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Age Philosophy Poems | Age Poems About Philosophy

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

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Details | Rispetto | |

A Twisted Ploy

Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy An end to those most tender years The zest is gone, but life goes on Till her last welcome breath is drawn False hopes reality now clears Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy No one her age can still recall The charms of youth that did enthrall An end to those most tender years False hopes reality now clears Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy
*Written October 8, 2014 Form: Sonnetina Rispetto

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Rhyme | |

Letter to Frank stanton

Written after reading Frank Stanton's poem 'The lightning age'

Letter to Frank Stanton.

Hey, Frankie you should see it now
You wouldn’t believe it my good pal
There’s radios, and TV sets
Man you ain’t seen nothing yet
Bombs made to destroy the world
It’s gone way past those spears they hurled
In those days so long ago
Hey Mate this world it has changed so.

We’re on computers every day
We don’t need phones to have our say
The phones we have, they need no wires
It seems mankind he never tires
Of building new things to play with
It’s a funny world in which we live
Frank, you would not like it here
Gone are the things you held so dear.

Marriage it don’t mean a thing
These days it seems it’s just a fling
Most don’t care about sacred vows
Relationships mean nothing now
They’re killing off all nature’s beauty
Building like it is their duty
To destroy all of this wonderland
 Frank you would not understand.

Frank, there’s hatred all around
Everywhere there be the sound 
Of guns and missiles, we’re all mad
Oh yes, my friend, it’s very bad
Oh, Frank you would not like it here 
Maybe you’d even die of fear
Each day, it has no certainty
No one knows what’s going to be.

15 August 2014 @ 1700hrs

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Rhyme | |

Does it really matter

Does it really matter?

Does it really matter?
What you’ve done, or what you’ve been
Or whether you be special
{What ever that word means}
Whether you see one hundred
Or live for an hour or so
One day the  ‘Reaper’ he will come
And off with him you’ll go.

Does it really matter?
Whether you be Prince, or king
Millionaire or poorest pauper
It doesn’t mean a thing
He’ll have no sympathy for you
That one in sombre black
One day it will be time for you
To make that final act

Does it really matter?
That each must turn to dust
This be the way it’s always been
So in it you must trust
Relax and let the river flow
Then what will be, will be
You’re born alone. You’ll die alone
This is the tale of thee.

5 November 2014

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Ballade | |

1984 has gone

1984 Has Gone.

Nineteen eighty four has gone
But still it's not too late.
George Orwell got the date all wrong
But he recognized our fate.
His words are being acted out
You can see it everywhere.
George Orwell was a prophet man
His truth's at you they stare.

And so we sit, the TV on
As we stare into it's rays.
And the adverts roar so loud and clear
and with our minds they play.
"You must have this, you can't do that
They tell you how to live
And all they think you need to know
Though they haven't much to give.

And everyone be taught to think
Just like the one, the other.
As little bricks they each be formed
But the truth's kept undercover.
And not too many want the truth
Or even think at all.
So me, I turn that TV off
It drives me up the wall.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Free verse | |

Space-Age Hooks and Barbs

It has been DECADES!

And yet, for some ridiculous reason, we 
still choose to TIE our shoes and
BUTTON our trousers, ZIP our

How ridiculous.

When Man first invented the wheel, do 
you suppose that there were some naysayers who said;
"I'm still going to drag my loads through the dirt on a rope. It was 
good enough for my father and by gawd it's good enough for me!"

I doubt it.

Why do we stoop to such Medieval methods of
attatchment Today?
Who knows. But I eagerly await the day that Velcro finally
gets the credit it rightfully deserves.

Copyright © Geoffery McHugh

Details | Quatrain | |


“Coming of age” happens twice in life It not always at the same time The physical change nature will bring But, the other is in your mind Sometimes an adult can be a child And a child can be an adult The physical change is still the same The mental, an unknown result It seems you mentally “come of age” As responsibilities grow Being responsible for others Suddenly your adultness shows Although you reach the “coming of age” You still want to stay young at heart That’s a condition you should maintain So keep thinking young from the start
"Coming of Age" Contest Submitted by Charles Sides

Copyright © Charles Sides

Details | Free verse | |

Aquarian Age

Did our Age of Aquarius evaporate,
fail to regenerate,
to resonate,
fall too far short of what our parents
knew we should anticipate?
Free love could not sustain
weak non-violent resolutions against
whatever they were for.

Yet, if love is synergy,
mutual gravity,
and creation is this co-passion's regenerate transgeneration,
how could love cost more than free?
How could co-redemption not invest everything
in learning how to cooperatively Be,
free of enslaving supremacist becoming,
free to come together as ecological We?

Those who stop to count these costs of love,
look for ways to divest of co-opportunity,
ignoring Earth's mentoring economy
of light's photosynthetic comprehensive consciousness,
of neutral's dark unconsciousness,
a fog bank evaporating as double-binding time and rhythm
pattern and color RNA's free-fractal love connection.

If Time's eternal unfolding presence is 0-dimensional,
and Nature's bicameral perception is 2-dimensional prime,
bicameral form with function,
ego emerging from eco,
yang incarnating double-yin,
reiterative communicative processors
borrow RNA's decomposing 3-space with 1-time prime bilateral dimensions,
equivalent seasons;

Shy winterish Uracil of Universal freely decomposing love
greets Cytosine's full summer-formed regeneration,
as objectives greet their past and future subjects;
while Adenine painlessly springs
for Guanine's lavishly com-posted integrative harvest,
as verbs form fractal-recycling nouns,
verbal con-science revolutions,
relearning Earth's organic language,
by echoing universal polypathic syntax.

Universal monocultural power of governance
becomes a Left-brained dominant and reductive tyrant,
an Emperor reified of clothes
to cool His naked Ego-thirst.
when power remains integral within co-passionate,
gravitational integrity,
synergetic uniting cooperatism,
then naked power conjoins dark yin-time-ations,
shy bigendering romantic camouflage,
re-birthing this post-millennial 
Age of Aquarius.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck

Details | Free verse | |

The Color Missing

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.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Free verse | |

Just Be

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:
Just be.
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.

Jacob Reinhardt

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Haiku | |


"Just a state of mind",
Too often said of aging.
Get old... then tell me.

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | Free verse | |

Who Am I

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
Single file,
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?

Jacob Reinhardt

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Rhyme | |


God’s new day awaits at the horizon’s gate.
The star of freedom rests amid the dawn.
It has been no less than a 400 year wait,
For a sign this age is about to be born.

No nation can expect to exist forever,
If all of its people are not totally free.
Chaining another’s neck is not clever;
For God’s liberty you will no longer see.

From the slave cabin to the prison cell,
God’s people’s journey has been.
Satan taught the bondman well—
Why America couldn’t possibly win.

Now the bodies of the oppressed demand rights,
And their oppressed souls are looking for peace.
The ballot boxes can offer many delights,
In this present age of political caprice.

The people have decided they want a change,
Since the contemporary world offers a marvelous deal.
And now that we know what God can arrange,
We will not settle for anything not real.

Copyright © Albert Price

Details | Rhyme | |


To Shakespeare I give all due respect,
But the world must be a huge theater I suspect.
Woman’s the major player if not the star,
For she influences all with love from afar.
The main acts of her drama as one envisions,
Occur for my audience in seven divisions. 

First the helpless infant in her nurse’s arm,
Fresh from God’s hands smiling and warm.
Yet guiltless and untouched by worldly strife,
She is but a stranger to sin in this dawn of life.
In her pink crib she looks cute and pure,
With a smile on her lips so modestly demure.

Next as a tender young girl of school age,
With pigtails and grace she enters the stage.
An innocent young girl loving dolls and toys,
She has no taste for bruises, math or boys.
Her voice is like music whenever she speaks,
Explaining with emotion the desire she seeks.

In the sweet summer age she becomes a blossom,
And weathers the waves in the role of stardom.
Now she’s a young lady with a pure, creative mind,
Nursing dreams of a life moral and refined.
When put into the orbit of heart-consuming men,
Overcoming dying hope, her world she has to win.

As a wife she makes her home a true nirvana,
 Winning from the man she loves her merited honor.
 She is in hard times his source of consolation,
And in times of pleasure his joy and elation.
As a lover and a mate she continues to perform,
Keeping house and home through every storm.

Now for the most blessed age of female life,
She assumes the role of mother as well as wife.
Like God's miracle, the first is released with a hurl,
Then with tears and a scream from womb to world.
Before long baby laughs aloud and pleads for caress,
And mother love with playful smile grants the request.

Next the vestiges of youth appear a distant dream,
And spring's lovely buds now attest to her final esteem,
As she enters her mournful stage of the widow's woe,
Her glance upon her children falls as her eyes overflow.
She has lost all her young heart once fondly enjoyed,
And in the business of change of life she's fully employed.     

 With the final division, youth is now a faded flower,
 And she can bask in the coolness of the evening hour.
 As she enjoys the reflection of her progeny having fun,
 She is reminded that maternal pleasures are not yet done.
 She continues to impart knowledge necessary to sustain,
 As she guides their hopes to reach for the heavenly domain.

Copyright © Albert Price

Details | Blank verse | |

The Dust God

I am drifting into memories.
Wasting away like a million photographs fading in the sun-
Yet with ceaseless renewal,
Staining the depths of my eyes with images
In the minds shutter ever fluttering to infinity,
Stringing together this conscious stream I play in-
My stupendous God made of dust and space
Tightrope walking existence!
And to think we too are made of mostly nothing-
Chance so scarcely gracing our atoms with a single touch
In a place so lonely when counted, 
Yet so abounding when felt!
So dance with the Dust God 
Poised miles above the earth-
Prance on your stilts, 
And peek into the great valleys beneath his skin.
Because any moment we could disappear 

Jacob Reinhardt	

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Imagism | |

A Farmer's Eyes and a Sailor's Shadow

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

Copyright © Gokul Alex

Details | Ballade | |



The other day I saw a man
He was an old, old man
He had this sparkle on his face
And a wondrous smile that ran
Right from his mouth up to his ears
He was a happy guy
And yet he had no home, no car
And soon in death he’ll lie.

I saw a man on the Television
His face all misery
He was a man who had so much
Such an important man he be
And yet his face was deathly grey
All life was drained from it
It seems that all his cobwebbed money
Has not helped him a bit.

I let you see the contrast here
So all you folk who hope
One day to be someone of means
I hope they will take note
Though money has a lot of value
It does not bring success
Cause in the end success must mean
A life of happiness.

1 September 2013 @ 0642hrs.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Free verse | |

A Mistake of Time and Structure

    A Mistake of Time and Structure

It was forty by the formometer
The moon closed in
It was a cold and numbered day
If I remember
It was time to waste
If not It was a memory
And there it faded

It was thirty by the hidrometer
The sun fell out
It was a full end
If I remember
It was a gifted part of nothing
If not it was a clock
And there it stopped

It was twenty by the timeometer
The wind gave up
It was time with space giving way
If I remember
It was a place called winter
If not it was a thought I had
That evaporated

It was ten by the elderometer
Morning came to night
It was a place to sleep
If I remember
It was a slower moving body
If not it was a part of time
And it had passed

It was one by the nonometer
The mind froze up
It was a full stop in mid air
If I remember
It was a cold and numbing moment
If not it was a motion forward
And there was nothing there

It was zero by the outometer
And night filled in the void
It was a cold and numbered day
If I remember
It was a matter of time
If not it was a poem I wrote
And there it was in the dark

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Ballade | |

A message of love

A message of love

Love it be the sweetest thing
I have found this out
I didn’t always know this though
It’s sweetness I did doubt
I never, ever gave, just took
As I treated you like a slave
I do not want much in this world
But forgiveness I do crave

I was the product of my dad
Who treated mum this way
That was what they taught me then
So when it came, my day
To marry you, my sweetest one
I thought that’s what men did
But now my angel listen well
Can’t keep my feelings hid…

I now know love so very well
It’s not the way I thought
Crazy feelings all the time
All that stuff comes to naught
For this, it cannot last forever
But true love really does
And Lord it’s such a wondrous thing
Though it don’t cause much fuss

It’s in those little things we do
As each day comes along
It’s about that old togetherness
That hold folks oh, so strong
It’s such a joy, but one can’t see
Like he does, when he is old
That love grows sweeter every day
Though the life force grows more, cold.

18 August 2013 @ 0531hrs

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Nonet | |

growing old

                 The day when I was a younger Lass
                  never a thought in my young mind
                  soon evolution takes over
                  I try with grace and truth
                  overcome destiny
                  trading beauty
                  for wisdom
                  the gift

Copyright © Shanity Rain

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 | Tanka | |


-Folly in Grin-

Sleeping troubadour
Ask his ink why he slumber
Or his papyrus
Words they themselves would forget
Since their lord is indisposed

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole

Details | Rhyme | |

Living All At Once

You Only Live Once is apparently my generations motto,
Its why she feels so hollow.
God damn girl, i used to be your man girl!
now i can pick up a magazine anywhere around the world, and see a full spread picture of the girl that used to be my world.
You only live once don't you get it!
So do all of these drugs! yeah! I know you won't regret it!
Now my friend is dead, and i bet you wish you hadn't said it.
You only live once and then your dead!
Of course you should let that random girl give you head!
Now my friend has herpes and he wishes he was dead,
because his girlfriend let him when he ****ed that girl instead.
You only live once Ben come on don't you remember?
Isn't that what you told Dillon that November?
Isn't that what you told Brittney to convince her to take those pictures?
Is that what you told Ryan when he told you that his dick hurt?
You only live once, so don't try and live all at once.

Copyright © Benjamin Larson

Details | Rhyme | |

Growing up and getting old

Growing up, and getting old

They're growing old, so very old
Their bodies wracked in pain
Their minds are working all the time
Just old minds not yet sane.

He's growing up, and gaining wisdom
They're growing old and stale
They're still playing the same old games
Not floating on the now

He so quietly takes his pain
He knows that it's 'just life'
They curse and fight all of the way
Yet he, he feels no strife

Cause he is growing up [not old]
He flows with all that is
While they grow old in misery
He grows up, with bliss!

27 September @013 @ 0705hrs.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Light Poetry | |

Old Man

How are you old man?
Need a hand? Crossing the street?
I bet one day you were a lot like me
Young and carefree

Young man this is true
I was young and a fool, just like you
I may need a hand across the street
But my mind is working, wisdom's missing in youth

So the young man so full of brim
Led the old man to the other side
Smug and taunting, at the old mans cane
Thinking I am young and invincible, not old and weak

On the other side of that busy street
The old man smiled, thinking, he used to be me
He tipped his hat, and said his thanks
The young man laughed, don’t stumble and fall old man

As the young man turned to walk away
He gasped and held his chest tight
As he tumbled head long into the ground
Confused as life seemed to leak away

The old man rushed to his side
Mouth to mouth, breathing life
Into the ungrateful little soul
He saved his life that eventful day

The old man was a doctor long ago
The young man survived from this old mans hand
Compassion was the champion of that fine day
The young man is now a doctor

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | Didactic | |

Spoon And Salt

            Spoon And Salt

Once there was a path that led here to this most perfect spot
Measured by good intent I found my way again
Laid out on this very table were the spoon and salt
No great significance attributable to this matter
Nor as much as might be found in an ordinary grain of sand
No master plan, just a simple particle 
Explained in simple manner
Comparing one to the other  
Salt being the lesser thing to think about 
The spoon was made of pewter and silver elements
Passed down by many fingers through the ages
The salt was made of salt, because it is salt, that is all
There is no place on Earth I would rather be to be at peace
Here in this most perfect spot in history
In this moments tranquility
At this very table with no person, place or thing
Spoon and salt remain my favorites

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Concrete | |

Collective Recognition

Modern day Empire
The same as old,
Man doesn't really have time
Just Inventions and different clothes. 
Still craving our nature the two split purpose,
Consumption and reproduction
All else is conjuring vanity, 
An evolving Microchip of lost perception, a tinted clarity.
Yet we entrapped ourselves into a diamond cast,
Being compounded by every grasp that meets ear, eye and touch. 
Never forget the truth bearing lust, 
that feeling of inner-ness that splinter-hair precision awareness 
And ask the question you've subconsciously locked away
Why are you being and what are the aims? 
And then at that moment your shell will fall apart 
so remind yourself of the real truth the binds mind and heart, 
and roam among your ancestors in the lyceum of endless fascination 
in one's mighty reflection and complacence.

Copyright © Paul Knight-Kirby

Details | Lyric | |

I have loved it all

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.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

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 | Ballade | |

Great to be old

Great to be old

Old age don’t mean a thing at all
It’s great to be alive
Each new day it gives me joy
To know I still survive
My body might be filled with pain
But the sun still shines above
And the birds up in the trees 
Still sing their song of love.

I’m seventy one, and just a bit
And I don’t give a damn
I’m growing up, not growing old
Although I’m not a lamb
My heart is young, I sing my song
With so much melody
Each day that comes to touch my soul
I am so glad to be.

I don’t believe in death at all
So that don’t worry me
I’ll live until my shell does fade
And then my soul will be
Floating in the deep blue sky
Cause I’ve finished with this story
And then another one may start
May bring me grief, or glory.

21 May 2014 @ 0810hrs.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Free verse | |

The Trip to Paradise

 On the galley I stood. I could see, a shadowy figure,
wearing a black dress and a hood.
 It’s stories I have heard. Legends of a lifeless captain,
his boat and his bird.
 Fifty-four I was, till the lifeless captain took me in
his masterpiece, his work, his canvas, a sea made entirely of us.
 Wifeless, lifeless, colorless. I was sure it wasn’t alive, 
he or she, it, moved like a puppet, soulless.

 Whilst waves of memories hit the prow, the figure proceeded to say:
“These memories are you,
your friends,
your family,
I, and where you lay.”
 The sentence was punctuated by a loud, distant-yet-near screech.
 A black crow with a silver-like beak could be seen by my curiously intrepid eyes.
 We reached the docks, and the figure left me beneath the cloudless skies. 


Copyright © William Nickerson