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Age Journey Poems | Age Poems About Journey

These Age Journey poems are examples of Age poems about Journey. These are the best examples of Age Journey poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Personification | |

A Long Journey Made Short

Little Innocence was forged into the world 
A shrill Sound flickered around the expecting eyes
Laughter carved out of marble 
A statue thought to beat immortality 
Yet Fear had a surprise
It crept into the cradle with ease
Laughter was choked
Tears burst instead
And Sadness had a form
Evil found in youth a red soil
Jealousy marched with Envy
Lust befriended Desire
Until cupid threw a bunch of arrows
Adventure appeared
Excitement beyond description
A Thrill with no past
Sentiments were aroused
Pride threw some words
Ego played its part
And when Love meddled to defend its territory
The Heart bled in utter silence! 

© Guru Jad 2013

Copyright © Guru Jad

Details | Rhyme | |

After the fall

Quite frankly, I don't remember at all
You see I was quite young when I took my first fall.
Don't know which parent was there to catch me
Or how hard the decision was to stand back and let me. 
Did I topple forward or backward, or who made the call. 
And who scooped me up crying
After the fall.
I can't remember the joy of first letting go
And taking that step without holding on. 
Groping my way forward
Leaning against the wall
I got back up 
After the fall.
As the Earth spun the years flew by so fast
At 17 I finally knew everything at last!!
Unexpectedly, I fell once again,
Head over heels this time 
And out on a limb.
I was so sure of that bet
I gambled it all
Heart bruised abused and then broken
After that fall.
And then I broke my own promise 
To not love again.
Hungry for life
I gambled to win.
Life is a theatre of first steps first 
A one act play with no time to rehearse.
Co starring in roles
Cast without planning.
"Never more" echoes 
The raven still chanting.
Undaunted unwilling
To let darkness win all
Trusting Father to be there
After the fall.
Then the day came
When I had a son
To let him learn the word hot And hope he'd not run,
Would he still love me
Or trust me at all
When I pulled my hand back
And allowed him to fall?
And knowing I'd be there again
To help him to stand
And knowing he might never walk
If I didn't let go of his hand
And hoping he didn't revert back to a crawl
When I let go of his hand
And allowed him to fall.
As the earth kept on turning
My heart kept yearning
My son now a man
Living and learning.
He hasn't held my hand now in a very long time
The cats in the cradle slowly plays in the back of my mind.
I looked in the mirror today
And noticed my dad.
And remembered a talk that we'd never had.
Remembering how he seemed towering and tall 
And was there every time 
After each fall.
I lose my balance these days now and again
My steps aren't as sure
As they once might have been. 
In the winter of life now
I feel so small
And wonder who'll catch me
If I take a fall. 
I suppose I'll just have to trust Father
With both great things and small 
To pick me up on the other side
When I take my last fall.

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My grandmother's diary

Cucu, maitu 

Now that am older
I seek more answers 
In the same manner I did 
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers 
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping 
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing

I seek answers to understand our family dynamics 
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,  
Is some of the descriptions 
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate

Cucu, maitu 

I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren 
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren, 
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat

Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother) 

Copyright © njeri hunjeri

Details | Rengay | |

She, Forever in Boxes

So confined to the boxes is she who
Tries to free herself from them
Breaking down barriers of all political and cultural design
Constructing opportunities and 
Imagining their trite and expected 
She, who reigns supreme in the art
Of lability 
The morning being the promise
The afternoon, the despair
The night, a restless dance to 
Hopeful unknowing 
So that it may all begin anew
And she may float with ambition,
Flirt with lofty goals
(Which are so very tangible once realized to a more substantial degree)
All through which comes the 
Bitter devastation
The cerebral revelation

For her mind and the World work in harmoniously demonizing tandem to erase the sketches of a life 
Of her own craft

Copyright © Christy Chow

Details | Free verse | |

The Hours of Alzheimer

The Hours of Alzheimer 

It starts ticking away slowly
Longer needed to search what’s  known.
Watching the hand jerk 
Minutes passing
“Twelve is for noon, then?”
“Yes.  Yes, Daddy!  Just like that. 
  Twelve noon is lunch.” 

Very gently, oh so sweetly,
Out of love and kindest thought
Offering words and filling fissures
Keeping pace and instant beating
“The,     oh, you know, the       oh how silly, the     the box thing”
“Yes, the box thing, the clock,  Daddy.  Says it’s 3 and time for tea.”  

Now impatience starts its tapping
Chasms stretching longer still
Wanting this moment
 to stop its running
“I       I       please      fork       I     I   food”
“Oh, of course, dear Daddy.  Dinner time.  
  Here, your fork. ”          

Interval waxing
Memory waning
Lingering in the distance
This cavity expanding 
“ I                   I       I            I”
“Oh it’s last course time Daddy.  Some dessert, then time for bed.”

Midnight falling
Thoughts abandoned
Cadence silent
Dead of night

First published: Poetry Quarterly

Copyright © Heather Browne

Details | Ballad | |

My crazy cousin

My crazy Cousin.

My cousin calls me crazy poet
Cause I don’t think like others
I’ve not seen her since she was three
A Flower girl to us lovers
When we got wed in sixty five
But now we write and all
Oh lord, we two are so alike
It’s just remarkable.

In eight weeks time, she’s coming here
To good old western Oz
I know we’re going to get on well
I do, and that’s because
That girl is crazy just like me
And she likes a good old laugh
She seems to be a grand old bird
I’ll say on her behalf.

She’ll bring her man, and son with her
They’re all creative folk
She can paint and write as well
And boy, it is no joke
The kind of talent that they have
It will be a joy to me
To meet up with forgotten kin
I can’t wait for this to be.

11 August 2013 @ 1813hrs.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Haiku | |

Bio in Short

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?

Vietnam jungles.
I wondered why I was there.
America lost.

Smoking pot. Stereo.
Good fun in the seventies.
Psychedelics too.

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.
Golf, primarily.

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.

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | 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

Copyright © Denise Hopkins

Details | Nonet | |

The Tree and Me

    Everyday as i pass the old tree

        i compare myself to the limbs

            branches hanging lower now

                leaves dropping and bark scarred

                    the deep roots un-earthed

                        tree house fallen

                            glory days

                                lost in


Contest: The Old Age
Form: Nonet
Sponsored by:  Dr. Ram Mehta

Poems by Shar

Copyright © Sharon Ruebel

Details | Blank verse | |

the new tomorrow

The New Tomorrow 

Shopping street posh boutiques, perfumeries and cafes plenteous 
something for all to eat and drink. My wife has gone to buy a dress 
and I wait with a glass of red wine, as usual, when we are out and
about in town. There are no cars in this street and children are free 
to fool around, I look at them and wonder what the future holds 
for them now that the world is about implode. When they are only 
allowed to express an opinion that is the norm. Should they fall foul 
of this edict and, the powerful listens to their thoughts, they will be 
pushed out as the spoilers and  have only themselves to blame, for 
not being submissive.  And the new adults will be conditioned to 
have no mercy for losers of this sacred joke of an evil democracy. 
But the edifice of human greed will fold one day, nature will see to 
that, reek destruction that few humans will survive. So play now 
little ones tomorrow has nothing to offer but the suffering caused 
by your antecessors who willfully took his pleasure and left you to 
suffer the consequences.          

Copyright © jan oskar hansen

Details | Dramatic Verse | |

The number the brand

When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child,  chai .

I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met 
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .

Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?

It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History 
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .

The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.

It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing ,  cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .

There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love,  and reunited with the ones they lost .

The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time . 
You could not,  but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see . 
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet,  of the Hostility .

I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish,  chosen Religion.

There as I held her frail , old hand  , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago .   In 1945  , once in our distant, yet Frightening  past . 

We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
                                " Etta Babooshka Kofman  "

Copyright © Shanity Rain

Details | Nonet | |

This Face Tells A Story

A fascinating journey it's been.
Reciprocal peaks and valleys.
Worry lines,laugh lines also
tell the world my story
that I've come this far.
Darkness and light;
joy and pain
mine to

written October16th 2013
for Dr. Ram Mehta's Nonet contest

Copyright © Deb Wilson

Details | Lyric | |

Debutant's Lament

Summertime…they say the livin’ is easy,                                                
Flowers growin’ and the sun’s sittin’ high.                                    
They say your Daddy’s rich and your Momma’s so good lookin’;               
So hush now pretty baby…there's no reason to cry. 

One of these days, you’re gonna rise up smilin’.
Take a look around and think you’ve got it all.
You’ll have your Momma’s looks, all your Daddy’s money,
And all the boys in town at your beck and call.

Summertime…Yes, the livin’ is so easy,
Laughin’, singin’, havin’ so much fun.
No time to stop and think about your future
And what life will bring when your Summer’s done.

‘Cause Summertime, it don’t last forever.
Breezes cool and the leaves begin to fall;
And in your quiet moments, you'll sit and wonder
How you came so far, but have no love at all.

Summertime....They said the livin’ was easy; 
Ain’t it sad how fast the good times fly; 
And now, your Momma’s looks and all your Daddy’s money
Another sweet, warm Summer’s day they cannot buy. 

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | Free verse | |

Journey To The Calm

            Journey To The Calm

People populated in the millions, then came billions
A collective sound pounds in the head relentlessly
The ruckus became too much
As lands filled up with every kind of thing

There, waiting for trumpets to awaken the transformation
To answer questions never posed 
Sun turned up to circulate the news about the truth
Moon too gave way to rotate around this matter

That; empty space is inherently cold, void and without voice 
From it, science and technology burst forth
Matter inevitably takes its course 
Building on the forces of the past, a matter of creation

There came complexities to make us whole
Thousands of machines with noises whirring loud   
Cogs and gears whipped into a frenzied speed
Turmoil followed developments departure 

Gravity became the enemy, could not hold on, to either side
The Plenum filled in the emptiness, a cacophony of noise
All things from atoms to large particles delighted
To occupy the holes that once were empty

As more things arrive, with void subsiding, at rapid pace
Then, in a sudden change in growth
Objects and machines decreased in numbers in the realm
Declined, abated, subtracted on a dime

The noise was deafening as the emptiness set in
Then!  Just as it had started, it all came to an end
The air turned still and solid from surrounding boundaries
To collectively gather back from where it came

Follow nature quietly into a silent grave
To fill in what was forgot and what was not
Every day new energy had evolved at a rapid pace 
Filled in the empty parts of space 

Trillions turned into billions, into hundreds, into tens and then no more
People went away as well
Not one person left upon a throne or chair
To stare out to the wonderment once there

Now the sound of meditation cannot be heard
Not one single syllable or word
Utter silence appears in great abundance
And with it more emptiness abounds… evolving into calm

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Acrostic | |

Who Am I

Who am I?
Question indeed!

  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 
I am.

Name: Ifeanyi Bob 

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu

Details | Free verse | |

If I Shall Grow Old 2K13

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.

Copyright © Anthony O. Mitchell Jr.

Details | Light Poetry | |



                          The world is full of people trying to stand out.
                             But they don’t realize that they already do.
                          They try so hard to figure what life’s all about.
                      With all their piercings, Crazy hair, and fresh tattoos.
                           They miss out because of the worry they feel.
                         Will they approve of the way I dress, think, or act?
                           In the spotlight a few moments they might steal.
                    But some of the stupid things they do can’t be taken back.
                           I have a secret that only the few wise ones know.
                              Love who you are and forget what they think.
                             And all the good things in life will soon follow.
                              And you shall rise above all as the critics sink.
                                So meet the world with you head held high.
                                  Let them see the beauty that is in you.
                              Let them see your happiness and joy inside.
                   And know that nobody needs to love you more than you do.

Copyright © Carl Rankin

Details | Rhyme | |

Maturity's Memory

Youth has its’ exuberance
But patience it knows not
Maturity found its’ patience
But liveliness’ forgot

Maturity looks back
At its’ wake upon Life’s sea
And identifies things
Which could and could not be

Experience: the teacher
Through dreams that motivate
‘Twas situations’ circumstance
Which helped to form our fate

Excitement filled events
While Passion fired its’ flame
Within that Youth resulted in
Accolades … or blame.

It’s smiles that reform faces
In Maturity’s recollect
Through memory’s open door …
In warming retrospect.

Time is unforgiving
But Youth can never know
Only Maturity’s Memory
Can make that Time go slow.

Copyright © Jack Clark

Details | Quatrain | |


From the spoils and tragedies of childhood,
panning virtues out of dispositions.
Impaling self upon the spears of truth,
cuts chains of substances and delusions.

Upon mercy’s door, the forgiving heart,
handles Love with gratitude and prudence.
Walking the gallows when bound to depart,
no more illusions when choosing masters.

Respect no longer collecting trophies,
Wars and peace only with integrity.
Essence lives in speech without utterance,
Pride under shovelfuls of honesty.

Closing the chapters when life deems it so.
Strong days testing the brave to deliver,
even when to the ones loved, it is no.
Broken but still, in those times forsaken.

An ear towards the counsel of the wise.
Wooed by the songs of a revolution,
prunes the soul of what is left, harnessed fears,
in diaries of this evolution.

Contest: The TRUE Meaning of Being Adult
Sponsor: FJ Thomas

Copyright © rob carmack

Details | Rhyme | |

All That's Sure Is the Season

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.

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | Rhyme | |

Love Is Louder

Love they say is louder than hate.
But I think that it’s a shame,
That only holds true when you have a pretty face.
Maybe I’m a disgrace,
For saying such a thing,
But think about your life and how true that *****rings.
And I cannot deny what this mirror is reflecting,
What’s standing in my way is only one thing.
It was beauty killed the beast,
In famine it will bring feast.
And sideways glances, second chances, you’ll get those at least.
But what about me?
What about us?
It’s power like money,
It drives greed,
it drives lust.
So what about you?
What can we do?
All I can hear,
The sounds that make the world disappear.
Love is louder than hate, but I can’t hear it from here.

Copyright © Ag Ki

Details | Rhyme | |

When He Breaks You

When He breaks you

It is to re-make you.


If given the choice

To give destiny your voice

You would undoubtedly have picked this state

Such is the irony of fate


He breaks you now

So you later see the how -

How the pieces of your journey come to be

A slow but eventual solving of this mystery


He makes you work work work – then fail

So that you realize your means are of no avail

Without His will -

But feel His mercy fill -

Even through the aches still


He punctures your bubble of hope

To teach you the meaning of struggling to cope

To avoid you saying ‘this was all from me’

Which you might say if it always did come so easy


He lets you fall

So that when you stand

It’s straight and tall

Your past sorrows

Not letting you drown

Without your ego

Weighing you down


Even while the road appears smooth

He lets you trip and trip again

So that you might stumble upon hidden treasures

From the dirt, which you may otherwise not gain


In essence,

He knows Best

The perfect Teacher

Who puts the perfect test



He breaks you

To re-make you…


Copyright © Aya Salah

Details | Narrative | |

Final Journey

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

Details | Free verse | |

Bitter Journey Home

Chewing garlic in the evening
	helps a sore throat.
Garlic will not kill a rat.
The sun kills,
	shining against the eye;
it is both friend and enemy.

There is enmity between
	the sun and man.
Beams dance by the window sill
	and sparkle like rain
	against old wood.
The old man leaves the house
	and returns to his grave,
	sick with scorn.

His grizzled hair and foul breath
	blows like a trumpet.
He prays to the sun god,
	but receives no answer,
	only a bitter taste
	of resignation.

A rat crosses his path like some demon.
He throws a front kick,
	then totters,
	tripping on a vine
	as he moves along.
The vine is a snake of green and brown,
	twisted, gnarled 
	like a calloused palm.

Soon he must head home.
It is evening and the day is dimming
	like a short wick.
The old man is dim of mind and feeble.
His limbs carry many wounds
	like thorns.
Surely sleep will restore his memory.
Surely he will find his way home.

Copyright © Bill Yates

Details | Quatrain | |

The Wheel Of Life

The wheel of life keeps turning every day
Birth, life and then the subsequent decay
All living things must return whence they came
The pattern always remaining the same

All living things start life's journey at birth
Become adult through the process of growth
They then participate in reproduction
Thus creating the next generation

Life then continues daily in this world
Until old age and illness take their toll
Lastly, all must face death's reality
That brings a final end to life's journey

The wheel goes through a full revolution
With each and every new generation
Whatever is alive will someday die
This will surely happen as time goes by

Copyright © john beharry

Details | Rhyme | |

Yet Another Reflection

I rend asunder and
Crumble into dust
Before my very eyes.

No answers forthcoming
To my many questions,
Most important, "Why?"

"A fool are you,"
I stand thinking.
"There is no disguise."

To worry so about
What matters not
In the by and by.

Trials have strengthened.
Sorrows kept me human.
No point to analyze.

"Life is for living,"
An ultimate truth
I finally realized.

Sooner than later
Might have been better,
Had only I been wise.

I rend asunder and
Crumble into dust....
A twinkle in my eye.

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | Lyric | |

The 90's

I was born in the nineties
Where my mother used to sing melodies
of her music so sweet to hear
of her voice which stole my fear.

I was born in the nineties
Where my sister used to read fantasies
of her imagination so amusing
that her heart would stop beating.

I was born in the nineties
Where my brother used to play in balconies
his laughter so loud and audible
And his caress makes me comfortable.

I was born in the nineties
Where my father used to tell stories
of his experience with his best-friend
that his smile would have no end.

I was born in the nineties
A time where I watch cartoons and movies
New one's came and all are gone,
Just like life when time is done.

Copyright © Angelo Faunillo

Details | ABC | |

thank u mamma

I thought I could do it,
 an all nighter 
 pouring my heart out
 throughout the night 
 on dis here lonely page,
 my eyes got heavy 
 I fall asleep writing u 
 this here ..
 made up words of mesh
 I hope u can see clearly 
 through this mess..
 its may not be perfect
 but its filled with 
 lifes lessons an many love stories
 pain will be through the whole thing.
 its all true, its everything I've seen, an done
and then some... 
 I hope you'll. Like what u read
special thanks to 
 my mom pushed me to write 
 this whole thing....


Details | Rhyme | |

A part of lifes journey

A part of life’s journey ???

The hours begin to claw at me.
Time slips away, filled not, I see.

To much time on my hands.
In beams, in waves, in bands.

Empty spaces, invisible air.
These games of solitaire.

This game that is now my life.
No girlfriend, no lover, no wife.

Tides ebb, tides flow.
Time ebbs, times go.

Memories remain.
Keeping us sane.

On the turn of a card, life rides.
Behind a mask true life hides.

What is the time and space ?
That has created one’s face.

These masks that some prefer to ware.
Fashioned from scares beyond compare.

Staring back at us from near and far
Hiding !, just what and who they are.

Once again, I seem to be caught up in.
This game of solitaire – my life- such sin.

Cutting through the hours of my life.
Like a  dull, old, rusty knife.

Severing all ties with reality.
Creating a world of fantasy.

These words have been written.
Time - the soul they have smitten

B. J. “A” 2
December 1st 2014

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield

Details | Narrative | |

Looking Back

I’ve not scaled the highest mountain, nor sailed the deepest sea,
But I’ve held my children in my arms and that’s enough for me.
I never walked upon the moon: repelled down steep ravines,
But the bedtime tale, told a little child, is far greater than it seems.

I once longed to swim the coral reef with snorkel, fin and mask,
But a day by the sea with my children in tow, was enough for me to ask.
To soar from mountain meadow, through skies of deepest blue:
Once a lovely dream of mine, but a dream that would never come true.

I wondered in my younger years, before I had fully matured,
If I was missing out on life and all its great rewards?
I settled young and missed some fun, as children came and grew.
I thought of all I could have been and all I'd hoped to do.

But years pile up and weigh us down: resolve begins to wane.
We’re left here looking toward the back, replaying life again.
It's strange how clear it all seems now, from an elder point of view.
How meaningless some dreams became: like time itself they flew. 

And I am left just standing here with very few regrets,
For things undone and sights unseen and people never met.
For other folks my days on earth might seem to lack success,
But looking back across those years; I’m sure I've done what’s best.

© 2015 Diane Lefebvre

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre