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 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

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.

Details | Old Poem | |

The Letter

"Dear Time"
Thank you for being patient, 
Thank you for understanding I'm human after all.
Forgive me for all the mischievous prank calls. 
Much of what I said and done, was out of fun.
Now, I sit on this rocking chair getting old.
Reminiscing over the beauty and honor it has been 
   Passing this land we call "EARTH."
Reminiscing over the beauty and honor, yes-------------- REMINISCING!
Sorry if I repeat the same beat a thousand times....
You see, I sit here everyday thinking this world is mine....
Trying not to forget, who I truly AM.
Every moment there has ever been or ever will be, 
Finally is taking a toll on every single feeling and memory.
Time, Yes------------------ TIME!
The wrinkles on my face will never describe how many birthdays I celebrate.
The wrinkles on my face are stories reminding my readers,
 Where I've been and come from.
How consistent, and fortunate I've been, 
Babbling about my past, present, and future; 
The only advantage of the word "TIME."
-- It helps fade hurting moments away--
You see, time is the essence of memories.
 
Dear Time,
"Growing from young into old, was not as easy as it sounds."
Please be patient with me... Wait..... I said that already....
Thank you for understanding what I’m going through.
Please just listen, please, be patient with what's burning deep down inside.
It's almost dinner time --once again, I mention the word "TIME!"
I'm not hungry right now, the food just isn't the same when fed through a straw.
Besides, have you seen the garments ''they'' have me wearing.
Never thought I'd live to see myself in old fashioned nightgowns.
Time, keeps adding silver to what used to be pretty reddish brown hair.
Time what have you done to me?
Please excuse if I can't work a remote or function the TV properly.
What has happened to simple technology, 
   When everything came with only "ON and OFF" buttons.
Try to understand what I’m going through, my legs never felt this tired before.
I can't seem to keep myself on the same path, 
I lose track of time when navigation issues on my own.

Dear Time, 
Take my hand, lead the way and understand I can't see as before.
Time, please allow the joy to take its time when my end is near.
Thank you Time, for all the loving moments we shared...
Thank you Time and please be kind and end my life with love.
End my life with love-----
End my life with love-----
Wait..... I said that already....

Dear Time, 
Thanks for having patience.

Sincerely Yours 
The Little Old Lady Across the Street

by;PD

Details | Old Poem | |

Bury Me In My Jeans

"I've rode the range now fer nigh on sixty years,
Brandin' dogies and ropin' them wily Hereford steers.
When I come to the end of the trail, I don't want no big scenes.
Boys, jes' wrap me in my hoss's blanket and bury me in my jeans!"

"I don't want you fellers carryin' on and bellerin' when I'm gone.
Jes' say a few kind words, git back in the saddle and carry on!
Think of me now and then when you're chewin' yer bacon and beans.
'Jes promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"

"Promise me you'll take good care of my faithful hoss, Old Dan,
And let him tag along on roundups on the range when you can.
I love cowboyin', but boys you know I ain't a man of means.
Jes' wrap this poor old soul in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"

"Buck, you kin have my scruffy boots and old sweat-stained hat.
Rusty, you take my saddle - Red, you kin have my 44-caliber gat.
Them's my worldly goods 'cept fer these jeans that's worn to smithereens,
But promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in them jeans!"

"I'd like to be planted on that knoll yonder 'neath that ponderosa pine.
If you kin scare up a preacher to send me on my way, that'll do jes' fine.
I've been a cowpoke since I was fourteen - I reckon it's in my genes.
Boys, promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved



Details | Old Poem | |

The Shadow of Me

It was a long time ago, in another age
Where the shifting of the wind
Knew where I began
A place so far away, 
Somewhere distant, in childhood country
Before the fog had set in,
Before time lost all trace of me

Where have they gone?
Those merry dancers with whom I played?
When we were queens of the carnival, kings of the parade?
Before being dethroned to mid-life corners
Hearing the music, without playing the drums
They tell me to take this age with grace
Yet everywhere I turn, is young

I'm still the same, I have not changed
I lived a time where love was wild and thoughts were too
With high regard, when eyes were glued
Now inside I'm torn in two...the old and the new
Trapped between this nowhere place
Myself and someone else
Until each barrier becomes a bridge...
Have I been shaped too square by passing years, to fit in circle's place?

My memory recalls those beautiful tomorrows
Now long buried in yesterday's ground
There are other ways to measure time
Besides growing older and graying hair
Recorded music fills the room
Left playing from an earlier time
When October skies showed fading traces
Of empty days and sad old faces
The "others" of whom I had no fear

Now those shadowed remnants from my past
Are stalking at my heels
Will somebody care to ask?   Will anyone need my mind?
Will they patronize, or just be kind?
Care enough, make me useful, give me value, call me beautiful?....
Not yet the age I'll someday be
Still, I feel the sting of losing me
How I ache for all those love songs
How I ache for someone needing, someone pleading...
For advice....for my worth, for an answer, will they want me?
How it haunts me.....Will they see me?
Touching me....reminding me of who I am................not just who I was...



Details | Old Poem | |

On The Moon

Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six

Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan

Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day

Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding

Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy.




04.11.2012
A-L Andresen :)  - A true story -

Details | Old Poem | |

Mackenzie Trail

When doves on evenings, calm and still, call out a hollow tone, They rouse a medley, old as time, so few have ever known. The whispered lines of its refrains resound of yesterday, In ancient tales and bygone trails that man cannot portray. I’ve rode and worked along a trail throughout my many years. I’ve heard the tales the sages tell of raging Longhorn steers, Of soldiers marching single file or mounted days on end, Of Indians, conquistadors and Rangers tracking men. Mackenzie Trail is not well known for time obscures its fame, But high regard is placed on it by those who know its name. Its story’s scribed in black and white, its remnants etched in stone, Its way was marked by sweat and blood, by grave and bleaching bone. The broad frontier that it traversed had yet to be surveyed And danger seemed to lie in wait at every turn and grade. From Fort Clark Springs to forts on north, it led Mackenzie’s men To risk their lives out on the trail, then brought them home again. A mound lies near Mackenzie Lake, where horse thieves met despair, For Rangers tracked their hurried trail and hung them then and there. And near a barn not far away, in Live Oaks’ blissful shade, The remnants of a camp still lie where soldiers often laid. I’ve rode the trail and damned the rock that cost my horse a shoe. I’ve crossed its draws that filled with rain and made my lips turn blue. Its rugged paths have tested me and all who’ve come this way, Yet, it remains my trail through time, my bond with yesterday. Mackenzie Trail will long survive, a monument to will, That I recall when I ride near on evenings, calm and still; When doves exclaim in harmony, their lonely, hollow tone And rouse the medley, old as time, so few have ever known.

Details | Old Poem | |

Alana Dulcita

Once in a forest, a long time ago, there dwelt a young maiden, bright, sweet and fair. Flowers she wore in her long wavy hair, and each day she’d vanish into gloaming’s glow. Alana Dulcita was this young maid’s name, a name that fell sweetly from everyone’s tongue. The townspeople loved her -both old and young, yet nobody knew from where the girl came. They only knew that, at the end of each day, with sun dipping downward into the west and sky splashed with colors Alana liked best, was when, as if magically, she’d slip away! “Where does she go?” all the villagers asked, “And how does she leave us so quietly that not even one of us ever can see? Has some kind of spell on our dear girl been cast?” Spell or no spell, the young maid had powers as into the woodland she fled and then donned a gossamer gown, hidden well near a pond surrounded by beautiful flowers. She peered into water after she’d kneel as a lovely face gazed back at her. In this perfect moment, what should occur but, like magic, the girl became real! Her filmy silk gown would blend with her skin, shrinking into a stem, and her face changed into petals till soon not a trace remained of the form that a human lives in. Alana Dulcita, her real self again, breathing lilacs’ and lilies’ sweet scent, would bow her fair face, a flower content, to repose by the pond with her kin. Awaking at dawn, renewed, she’d return to the town where they loved her so well, keeping the secret she never could tell of youth’s beauty for which humans yearn. She’d never grow old as long as she had a place of seclusion where she might go to water around which bright flowers could grow, for this is what kept the soul of hers glad! Never to marry and never to stay too long in one place, she’d always move on. Beloved she would be till the day she was gone. This, for Alana, was the only way. Alana Dulcita, where did she go when forests grew small and lake beds grew dry? Did the fair maid eventually die or is she still sleeping where bright blossoms grow?
Note: The name Alana means "the bright fair one" in Gaelic or "precious; awakening" in Hawaiian & "Beautiful dear child" in Irish/ the name Dulcita is Latin for "sweet." Written by Andrea Dietrich & Inspired by the "Reflections" Contest Sponsored by Constance La France ~A Rambling Poet~

Details | Old Poem | |

The Old Truck in the Master's Hand

The old truck hadn't been used in a while,
But it should be good for a few more miles.
Under the hood, the engine was rusty,
And the interior smelled faintly musty.
Assuming it would start--we all wanted to know...
When we put it in gear, would it actually go?
Someone called,"All the tires are flat".
But a little new air would take care of that.
Better get some fuel, since the gauge is on "E".
Wash the windshield, so the driver can see.
No problem to let it coast downhill to the mechanic's shop;
Next question:Are the brakes good enough to make it stop?
The truck was so bad, it had no heater fan.
But the Master Mechanic had a Master plan!
He took it to His shop for the needed repairs.
'Twas quite a long time that He kept it there.
He tinkered, and cut, and removed lots of stuff
Solving problems we had thought were real tough.
He put in new hoses, gaskets, and such.
What a joy to watch His skillful touch,
As He cut away the old to make room for the new.
Finally the day arrived when he was all through.
A great crowd gathered around the shop door,
To behold the new creation, there on the floor!
It was washed up, and pumped up,and all the fluids were filled.
Even the body He had been forced to rebuild.
Fresh paint;new tires;and the engine a'humming.
It was ready to face the world oncoming!
When flaws seem difficult to be fixed by man.
Stand back, and watch the touch of the Master's Hand.

                                                                                                      Charlie Pelota