in a Mexican kitchen
near the Tropic of Cancer.
A TV is tuned
to inane noises;
dogs at my feet,
oranges in a bowl
on a table:
a specific place and time.
And I am dreaming --
dreaming of Louisiana
in twilight hours --
dreaming of short winter days and
summer's green, bright mornings.
Country time, mostly empty,
was quiet, seldom interrupted
by human utterance;
but my busy brain
was full of fantasy
The world was new, was big,
was yet to be explored;
possibilities seemed endless.
Oak and cypress,
willows, pines -- and magnolias --
were all around, and cane fields
stretched for miles.
The bayous that had always been there
were there still.
Change was slow in coming
and childhood lasted long.
I dream now of Louisiana:
poignant vignettes... dreamy glimpses...
and all those slowly fading
of the past...
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
A new photograph floats to the surface
Playfully dressing up as the world around me
Hat, striped socks and all
Tiptoeing at the top for one last sweet moment
Before sinking back into my ocean mind.
One after another they arrive
Steeping my eyes in the world
As the minds shutter, ever fluttering
Strings together this conscious stream I play in.
My photographs fade in time’s wrinkled arms.
Joining their brothers and sisters at the ocean floor,
They hold hands and try to answer the question that is always asking itself:
Who am I?
It's been a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
First Hollywood kiss
Behind a pink crepe myrtle.
Thanks, Patsy Werner.
High school was okay.
Didn't help me to focus;
So, my mind wandered.
Surfed Bonzai Pipeline,
Big waves break into lava.
What made me do it?
I wondered why I was there.
Smoking pot. Stereo.
Good fun in the seventies.
And three wives later,
I finally found true love.
We're still together.
My destitute heart,
Saved by the sweetest angel.
I love you, Sandy.
Sooners are my team.
Most winning football program
In the Modern Era.
I am retired now.
But I have plenty to do.
I've been writing more.
Perhaps I will write a book.
I have many tales.
I'd chase young girls; but,
Girls with a "grampa" fetish
Are so hard to find.
If I am lucky,
I will just drop dead one day.
With my peace of mind.
Yes, made a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
Universes of time, aged stars;
Silent and bright, how they swirl.
Each one lights its own corner of the heavens;
each stands as one body;
serving the universe, alone.
They all reach great heights.
There are no fears here of heights;
no phobias among these stars;
despite them having to stand alone.
Round and round they swirl;
each centrifugal body,
swirling in the heavens.
When people look at the heavens;
they look to great heights;
and peruse those wondrous bodies.
They stare and dream, beneath the stars;
watching them blink and swirl;
each doing their job together, yet alone.
The state of being alone,
up there, in the heavens;
in a constant state of, swirling;
can steer them to those, limitless heights.
Like people, they are travelers, those stars;
little gypsy’s in cosmic light bodies.
With no limbs to impede their bodies;
they travel to other universes, alone.
Each life has its own journey, even a star;
as it travels through the heavens;
it achieves, greater and greater heights;
never looking back, as it swirls.
Like stars, the human mind, with dreams…swirls;
within the mortal body;
Until it too, achieves great heights;
and doing this, very much alone.
Man dreams of rising to heaven;
just like the gypsy stars.
In the end, like dwarfed stars; the human mind will cease its swirl.
In the heights of heaven, there is no mortal body.
No soul is alone, yet without any spin, it achieves those new heights.
I do not know?
written 10th Aug 2013
I am God's child, first and forever
I am known by many different titles, a daughter
I am a wife
I am a mother
I am a grandmother
I am a poet
I am by several ways, known as a sister
I am an acquaintance
I am a loyal friend
I am a stranger
I am a cousin
I am an Auntie
I am a niece
But who is this person, they all call "Denise?"
She is a child to God
She is a niece
She is a cousin
She is a stranger
She is a loyal friend
She is an acquaintance
She is known to many, a sister
She is a poet
She is a grandmother
She is a mother
She is a wife
She is known as a daughter to many
She is everything, she'd ever dreamed her life to be....
She is happier than she ever imagined possible
SHE IS "DENISE"
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Who am I?
W-eaned from tender
age,in noble family of ten.
H-urt by the demise of
the tube that brought
me into this theater of
struggles and pains.
O-rdered about by the
whimps of this
world,facing the hurdles
of life daily from
cradle,never giving up
A-fine young man of 28
I am,who has the
experience and wisdom
of the aged.
M-astering the arts of
life-learning from lessons
of life's victims and
didactic poems 'cos man
of fame I intend to be for
I bear the name Bob.
I-lost my poetic gift at a
stage but recovered it in
poetrysoup for invisible
entities say a
lesser being I shall be,but
another encourages me
to move on,for great is
one who comes out of
the shackles of life
undeterred for this is who
Name: Ifeanyi Bob
The years have rolled by
Hours into days; days into months
Continuous rotation from soft sunrises
To brilliant sunsets on the western horizon
On and on year upon year
Until this tall, slender, white female
Has become an elder, a senior citizen
Or, an old woman; I prefer an elder lady—
With pace slowing from a cheetah to a kitty cat
But, with mental acuity sharp as a razor;
Though the thought processes have changed
From policy and procedure to poetry and prose –
“The purposes is to identify” becomes
‘Love likened to soft velvet”
I’m glad God stopped me from working and said,
“This is what I want you to do now.”
Oh, that my tongue was that of a skilled writer*
Or, that my hand could express what my heart thinks,
How blessed to look at life retrospectively
And see life’s puzzle gradually coming in place
But, still have the sweet wonderment
Of what is yet to be while inhaling the present;
An elder lady with lifetime developed refinement
Combined with a sense of contentment
It is better to be settled in later years
Than the flitting from hither to the yon
Of youth scrambling for meaningfulness
Though that is not true for all youth or all elders;
Searching in crooks and crannies
Wiping away the cobwebs of life
Looking for what may have been or
Ridding the what was and won’t go away
Rainbows, sunrises, sunsets, gentle rains
Add visual flavor and meaning
As the tall and slender becomes bent
And hair turns to silver—
Children rise up to call their mother blessed;**
Sunrise to sunset day upon day
Continually rotating in God’s beauty
From dawn to dusk until eternity
-Evelyn Pearl C. Anderson -2015
* Psalm 45:1
...en l'an soixante-dix de mon age...
All the familiar names from our youth
now belong to aged, unfamiliar faces.
Even my own reflection startles
as I pass the mirror
hanging in the hall.
Suddenly, we are old.
And, although taken by surprise,
we must accommodate reality --
perhaps convince ourselves
how lucky we survivors are --
how much better that we wear
these flaccid faces, these worn-out bodies,
these aids and apparatuses,
than to have ended
while in almost-mint condition.
But these are mere macabre,
So, let's forget all this!
Turn up the music
and hear us murmur,
in weakly mordant, fatalistic,
"We're still here!"
If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
Age, like time, is reckless, is taunting with its breeze
Does it come to cheer with springtime grass and bees
Or cover earth with rain and fallen leaves?
From somewhere comes the passing years
a speeding train
that passes by, where hands can't grasp
or eyes can't ask
to hold again
comes the hint of rain,
that clouds the sky with gray,
the fog sets in...
becomes a thread
so frail in time
that the sublime
that once was mine
has withered dead upon the vine
I feel the seasons stir me, like the verses in a song
As west winds breathe a sigh across the glade
Time stares me in the face without a chance
to slow momentum's pace, for just a glance
I walk away from yesterday, the same familiar way
The views are now more beautiful and clear
where sundown holds more brilliant hues each year
Rock Me Around the Clock or Rock Me to Sleep--Rhythm Poems
Sponsored By Sheri Fresonke Harper
Too young to die
They take a boy, too young to shave
Who has never lived his life
While his mates are chasing girls
They fill his life with strife
They send him off to a brand new war
Over some damned fools Ideal
I don’t understand their wars
And I guess I never will
The folk who like to run the show
Or most of them at least
Have never even been to war
They’ve never felt the beast
As he rips right into one’ intestines
That hollow hole of fear!
Each leader should be sent to war
Then the picture might grow clear
Then when they send young boys to war
They’ll see the whole damned show
The weight of endless terror
And then maybe they’ll know
What it’s like as a fine young man
To be sent out there to die
He might then know, how a mother feels
When she’s lost her little guy.
1 August 2013 @ 1443hrs.
Lazy I lingered on the porch of my terrace
a hummingbird was softly picking on a daisy
this reminded of the time when I lived at the coast
I use to watch seagulls as they dived into the sea
that ancient symbol of the strife to survive
But as I turned my eyes away from the sand
the hummingbird started to sing a melody
my soul surrendered to harmony
gone that old vision of agony
When I returned to the comfort of my lazy couch
in my head the hummingbird's song went on and on
took me back to times of innocences so clear and so pure
it finally won from that old cynic I'd become.
That was the day, I heard a hummingbird sing.
A day in the country
I went to the country
To see my Bro's Land
I saw he had worked hard
His land looked so grand
For a second this envy
It tapped on my soul
But then I looked deeper
Saw things as a whole!
I looked at his features
All the lines on his face
Not character lines
Those lines that add grace
Just sad saggy lines
From worry and stress
There was naught in his manner
That read happiness.
I’m a loser to his type
I have no ambition
I live for today
He lives for his mission
But I have a smile
And a generous heart
While he, how I see him
Is a grumpy old fart.
10 August 2013 @ 1700hrs
I have loved it all
I have loved it all
Adored the whole of it
All those foolish dramas
The dirt and all the grit
The joy, and all it’s sorrows
I’ve really loved it all
All in all my life is beautiful.
I’ve heard folk moan about old age
But not me, never, no
Cause every day forever more
I’ll always feel that glow
That comes from living happily
Within this now, and here
I’m holding each new day so very dear.
I have loved it all
I have, that’s how I be
Oh, I’m so glad to be here
With my philosophy
My fate knows what she’s doing
And she’ll do right by me.
You’ll never hear me moaning
About my years so far
Cause all is an adventure
With me, the leading star
And when I leave this shell behind
I’m quite prepared to go
Though where I’m bound for then, I do not know.
The Internet Age
Great, snow-flocked pines, of unimagined beauty
soar over the vagaries of on-line banking
There, among the towering clouds, and
I-pad intentions, a stillness persists,
unchanged for millennia
Alone, in my designs, carefully crafted in words
and images, I invoke meaning from faraway times,
Content to back-them-up in my word processor-
Inspired by the poetry of Timothy Donnelly
© All Rights Reserved
Sunshine shoots through the windows and fills the house with grace,
Ricochets around the room and finds my weathered face.
Standing at a mirror I see refracted light
On wrinkles, lines and eyes of mine reflected to my sight.
The youth that once looked back at me
Has gone – I know not where – in vain I search the glass, and find: No … it isn’t there.
Instead I see the wrinkles – they are stress of many years
Produced in times of doubt and my unfounded fears.
My eyes see lines and furrows as they track across my face
Hard times are buried there as my eyes complete the trace.
At the corners of my eyes I see: a pair of old “crows feet”
They’re etched there forever from those times my life was sweet.
A lifetime full of memories comes bouncing off the glass
A memory consumes me - as I feel still more time pass.
In the Winter of a lifetime, my memories come to play
Oh, thank God I have them – pray they never go away.
I turn from my glass mirror – that used to be my friend
As thoughts of those reflections I try to comprehend.
My face - it is my diary of experience I’ve had
And then I tell myself: “You know … those lines …
they really aren’t so bad.”
The confusing world of poetry
Clerihews, and couplets
Acrostics, and Haikus
Me head is spinning round and round
Oh Lord I’m so confused
I’d like to read about the stuff
But I really ain’t got time
I’m too busy trying to write
In rhythm and in rhyme
I never was so very clever
I flunked in all at school
I guess me dad, he got it right
He called me village fool
He tried to make me turn out clever
But he didn’t have a chance
Cause I’m a dreamer through and through
You can see that at first glance.
So I don’t know about complex things
I’m just a simple man
But me, I’ve wrote eight thousand songs
And I’ve done it cause I can
The words roll out like a waterfall
And they come just like they are
And I talk about love, and I talk about life
And the flowers and the stars.
25 July 2013 @ 0925hrs.
FOURSCORE AND THREE
By Leonard Kleeman
As I approach fourscore and three
I wonder how it would really be
If I could go back in time
And make that “Road Not Taken” mine.
If I could just take a different road
Would I be me or of a different mode?
Would I still be here or have died
Regardless of how hard I tried?
Would my friends be the same
Or of a different name?
Would I be rich or very poor
And never see the year fourscore?
But the road not taken as writ by Frost
Makes all those questions and answers lost
For I am just me as you can see
And what really matters for fourscore and three
Is who I am and what was meant to be.
How queer the color of viscera
squarely foreign in my breast
To be the butcher and grim and goddess
All in one
Leaves identity succinct
Or identifies succinctness
If it has been
Then so it was always before
Therein is 'Peace'
Reposed and eyes rolling
Great, vacant saucers on vertiginous axis
She is quite the swollen beast
And on all fronts, she is terrible
If only you'll watch you may notice her growth
A malignant sort
An unwelcome appendage
I'd dash it out but I've already gone
Too pale and dogged in life to succumb
I curse her tenacity
She has a sister, I think
Or maybe a child
A child who lives down deep in my chest
A child who shrieks and tears down the walls
Perhaps she dislikes their pattern
Approaching the winter of my years,
Never yet found my reason.
So much laughter, so many tears,
Yet all that’s sure is the season.
To few, all my days;
So many spent simply breezin’.
Should I regret their waste
When all that’s sure is the season?
What’s it been about anyway?
Perhaps there is no reason.
Did so want to learn the truth,
But all that’s sure is the season.
Always tried to consider others.
‘Tis much easier to be pleasin’.
How many are my friends?
All that’s sure is the season
Felt the urge to make my mark.
Fame or fortune was my reason.
Fear of failure was my tether,
For all that’s sure is the season.
A man of Christian faith,
Hope God finds me pleasin’.
Fair chance tho’, I’ll go to Hell,
Yes, all that’s sure is the season.
So what of value will I leave?
Hearts and souls I may be teasin’
With too few words too few will read,
While all that’s sure is the season.
Approaching the winter of my years,
Never yet found my reason;
But thank God for each extra day I search.
Still, all that’s sure is the season.
The soul shatters upon death. Sentience fractures into a million variables that swirl chaotically into piercing eyes that melt into the color sadness, spinning into galaxies that shrink to the size of ants and you twirl in a blender of being for eternities until finally, at long last, something sticks. Perhaps it may be as simple as a strand of hair, nonetheless all possibility spins around it, flashing contradictions of rainbow transparencies, empty solids and polka dotted space, continuing until a second hair joins the first, clutching to the nothingness and refusing to move. Soon thousands of hairs arrive and synchronize above a scalp unto a face, torso, limbs… materializing ever faster… and at once you are born. And just as the memory of your trial and error experiments and prior life evaporate, you embrace the arms of a stranger, gazing into her eyes, hung between this world and the next… sobbing in a fit of omniscience, in awe of your hard earned shape.
Old woman, sit.
You are a cornerstone,
as gray as the marble vase.
Your hands are gnarled
As the oldest trees.
There are furrows in your face.
But something still shines
From behind your eyes;
A soft and clear, unwavering light;
Something that declares
Your soul still young
And still transcends the night.
Do you search the skies in dreams;
Dance across the meadow's grass?
Do you hold your long gone babies to your breast,
And dream youthful love still lasts?
Old woman, sit.
You have earned your rest
And your life presents a tome to me.
Your scattered mind retraces each graceful step
As golden sunset illumines your dance
And your heart still thrills to youth's rhapsody.
It use to be me
who lit up your eyes
It use to be me
Who told you goodnight
It use to be me
Who asked you to stay
And lay here beside me
Till I drift away
But now there's another
Whose heart that you need
Who only needs grandma
To comfort his weeps
It use to be me
Now, a son that's too old
To walk with your hand
When I feel all alone
It use to be me
Who ran to your arms
Now another has comfort
Safe from all harm
From a son I am grateful
What you've given my child
But it use to be me
Who brought you a smile
So I hope he remembers
What these memories mean
That it use to be me
But time never sleeps
Kevin D. Fix
The weakened soft thoughts lay humble
within future coats
a darkened past tracks scampered shines
forth a morning of immortal moved elements
it will bring away
a prime love can't be replaced
and thus it comes
a very open hide light of it's first sight
in pursued windows of no time
sun anyway goes down and hot as hell
gray visions,left behind in desire,
delicious empty shades of dawns
filds or doors
just dusk doors
and spilled life only are
these present words