Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?
Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace
More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry
Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage
Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience
Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing
In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby
She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II
Annie received little compensation
This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty
To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home
With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse
Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
A t f i r s t, a l a z i l y f l o w i n g r i v e r
Timeless warm glow of a summer’s day
In love with the world’s vibrancy
Inaudible, clock ticking
Safe in seeming endlessness
Each day a lifetime
Some wished away
Sweet life full
A n t i c i p a t e d
milestones fly past, too fast
Children’s years wax eternal
While ours accelerate quickly
Scenery outside the train’s window
Ever more beautiful, yet blurring, faster
© Thomas W. Quigley
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
"bag of bones"
I wonder if when you look at me
You can't bring yourself to like the vanity
Lost somewhere inside -
I wonder if beauty lives..... in you???
Poor old lady;
-perhaps you should not pass judgment
For one day
I might be
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2016
The void calls through gossamer veils and widow's peak.
Shifty-eyed now of necessity I lie, bone-wrapped
in rosaries black as my rheumy eyes, death speaks.
Uncomforted by down or velvet, role trapped
corseted, board stiff with age like calf skin vellum
peeled and bloodied by the dual edged knife of man.
The scene is set and I shall not whimper, as do some,
or call to God, or blame the fates of those whose clans
remain earth-bound, when I have left this mortal glade.
Pigment on canvass, linseed loosed, stretchers taut, displayed,
all of this, I've had a plenty, and been royally paid.
My life was art, and it was art that fanned my life's flame.
So, stretch me on the pine boards and lay my edges down;
monochrome me in umber, drench me in shades of brown.
Self Portrait See About the Poem
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2013
Bit Of Truth And Wisdom, Found In Old Age
At that age wisdom says life is a joke
consider blindness of other poor folk.
Stop to ponder why on earth we exist
you may just find giving on that big list.
To live well, love hard and thus procreate
easy to see easier to relate.
Living life together with your soulmate
should be a part of everybody's Fate!
Finding life is not about what you got
should be holding solid, number one spot
Tis more about life lived well and deeper
with one you found, knew to be a keeper
If long life, happiness is your great aim
if reaching not for it, you are to blame!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-16-2017
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
Ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide
grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passions now abide
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now, alone bereft.
Grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left:
beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide;
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now alone, bereft.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside.
Beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide,
we conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.
We conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passion now abides,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief,
ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012
This day I grow tired
and so incredibly weary.
My heart holds only dreams
of a Life unfullfilled
A Life not nurtured,
yet barely a glimmer
of the spirit that once was.
I do have memories of some things good
-not all bad,
But the fear that I am alone
is Like a fingerprint on my Life.
Shadowing, waiting to pounce,
always there, unshakeable.
It's the mirrors that hold me accountable
to my actions.
Proof positive that where ever I go
there I am,
Naked, vulnerable, and yes
As I try to allay this fear,
one Lonely and painful pluck at a time,
It becomes crystal clear, that I alone
am damaging my soul to the very core
with each stroke of my hand.
I steal one Last Look in the mirror
and know that I alone
have self inflicted these blues
Leaves me to ponder one question:
Will I ever allow myself the strength and grace
it will surely take to heal my scarred soul?
This poem was written in hopes of begining the healing process for my self. I
have a disease called trichiotillamania. It is an obsessive and manic urge to pull
one's own hair until baldness occurs. I'm a 48 year old woman, married(with kids
& grand kids)and have been doing this since the age of 5. It coincided with the
begining of my stepfather raping and torturing me which lasted until the age of
thirteen. This disease has me trapped and is NEVER letting me go. There are
two inflictions in regards to my hair pulling in this poem, one must know about
my disease in order to understand this poem.
Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007
The thinness of skin
blue veins and brittle stick bones
dreaming of budding branches—it lays loose
you've matched my desire
with phrases of burning leaves
flames—flaring gold, yellow and red
rheum fills my once clear eyes
but echoed memory guides me
through forests of fall
descending with feathered down
from empty nests
dulled and lifeless fodder for fire
forlorn as stalks of dry corn
still, I eye beauty—
voice symphonies of words
and build bonfires from
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
The strength of a man is not determined
By his muscles or his brawn
It is determined by his strength
To admit when he is wrong
The wisdom of a man
Is not determined by myriad facts
It is determined by the way
That wisdom is seen in his acts
The integrity of a man
Is not determined by his claim
It is determined by the reputation
That follows around his name
The love of a man
Is not determined by mere time
It is determined by each moment
That he makes you feel sublime
The sexual prowess of a man
Is not related to his size
It’s how he satisfies your needs
And what you see there in his eyes
The chivalry of a man
Is not determined by his manhood
It is determined by how he nurtures
You to revel in womanhood
The passion of a man
Is not his need to self-gratify
It is determined by how often
He makes the effort to satisfy
The wealth of a man
Is not seen in monetary things
But by those things that are free
That to your life he brings
The age of a man
Is not seen in the age life deals
But by the strength of his heart
And how young he makes you feel
The sweetness of a man
Is not determined by what he says
But it's determined by the fact
That you want him more each day
The humour of a man
Is not determined by a hurtful tease
It’s determined by how your laugh
When his words your heart please
A man is an awesome creation
That I’m determined to venerate
As Eve’s daughter much in love
This male wonder I celebrate.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
To gaze back upon footprints of my time
And see the prints so shallow fade away
As they dissolve and leave no trace behind
I'll hesitate to look beyond the day
While covered skin gains wrinkles I've measured
And hair once full is now a thin disguise
When standing straight is a moment treasured
I still smile every morning when I rise
When nothings real but passing time I live
And every deed pressed to my heart inlaid
I struggle with the things I must forgive
Before the mental photographs all fade
I'll watch the children of my heart at play
Before my footprints slowly fade away
Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2014
Watch this girl...
she has her eyes
on a rising dandelion
sprouted in high grass,
a pensive girl,
weaving her way through the fields,
looking past weeds to her future,
making her way through a maze
of thistle solitude, on Saturday afternoons,
down hallways and classes on Tuesday,
teacher and stranger and parent
expectation, she approaches
a destination beyond home,
clutching the flower
to her budding breasts
Keep your eyes on her...
she is residue of the mute child,
now entrusted with a knowing mind
and well worn shoes,
still clutching the flower
to her breast...
She peers through pages of old photos,
scratching through scraps of half-heard
some color and clarity
with a dim vision of the girl
that held a prickly spine
of a spent dandelion
with compromise and resignation
Unable to mouth a sound,
I wish to warn
each teacher, each mentor, each censor of the flame...
I want to shout:
"Watch this girl...
who held a weightless flame
of windswept dream in her eyes,
making her way,
mediating between her reality
and every longing she ever had...
Look back to this girl
who has always maintained
an unblinking gaze on the white star
of dandelion in her hand"
Submitted to PD's Contest : 101 In A Row #7
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
Original Poem - Dreams Still Grow
Once I felt the warmth of balmy spring...
breathed deep the scent of blossoms, fresh and pure...
I thrilled to sounds of songbirds in the air,
while sprouting blades of tender grass appeared.
Upon the dew, my seeds of hope were cast...
and dreams grew in the magic fling of spring.
Then later came the cold of winter's snow...
the scent of blossoms turned to musty dust.
Chant of restless wind soon filled my ears...
green tender grass, long grown, had gone to seed.
Still hopes lay buried deep in icy frost...
and bright, new dreams emerged to grow in snow.
Posted: 09/01/2015 for contest
New Poem - Dreams Have Grown
And bright, new dreams emerged to grow in snow,
for winter days are numbers on a page.
If body bends and mind is still aglow,
no reason to lay dormant neath the frost.
New hours, new days, new months to fulfill dreams;
continue on, each one a precious gift.
And winter is no time to dwell on death,
when life still sparks in every newborn morn.
So much to see, so much to do until
the time has come to know when done is done.
My hopes seemed buried deep in icy frost,
but bright new dreams have thrived in winter snow.
Sandra M. Haight
Contest: Famous Last Line
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Rules: Looking for a new poem, with the starting line being the last line from a previous contest entry. The poem you choose does not have to be a winning poem, just any poem entered.
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
I was born on the closing days of
The second World War
In a small village of north-west of Greece
Up on the mountains.
The country was devastated
After four years of occupation by
The Nazis and Fascists and
A civil war followed that lasted for
Another four years
Hundreds of thousand souls were lost,
Among them members of my family
The country was left in ruins
The hatred reigned as brother was
We were poor
Scarcely had anything to eat
Having lost my father I had
No proper clothes
No proper home
Living in primitive conditions with
Lived close to nature that nourished me
With its wild fruits and roots
That I was finding climbing up the mountains
Or descending down onto the valley
Where I was running after butterflies and birds
My bear feet were kissing the ground
Winter and summer
Feeling the cold and the heat to the point as
To become one with the soil.
The animals were my friends, my companions:
Goats, sheep, pigs, cows, dogs, cats
But I had to be aware of the venomous snakes,
The cunning foxes the dangerous wolves.
The nights I was looking up to the clear sky
Admiring the brightness of the stars
So close to God for the first time myself I found
As I was caressing with my eyes the galaxy
That crossed the horizon from mountaintop to mountaintop.
The nights when there was a full moon I could see
As far as the eye could reach and I was happy although
My rebellious stomach could not let me sleep in peace.
Left the village just before my twelve birthday went
To Athens, the capital and later on to Canada where
I lived, worked, studied and taught.
Stayed there for twenty years,
Have traveled around the world:
Europe, Asia, America, Oceania
Then back to Greece where I live
Writing and taking care of my roof garden.
Now, retired at seventy-two, look at the world as it is
Compare it with the world of my childhood and
Have the impression that have lived for centuries
Since the world at present, as far as technology is concerned,
Is light of years ahead of the world of my village at that time
But at the same time the world today seems to have lost
Its innocence, part of its humanity and certainly its
Contact with nature and worst of all for most of us with
Its inner divine self!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
26 March 2017
* This is my 1500th poem. I would like to thank all of you who have
supported me with your comments, ideas and love for without you
it would have been impossible to keep writing for five years here at
the soup. Of course always are some who try to harm someone and
not to help but even these few people I thank!
May the Good Lord keep all of you healthy, inspired and happy!
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2017
As some people age
they become like bonzai –
cut off from their roots,
trimmed of most interests
they sit before a window
and wait in a small container
of remaining years.
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2017
Many years ago, when we were all young,
We really thought life, would be so much fun.
While playing dress-up, trying on mom’s stuff,
Putting on make-up, we found to be tough.
Then came our schooling, and boy things would change,
“Those aren’t our parents”, when they acted strange.
Sometimes they were hip, but old-fashioned too,
That’s something I swore, I would never do.
Wishing you were older, adults had it made,
They would do nothing, yet still would be paid.
That is how little, we all had known,
We surely found out, once we were grown.
Loving the twenties, we’d go out with friends,
When we went shopping, we followed the trends.
Doing what we wanted, and staying out late,
It didn’t matter, what time we all ate.
Then came the thirties, and most of us wed,
Watch what you wish for, my parents had said.
We had to work hard, many bills to pay,
I guess they were right, what more can I say?
Raising your children, was hardest of all,
Needing some advice, your parent’s you’d call.
It seemed so easy, they needed no rest,
So now it’s your turn, you learned from the best.
The forties arrived, that was a shocker,
We’d spend lots of time, just at the doctor.
Back aches and headaches, so tired you’d be,
Trying not to cough, or else you would pee.
The fifties would come, and your grandkids too,
Where were your glasses? You hadn’t a clue.
You searched here and there, and under the bed,
“Hey grandma” they laughed, “They’re right on your head”.
Here come the sixties, now let’s have some fun,
You are retired; your work is all done.
To dinner with friends, you dressed and you wait,
They never show up, you have the wrong date.
Now the seventies, with friends playing games,
If only you could, remember their names.
You try hard to hide, those under-eye bags,
Gravity happens, and everything sags.
Enjoy every day, and have a good laugh,
All the steps you took, led down a new path.
Live life as it comes, each year a new page,
One thing is for sure, everyone will age.
Copyright © Kelly Zakerski | Year Posted 2009
Bob had been a lonely man ever since
His wife of fifty years had passed.
“Lord, let me join her.” he would pray.
“Let this day be my last.”
Each day, he went to the cemetery,
Just a short walk down the street.
After their talk, he would water her flowers
And hear passers-by whisper, “How sweet.”
One gray and misty morning,
He had hoped for sunnier skies
To plant fall bloomers at her graveside;
But there, to his surprise…
Stood an old dog beside her stone;
Thin and dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as Bob approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as Bob planted flowers,
Carefully sniffing each one Bob put in place.
Then, after the last one was planted,
He sniffed it; then turned and licked Bob’s face.
Bob smiled. “I had a dog when I was young…
Pal…he was a mighty good one too.
So, if you don’t mind old fella,
That’s what I’ll call you.”
Pal may have been an old dog,
But he was smart and handsome in his way;
So they made a deal, Bob would give him a meal
And a bath, if he decided to stay.
Pal loved his bath, then rolled in the grass.
He slept on a blanket in the den.
In the night, he dragged it next to Bob’s bed.
He intended to be Bob’s best friend.
Pal was such a good dog, housebroken too;
Never made a mess or got in trouble.
He knew about newspapers, slippers and Frisbees;
And when Bob called, he‘d come on the double.
Yes, Pal gave Bob’s life new purpose.
A special bond of friendship was cast.
And never again did Bob pray,
“Lord, let this day be my last.”
For twelve years, the very best of friends,
Together night and day;
And so it was, until one evening,
Pal quietly passed away.
Bob held Pal in his arms and wept.
“Oh, Pal…my best friend…you saved my life.”
He caressed Pal as he reminisced;
Then, sometime in the night, Bob joined his wife.
The next morning, an old woman,
Tears welling in her sad and lonely eyes,
Brought fresh flowers to her husband’s grave;
But there, to her surprise….
Stood an old dog beside the stone,
Thin an dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as she approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as she took old flowers
And put fresh ones in their place.
He carefully sniffed the fresh ones,
Then, turned and licked her face.
She smiled through her tears.
“I had a dog when I was young...
A good one too. His name was Pal.”
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
If you are 50 and you are naked
Make it a poem and not a photo
A poem we see your inner beauty
A photo we see out of warranty
A poem we see you’re giving spirit
A photo we see your sagging dreams
A wilting flower is majestical poetry
On paper is part of a suicide note
A naked mind will melt hearts young and old
A naked old man will scare away the scare crows
No one wants to see grandma naked
Not even poor old grandpa
But we will love her all the more
For chocolate chip cookies and loving hugs
You however my princess
At fifty x three, lovely and naked just for me
And I will love you to the very bone
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Now that am older
I seek more answers
In the same manner I did
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing
I seek answers to understand our family dynamics
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,
Is some of the descriptions
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate
I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren,
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat
Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother)
Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015
Little Blue Bird of rain.
Rain, rain go away
Little Blue Bird of Rain, needs to shine again
In her version the sun dried, up all her tears
Leaving hurtful rain inside the bird
Destructive past sudden cheers
Waking up to empty words
When abandoned by her peers
Just not knowing what had just occurred
Drowning herself in a life of Jane Doe.
Never know who she really is
When all she loves hanging her lowest moment
The rain brought out Mary-Jane.
As the bird lost its glow.
The rain tricked her once to use Cocaine.
As her feathers met that one Joe.
He broke her wing and brought more Rain.
Very young, very sweet.
Living her life in the fast lane.
Hard for her to stand on her feet.
Balanced her life on one leg, like the crane.
Curtains hang over her wings.
While she let no one near her domain.
While she flies through the heavy rain.
She finds her comfort with a pen.
Using the lords name in vain.
Cursing all her backstabbing friends
With no one around to explain?
All the sorrow left her on a railroad track.
Ending up like the runaway train.
Only she can get her life back.
If for myself I ever felt pain?
I felt more pain at what she wrote about.
In my face on my left side
Your poetry comes to life in my head.
Visions of her wanting to be dead.
Oh! How I wish this life she did not dread.
You hide the tears you shed so well.
A life with balls you cut the chains.
You diss, Your parents to go to hell.
Little Blue Bird of Rain, don't let them fools drive you insane.
Little Blue Bird of Rain.
If a sparrow could show you,
There is more to life than pain.
Under the umbrella, the sparrow would cover you.
No one wants to see her colors drain.
What a world to master her feathers into art.
The gift of words runs through her vein
The paintings on her wall.
A dream of a bad seed of grain.
One day our Little Blue Bird will stand tall.
To free herself from all the Rain.
To: Rain aka- Joy Loveless
Our sweet 16-year-old
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
When I was only five
Heard mommy always's say
Angel keep being naughty and you won't make it to
Entry for Adam Hapworth's
Captcha Acrostic Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2013
This is a decade that many wonderful things happened;
I was born, the reign of hard rock began,
Michael Jackson began to moonwalk, Cars became smoother
on the road, Cold War reigned, and also a time that soul music
massaged our souls and emotions.
This is a decade that never dies. People who were born
and lived in the 80s still live, the music still exists in hard-drives,
teenagers have immortalized the fashion sense, and
my yellowing birth certificate still lives on, with one piece.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2015
As we step closer to our final door,
when words succumb to days of restless sleep,
and dance retreats into a stiffened creep,
I wonder, will you love me even more?
For I will answer with my final breath,
that I will love you more on coldest night
as outer beauty dims to inner light
when aging hands entwined do embrace death.
Tis easier to love in summer heat,
while springtime of our love does not yet slip
from thoughts and dew still moistens our warm lips.
Our June days liven blooms beneath our feet!
But autumn days will fade to wintry snow
as surely as my love for you will grow.
For Mystic's How Do I Love Thee? Contest, 2/22/16
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2016
A lonely tree stands in a field
Branches entwined in one
And as those branches come to life
They reach up to the sun
This tree with all it's energy
just like a woman so it be
It's branches swaying in the breeze
just like a mother's offspring, these
And so the lonely tree does age
The human kind out living
But we all end up just the same
Our flesh to earth be giving
And thus our lives all end the same
No matter what we be
Some have long lives, some much less
In life's sweet mystery
Copyright © Vera Duggan | Year Posted 2014
Once again, the powers that must
In rise again in what we trust
An overseas conflict, another war
Just what in the hell are we fighting for
Families are asking, Korea has just passed
Generations again reft, how long will it last
A country in need, to rebuild again
Flags at half mast, in wind and rain strain
Once again into war, sent by the Washington Post
To send back reports to hit home the most
Military observers were the first to be sent in
Another chapter of man entering existing sin
I'm witnessing our ariel power, Lam Son 719
US planners determine their incursion, saying all will be fine
Along the Mekong River, we'll carpet bomb their supply trail
Tons of munitions and napalm, this spread surely cannot fail
Many sorties are being flown, for the wounded and the dead
Whilst Nixon and his cronies, aren't thinking with their heads
The news of losses has reached me, nineteen have been killed
Eleven missing, fifty nine wounded, more American blood spilled
Seven fixed wing aircraft, more sons in action loss
Whilst back at home more protests, fading the dyeing's gloss
To to this job that I do, I was never prepared for this
To witness such bloody scenes, and ignore that life is bliss
How can I write about a soldier, whose name I'll never know
Killed at nineteen years old, his family he'll never see grow
Or even explain to his parents, when carried from the AH-1
His body bullet riddled and limp, when lifted it bloodily run
I never went back to the theatre, called the Vietnam War
Having witnessed the wanton killing, what were we fighting for
This colonial conflict that started, us on the side of France
So many came back as strangers, many to live in trance
James Fraser's entry into the contest " WORLD OF WAR: VIETNAM "
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2011
Lost in the path of this dreadful life,
thinking of years that I spent in strife;
walking and thinking, what is ahead?
Living with pain, or dying instead.
Watching my shadow crawling below;
scared and contempt, and nothing to show.
My shadow darkened, by gloomy night;
Walking behind me, frightened from light.
He didn't know his nature was light;
he taught that he was, planted by night.
Awaiting until the dawn with breeze,
to make the shadow taller than trees.
Little by little the light of time,
made it so shadow reaching his prime.
The shadow started to sing and dance,
in the garden of the life, romance.
He was the young one, handsome and bold,
never thought there will be days of old.
Dancing with the drum, of joy and youth,
only the time will teach us the truth.
The morning turned into mid-day sun,
I was standing, but shadow in run.
He was in running, I was in chase;
I couldn't keep up, he lost the race.
He was blaming me, I got too old,
So much as my life, losing its gold.
The sun was setting, shadow got dim.
little by little got, pale and slim.
His height and his youth vanished so soon.
The sun left him, and keeping the moon.
What will happen if shadow is gone?
Should I ever wish, seeing the dawn?
Copyright © Pashang Salehi | Year Posted 2016
Oh graceless, Old Age,
Your unattractiveness the many despise
But your company they desperately seek
How else, could the magic of life, enjoy
If they were not among those you pick?
© Demetrios Trifiatis
10 January 2016
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2016
Commemorating the victories of self
The afflictions of life!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 NOVEMBER 2013
*Having read Andrea’s Dietrich: The Wrinkles Justifier, I commented that
I might be inspired to write on Wrinkles. I kept my word! Thank you Andrea!
*Dedicated to all my fellow aging, young friends!
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
INPUT FNAME = 'Yoni'
LNAME = 'Dvorkis';
Var Hidden_Meaning = "SAS code is not meant to be poetry you nut job";
Where Age >= 4;
Var Worldview = Parents_Worldview;
Var Facial_Expression = compress('Fear'||'Bewilderment'||'Jews believe in guilt');
Set Child (Drop= Innocence, Baby_Fat, Cheerful_Disposition);
Where Age >= 15 and BAC_Level >= .01;
Var Worldview = (Peer_Pressure * 100) + Favorite_Teacher_Worldview
Var Hidden_Meaning = "Where are you going with this?";
Set Teenager (Keep= Anger, Intelligence, Need_For_Material_Wealth, Hatred_Towards_Body
Var Job_That_Slowly_Kills_You = "Healthcare Data Analyst and SAS Programmer";
Var Worldview = (Company_Mission_Statement + Family_Is_Most_Important)
Where Age >= 21 and BAC_Level >= .15;
If Yearly_Salary >= 100,000 then
Self_Esteem = "Now I'm worth something!!";
Else if 50,000 <= Yearly_Salary < 100,000 then
Self_Esteem = "I guess I should count myself lucky...";
Else if Yearly_Salary < 50,000 then
Self_Esteem = ______;
Var Hidden_Meaning = "Jeez, you're really laying it on thick with the salary stuff";
Where Age >= 65 and Yearly_Salary = "Whatever's left of Social Security";
Var Cynical_Being =
(Why_Did_It_Have_To_End_Like_This * Years_Hiding_In_Plain_Sight )
Proc sort data = Old_Man out = Old_Man_On_Deathbed nodupkey;
Merge Old_Man_On_Deathbed (in = a) God (in = b);
If b and not a;
Copyright © Yoni Dvorkis | Year Posted 2009
Tinge Of Purple Rests Within My Heart
Tinge of purple rests within my tired heart
Soft touches of a heavy old soul
Now pulling on my heavy empty cart
Often my world seems to be lumps of coal.
I heard thumps of acorns falling on down
That majestic oak sheds its little seeds
Old age has me feeling like a sad clown
Longing to ride again, runaway steeds
Tis winter! Culprit bringing its bleak cold
Seeds resting secure in the frozen ground
Spring will come and they rise out very bold
Yet again life comes right on around
Nature teaches us, all will be alright
Life and death matches just like day and night
Robert J. Lindley, 1-26-2016
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 107
1. My muse woke me at 4 am to write this.
I told her no but she nagged until I rose to
do the deed. I' tell ya , I want to strangle her
sometimes but then at other times love her to
2. The immediate repetition of the word "heavy" in verses two and three is intentional and used for effect, as both the old soul and its life's burdens are now currently found to be very heavy to bear. Poet's prerogative , norms be damned says I.
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016
As he sat on his old front porch gently rocking his swing.
His old mind a million miles away not really thinking on anything.
Staring into space he just let his old thoughts run free.
Wondering how he got to this place, all alone and lonely as could be.
Just killing time somehow became the daily norm.
Without someone to share your thoughts somehow life can take on a brutal
His children are all grown and they never come by.
They’ve got lives of their own was his reasoning as to why.
Was I this selfish, as he tried to recollect those memories from way, way back.
Maybe I was he thought as he tried to get his thoughts back on to track.
A tear ran down his old face as he got up to go back inside.
The pain was still there too hard for him to hide.
There was nothing left for him to prove, he was just an old man and this he knew.
Everyday played out the same as he longed for this day to be through.
His nights were quite short while his days seemed to never end.
As he sat down at his table and called out to Jesus his only true friend.
He said Father when You’re ready please take me home.
I’m tired of this heartache of living alone.
As he sat at the table he felt a sudden peace.
He felt his soul being lifted in its final release.
With angels all around him he ascended in flight.
Heading for heaven he’d be there fore night.
As he reached Heavens Gate there stood our Lord.
He said I’m sorry but you weren’t ready I know it was hard.
He said I know that you’re ready so please come on in.
There is someone that’s been waiting she is waiting within.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007