Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Old Poems

Below are the all-time best Old poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of old poems written by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Old Poems

Search for Old poems, articles about Old poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Old poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Old Poems
Read Old Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Old Poem | |

Where The Sycamore Grew

The house seemed smaller, now seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared

But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet much the same

There was an unfamiliar young child's tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...

Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives..... 
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
            ...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
                       ...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes....
Yes....it is all still there, in the little yellow house

Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...


                                         ++++++++++++++++++


Details | Old Poem | |

I want your SEEDS

**"And his name was Jack"**

No one perceives what abides above the clouds. 
A giant, a harp, maybe golden eggs. 
I demand to see and feel, before I believe. 
A castle, a dream…. I want the magic beans!!!
~~~


I'm the daughter of a farmer. 
I have a donkey to ride, a story to tell.
“Jack and the Beanstalk”; my favorite tale. 
 
Once upon, a morbid dawn. 
I inhale a tiny simple yawn~ I levitate like the sun. 
I head out the door, towards the markets shore.
I grabbed my ass to stroll along the open path. 
My shoes aim out to the nearest creek. 
My ass and I desired a drink. 
There I saw an old Englishman, sitting on a log. 
It looked as if time was approaching his brink. 
In his hand, he had a sack.
A bag, a bag, embroil of ivory and black. 
His eyes were not from this ground. 
His body fragile, he uttered a moaning sound.
He was of dirt. 
I was pure. 
He pledged his life to me. 
I debated.... with many thoughts, 
Although his eyes... 
My eyes... Will never meet again.
I want what is in the bag!
He said, "I'll give you anything for that ass.
My legs and bones can’t hold up on their own, no more!”
I knelt down to where he sat. 
Smelling his essence of rot. 
I reached forward and grabbed his only baggage. 
He said, "This bag is all I got!" 
 
I answered, "And this sir is a fine ass." 
He replied, "I have no cash." 
Scowling at him, “No I want your demon seeds!" 
How my blood grew thin... 
Inhaling and exhaling out his sin... 
The old man all shriveled and timeworn, 
Propose the birthright of the seeds. 
Yes, plant them! Plant them... 
I cried excitedly! 
He pats the field. 
Said there I am done. 
Now clock as it expands. 
 
To breed this story short... 
He dispense his seeds. 
AND, I GAVE HIM MY ASS. 
 
 
Lol...  BY;PD    (for seed contest)

Details | Old Poem | |

Sailing the Seas In A Pecan Tree

The wind billows out from the seat of his britches
With determined eyes, skinned knuckles and knees
He climbs up the rails nailed from old cedar pieces
To the uppermost yoke of the old pecan tree

He is Captain on board, in pretend salty breezes
From his perch in the bird's nest, the world in his view
A small town boy, who has never seen oceans
In the happiest place, where a boy's dreams come true

While the cornstalks stand duty, wavy pumpkin vine waters
He breaks off a branch and a sword fight ensues..
He says "Tally Ho...Land Ahoy!!" to his crew
Dogs are barking below, and he shouts out a warning
There are sharks all around, so his shipmates must heed

He is Master Commander, the ruler of nations
He dreams of adventure from his loft in the tree
As he watches the clouds sail across a blue sea
Till his mother calls him in, for his suppertime leave
          
                              ~
               Well, little boys grow, and a childhood will fade
               The leaf of the pecan, no longer holds shade 
               Now a stump of the tree, is all that is left
               Yet the memory still thrives, so deep in his breast

               When the weight of the world comes tumbling down
               He visits this place with the stump in the ground
               The rings wrap around him, to take him aboard
               To the place of his childhood, a place he adored
               
               Tonight he will sleep in a bed of contentment
               In his bunk he will dream of his loft in the tree
               Tomorrow he'll climb up the steps to his vessel
               Tomorrow he'll be where the eagles fly free....







...........................................................................................................


-

Details | Old Poem | |

The Old Painter

 
sublime my paintings, memory be
lost in time, I now must see

where once the gale winds trembled chill
wrapped in blankets, remember still

a touch, a kiss, the summer sun
from deep within, must now be spun

I frolic to and fro in time
my brush, alas..... can only mime

I still can hear cicada's whine
but yearn for yellow celandine

tho memories fade, my spirit thrives
aflush! my paintings will survive!

Details | Old Poem | |

The Old House

Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.

Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.

The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.

Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.

The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.

I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.

Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.

The house my children grew up in.

Iambic Pentameter  
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
2nd
Best of 2014  1st place

Details | Old Poem | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Details | Old Poem | |

Time Travel

-In-between Worlds-

Letting go of all the space in between
the reality
the cloud
A theme, that use to be 
---Now dead
Long gone before I woke

Sadly Today's my birthday 
So here I am singing a song
All ALone
Happy Birthday to myself

Love PD

Details | Old Poem | |

Grandpa

 


The old man sat with eyes closed, dozing in his chair
Until a little voice he heard say “Grandpa, are you there”.

He gazed upon a little boy while waking from his nap
Then reached down with a sweeping move and placed him in his lap

The child was carrying a book that he wanted him to see
He held it up and  asked him “Grandpa, will you read to me”?

The old man cleaned his glasses then opened up the book
And suddenly the two of them a wonderous journey took

They ventured lands so far away, sailed seas not sailed before
Met knights and kings and wizards on every distant shore.

Together they fought dragons, saved damsels in distress
Freeing lands of monsters and the treasures they possess

When the old man closed the cover to end their magic ride
He told the boy “We're much like books, what's important is inside”.

But one day when the boy arrived and rushed to Grandpas chair
Much to his disappointment, his Grandpa was not there

He ran to find his mother for surely she would know
Why the chair was empty, where did his Grandpa go

She sat him down and asked him if he remembered in each book
The adventures and the journeys that he and Grandpa took

He took you there to show you the things that you can find
The wonders that are yours to see if you open up your mind.

But he still walks beside you in the stories you have read
You're not left to go alone, he’s just gone on ahead

The child then went and chose a book and climbed up in the chair
And opening up the cover whispered “Grandpa, are you there”?

Details | Old Poem | |

Where The Heart Resides

Like open arms
These broken gates reach out to me
And lead me to the lonely house
That overlooks the sea

Her door once proud and stately
Now splintered hangs in shame
As she realizes no longer can she
Keep out the wind and rain

I look into her beautiful
Sad and haunted eyes
These windows to her soul
Where alone she waits to die

Her rooms I see before me
Stripped naked raped and bleeding
And somewhere from within them
I hear her softly pleading

She beckons me to enter
I cross her threshold timidly
And suddenly an old familiar feeling
Comes washing over me

The floorboards squeak beneath me
As I move slowly down the hall
Tip-toeing through the paper roses
All withered on her walls

I step into her parlor
With tears falling from my eyes
As precious memories carry me
To the place my heart resides

I see her in her former splendor
Dressed in satin and old lace
Crystal chandeliers reflect the light
And caress her lovely face

French doors open to the fields
Where once I used to play
Make believe in lands of dreams
On sunny summer days

Silky curled beside the hearth
Purring softly as she sleeps
I caress her so tenderly
As my heart falls at her feet

The air is filled with music
As grandma strokes the keys
The aunts and uncles all join in
And sing in harmony

We take our places at the table
Laid out in fine bone china
We bow our heads and thank the Lord
For all the ties that bind us

Grandpa carves the giant turkey
Grandma brings the platters
We fill our plates with food and mirth
And an endless stream of chatter

And when the moon hangs overhead
In a soft and velvet sky
One by one we take our leave
With hugs kisses and goodbye’s.

I love you Grandma
I love you Grandpa
Rings into the night
And once again in my world
Everything is right

I close the door behind me
I say my last farewell
As I hear her take her final breath
In the trill of a whippoorwill

                    ~~~~~
Author:  Elaine George

My first entry on Poetrysoup  - Feb. 2, 2006

Details | Old Poem | |

THE OLD OAK TREE


         Oh I am but a simple leaf
         withering within the gutter
         one summer of bliss
         now! Just an autumn flutter.

                   For some; destine to fall
                   upon stony ground, a part
                   of life’s infernal gyration.
                   Yet for those that fall
                   within your reach, to live
                   on within your soul!

         While limbs that stretch
         towards the solstice, create
         vivacious veins as channels of hope,
         a pledge of foliation continues
         to endure what spring has
         furnished; autumn expires. 

                   Yes! If we can but learn
                   from nature’s complex simplicity,
                   that life be of a cycle
                   from the seed we are conceived,
                   then let spring be my beginning
                   winter my exultant eve!

         Let our two cultures
         merge as one, the
         decomposed humus
         to become the sustenance;
         our transfusion the
         new beginning.

                   Let us breathe the
                   fragrance of born again;
                   let each slender limb,
                   stout body bear our
                   tenaciousness, each lyrical
                   leaf our life’s blood.

          Let us mollycoddle each
          precious tear that falls from a
          angry sky; dance gracefully
          upon the wind, embrace
          on moonless nights, bathe
           in summer madness.

                   Let us hear the bluebell call,
                   the daffodil pray, the apple
                   blossom bear witness; the
                   clamour of the field mouse
                   the pitapat of the butterfly
                   the silence of lovers in love.

             Let us be sanctuary to the
             symbolic songstress, scuttling
             squirrel, vulgar urchin;
             a fortress for the warrior
             a haven for the pacifist
             an inspiration for the poet!

 EPILOGUE 

                  The call of springtime
                   we will invoke,
                     logging representative
                      we will gladly choke;
                        nature’s guardian.
                          “This! Obliging old oak.”

Copyright Harry J Horsman 2000


        

         








Details | Old Poem | |

Goodbye Old Friends

Friends come and go, but some have passed me by
as swiftly as the sun that lights my days.
They wave goodbye; I give a little sigh.
It seems I barely had them in my gaze.

Sweet friends I knew from youth. Where have you gone?
My bonds with some of you I felt were strong.
But journeys that we each embarked upon
divided us, and now I write this song.

Its lyrics tell the longings of my heart -
to see and be again with each dear friend
who knew me when and shared a special part
which cannot be retrieved nor has an end,
for memories are shadows cast by sun
which haunt me even when my days are done.


By Andrea Dietrich
For Giorgio V's A favorite poem of yours! (Old/New) Contest

Details | Old Poem | |

Aspects Of Winter

I wake to a world of tin,
white and pewter light enters my soul,
all is quiet, muffled, wrapped in cloud.
And the trees are no longer proud;
they are brown withered old women,
I have never seen them so before.
This season must be sacred
that it can drain the world of life.
How long can my heart survive this great freeze?
The sky, too, seems to be dying -
it is still and completely colourless.
Dolorous bells chime; they carry on the wind.
 
The world shivers;                                                                                                                                                            
the gutters run like rivers,
carrying, in their ice-curdled currents,
sweet wrappers, crisp packets,
and the mouldy stench of dead bracken.
There is an unfamiliar harshness in the air.
Raping the hill the wind's chill
gusts into my face, seizing my breath.
A flock of breathless leaves
assaults my body,
swarming like bees.
My five once-proud apple trees
are bunched and gnarled to five brown fists.
The brittle grasses rattle
and the hawthorn
proudly exhibits its prickles.
An orange spark unlooses itself
from a pile of burning wood
and ignites the colourless sky.
The flint light stares me down:
the icy iris of winter's eye.

Grey sky, grey river, two grey, drizzled walkers.
The last roses are over
and gardens are in their death throes.
The white light of winter dazzles me,
the wind gags me with my wild blown hair.
Sharpness shakes
on the needly boughs of the spruce.
I have your telephone number in my drawer.
It is the old dead bit of mummy cloth
of an old dead relationship,
coffined in its coldness.
There is a nobility to all this, an impressiveness,
in the face of it I am beaten small.
This I have to beckon me through the winter:
mud in ruts, and the frozen earth of March.
Meanwhile, amorphous clouds pass over
like souls.

Details | Old Poem | |

The Special Rose

She sits and rocks, so gently back and forth
Her chin leaning heavily on her chest.
In her hands she cradles, one flat waxed rose
And sighs as pain is swelling in her breast.

Her long grey hair, now tied up in a bun
Is what I see when entering the room.
I helplessly watch, her tear drops flowing,
They look like dew, upon the lonely bloom.

Slowly she looks at a picture nearby,
A glimpse of a smile creases her face.
Granddad with her, stand on their wedding day
With red roses, and a dress of white lace.

After the wedding, she said with a smile,
I took this one rose and waxed it back then.
Granddad had laughed at me wondering why.
I said, for the special memories when…….

And now this old rose, I hold in my hand,
Precious memories kept in my drawer
I pull it out remembering the day
When granddad loved me, and I loved him more.


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
11.25.2014
Contest: Encounters with Flowers 
5th

Details | Old Poem | |

BLISS

Ignorance is definitely a description of bliss
Look at Washington if you don’t believe this
They are never on target, they always miss
Their biggest decision is whose butt to kiss
We were told we were getting change
It looks the same, now ain’t that strange
The positions of the rich just rearrange
Take care of their own, they prearrange
Maybe I was hoping for something new
But what I see is the same old doodoo
Filling their pockets, screwing me and you
Spitting on the Red White and Blue
Society brainwashed, a robotic crowd
Entitlement minded, crying out loud
Sorry boys, no thinking allowed
Socialism will make you proud
They say they will make the country strong
But I’m watching now and see the wrong
Change has been coming for oh so long
But you are still singing the same old song
Bliss isn’t living off a government check
Being a dependent, a financial wreck
Ready to sail but no one on deck
Living with a noose tied around your neck
Bliss is different for you and me
A pursuit of happiness and being free
Earning a living, the right to be
Productive members of a society.

Details | Old Poem | |

Cover Band

I've heard all these great songs before
Always getting me out on the dance floor
The rhyme and rhythm is so out of sight
Making me want to take you home tonight

All are well written, and sing to the ear
Every note perfect, polished and clear
We sing along, for we all know the tune
Still getting all the young ladies to swoon

Play something fresh, not scratched and old
Make it original, dynamic and bold
Make it a favorite, the new song that I love
Write me a winner one you are proud of

Boy, I really dig the way that you sing
But I'd much rather, hear the real thing

Details | Old Poem | |

This Song is for my Mother

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
I couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
A song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created and cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Memory of a mother
Shared my dreams and really cared

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Mama…
I know I wasn’t there……

For you

Would have placed 
A magic carpet 
‘neath your weak and shaky legs

Would have raised
A strong west wind
Let you breathe with ease again

Would have bribed 
God’s venal angels
Come and soothe your endless pain

Would have vanquished
All the demons
And bring peace to you again

Be the child
I never knew
In a land
We won’t grow old

Be the light
I always loved
Warmed my dark 
And lonely soul

Be the girl
Playing games
In a world 
The sun won’t set

Be the laughter
Calms my heart
I never will forget
I won’t forget, won’t forget

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
Couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
Song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created….cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

I broke my promises, oh mama
Now you’ve gone away 
I’m broken
Drowning in the pain each day

I’m  drowning…drowning...drowning…drowning

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me…….



Details | Old Poem | |

Forgotten Valentine

An old house I am led to -it is the symbol of Memories in cobwebs - like those of old lost love. A storehouse for so many things buried in my mind. I open up its creaking door to see what I might find. Lovely notes of music come wafting down its stairs So poignant is its melody that my poor heart tears. It brings to me the image of one afternoon When I walked with someone in summer by the dune. I listen to the tickling of the ivory Picturing two people splashing each other by the sea. The music now is drifting to me soft and low. I see the setting sun. We’re bathed in crimson glow. Beautifully and slowly the notes keep being played. In the arms of my old Valentine rhythmically I’m swayed. The keys of the piano now are pounding fast. In the moonlight he and I are making love at last. Finally the keys are played as if they were caressed. And a bitter sweetness swells within my breast. Slowly creeping up the stairs I go to learn the truth. Who has played this long-time buried memory of youth? On the old piano’s bench, I see an imprint lies, And I think I can hear my phantom lover’s sighs. Forgotten valentine, will you please return And play again that melody of love for which I yearn? For the Incurable Romantic Poetry Contest of Kim Morrison

Details | Old Poem | |

Just an Old Memory

She’s just an old memory of a younger man’s dreams
An image of love hard to find
I can still see her eyes, taste the joy of her lips
In the deep recesses of my mind
Hair that was flowing, a smile that was glowing
An angel with earthly charms
Felt her heart beat in the tropical heat
Got lost in her loving arms
Sometimes I wonder if it was only a dream
An old sea story that I told
But I remember those eyes like a radiant beam
A treasure greater than gold
I wonder now if she waited on shore
With the fire in her heart still burning
And I wonder if there were tears in her eyes
Realizing I would not be returning
She’s just an old memory that haunts me today
A storybook love affair
A blanket, a beach and two bodies entangled
On a tropical island somewhere.

Details | Old Poem | |

What Lurks Within

What Lurks Within

I picture in my mind an old colonial room,
With a door to the garden where my flowers can bloom.
 
A window in the back to see the main house,
A leaky roof and the scurry of a mouse.

Mold on the floor and old bricks in the wall,
And a door in the back to the main kitchen hall.

A stack of hay to the left leading out the front door,
To the gravel path that wraps around to the front porch.

The smell of moisture in the air so damp and so cold,
I can get some water and try to scrub up the mold.

A mat by the door to clean off my boots,
I can get into the car to start my commute.

So much I can picture for this small place,
Nothing to hold back my imagination, but space.


-For Seren’s What Lurks Within Contest

Details | Old Poem | |

Eleven Words

A busy road.
A tree stump.
An old man.

Everyday at eight 'o clock
He sits there, cane tapping
just watching cars go by--
I among them

Such a lonely man
I say to myself

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Same old man.

He looks up, cane twirling
and smiles at me
in that split second
I smile back

A roadside friend is gained.

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different old man.

Day after day
He waves hi--cane dancing
Smiling
I wave goodbye,
no time to stop

Same busy road
Same tree stump
No old man

I screech to a halt
Ask of his absence

Clutching
a piece of paper
found taped on his cane
I weep in my car
and send a prayer
of thanks
to my roadside friend

Eleven words
Changed my world.
"Thank you lady in the blue car.
You make my day."

Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different me.



Details | Old Poem | |

The Old Victorian

My great, great Aunt had a lovely old home, with many a wonderful story, hidden within its walls. A Victorian, architectural designers dream; vaulted ceilings, full of ghosts; where spirit voices sang of its splendor. What I remember most, were the sparkly door knobs; prisms reflecting the sunlight; beautiful rainbow colors, adorning her sitting room walls. The animated colors of her crystalline chandelier wove dancing shadows into the fabric. As a small child, I reveled in that light-play; how I loved her magical home.

Details | Old Poem | |

Alice through the Looking Glass

Now that the wicked witch has left the room….

Alice…in Never, Never Land, with clouded brow, and foggy mind, stares through the looking glass at the flames of autumn falling from the maples trees.

And…as she watches this ballet of little fluttering fairies in flaming gowns of crimson, amber and gold, she REMEMBERS…yes…she REMEMBERS… that world where she once lived.

She remembers a time so long ago… when with unclouded brow… she danced with those flaming fairies and laid down with them when they fell to the ground in the backyard of the house where she once lived with her mother, father, brothers and sisters. 

Where are they now, she wonders?

And in that moment….she sees their smiling faces and hears their laughter as the aroma of that magical autumn so long ago, returns obliterating the smell of antiseptic and death.

A smile slowly creeps across her weathered face as she realizes, SHE HAS ESCAPED.

BUT THEN…the door opens………………AND THE SPELL IS BROKEN, for the wicked witch has returned.  

TIME FOR YOUR MEDICATION, ALICE…she sweetly croons, as she pulls down the blind.


Author:  Elaine George
Written:  September 4th, 2014

Details | Old Poem | |

Elder Abuse

He sits quietly in the corner of the room
and dabs his face removing the blood that
still gently trickles down his cheek. Flinching 
from the pain he tries to be more careful.
He wants to ask but doesn’t dare, so he 
wonders, What did I do wrong? Running 
his trembling fingers through his grey hair, he
remembers, I only wanted a glass of milk.

                                     She grabs a rag and starts cleaning off the
                                     counter. As she wipes down the cupboard 
                                     she is still cursing under her breath. “Why
                                     did we have to take him, we can’t go out 
                                     anymore because we’re stuck here with this
                                     eighty five year old man who can’t even pour
                                     himself a glass of milk without spilling it. 
                                     With that she throws the rag loudly in the sink.

He wants to get up and go to his room, but he’s
afraid. It didn’t used to be like this, she used to laugh 
with me and we’d talk about when mom was still
alive. How many times we took the children so 
they could go away. Now she doesn’t even look
at me anymore without frowning. Maybe if I
just sit here quietly she’ll forget about
me. Maybe if……. Oh no, here she comes. 

                                     She puts her hands on her hips and as if
                                     he was five years old she scolded him over
                                     and over again. She’s so tired of telling the 
                                     old man the same things, but he just doesn’t 
                                     get it. She asks herself why the father she 
                                     loved so much had to go and get Alzheimer.
                                     She notices how he’s shying away and 
                                     protecting his head with his arms. 

He runs into his room afraid she could
slap him again, thankful that his door 
still has a lock. He hears her yell, 
“Just ask me when you want something.”
He stands leaning on his door and slowly
he slides to the floor where he curls in a ball.
Glancing around the strange room, tears
fog his eyes as he asks, “Where am I?"


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
12.14.2014

Cyndi MacMillan
Contest Name	I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems


Details | Old Poem | |

That Old House at the End of the Road

It stands on a hill overlooking the bay drenched in ocean spray
That cedar shake house where I used to live  high above the Fundy bay

A well trodden path leads from its door on to a winding road
Flanked by ditches where Morning Glories and  Sea Salt roses grow

That winding road comes to an end at the shore of ‘Evermore’
A magical place where seagulls soar above the ocean’s roar

Lavender walls rise high in the sky through a veil of  silver mist
Where the ocean shatters  and falls in pieces against those lofty cliffs

And  those footprints  I pressed so long ago still lead me to this day
To that old house high on a hill overlooking the Fundy Bay

It is a place  where the land bows down  to kiss the misty tide
Where rolling waves bring memories of the place my heart resides

                                          ~~~

                                  Author:  Elaine George


  

Details | Old Poem | |

The bougainvillea tree

It stood on the other side of the wall rooted firmly
for the white bougainvillea tree did not belong to me
Wondered why it always branched this side
paving my walkway with blooms of white

While I patiently waited for my rose bush to flower
it nonchalantly continued its year-long showers
Unbothered unfettered by the gardener’s reaper, it grew
in every direction, old branches shooting off the new

Assiduously each day I tried to broom them away
but they, like a mother’s kisses were always there
Falling softly like advices from an old friend 
they were fragile, paper-white, yet persistent

With gentle breeze they glide to me be it summer rain or spring
Innumerable, countless like God’s many blessings.