Writing Retirement Poems
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Strolling around town
At prohibited time
Ignoring the church bell sounds
While I see people hurrying
Down the sidewalk
On their way to work
Think maybe I'll find
Pen and paper
And have a coffee somewhere
Or maybe not
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen | Year Posted 2014
Creative writers are never given flowers while they still breathing poetry.
Biters wait patiently for the last breath to pay their respect and get paid with your work.
Claiming being sent by callings to keep the legend's work alive till infinity.
No doctor has the cue for this sick world.
But guess what we writers do care.
We keep writing spiritually we don't care.
Atleast i don't care, i know you'll be speaking my language with your theft.
Evidently i do share.
You are that invisible disciple i recruited to speak for me in my death.
It's the life of an artist who cares.
We don't seek recognition.
Recognition come to us that's why we endlessly spread.
We are angels with no wings heaven is closer to us we don't fly.
Paradise is home for holidays filled with dead writers.
An escapism from you hooligans.
Its a crime not a mime when you speak rhyme in my rhymes.
Thank God i'm still an infant in this poetry, i have a chance to fill up the grave you dug for me.
Your patience will have to patiently await my departure patiently.
I have enough time to unleash these constipated rhymes.
You think you got me.
I speak better in my rhymes like a machinegun tone spraying pee.
My skeleton is covered in mics louder i do speak rhythmic bones.
My skeleton is made out of cables transporting poetic stones.
My soul will be kept in your brain's museum.
There i said it.
Ye i meant it.
Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012
Kind eyes peer
out of pages
of grace replace
the sun-The sun
color --into his
cheeks and face
hints of roses.
my eyes as they
Obviously we have
met here before..
by this world
We come back
There could be more
So we are here
to watch and wait
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014
The carpet's paid for; God Bless the TV
It keeps us informed.
Cosy in our little room with the curtain drawn
one thing's for certain, we still have
our window on the world
Slowly we've slipped
Rarely, we fight, over which shows are good
You hold the remote,"It's understood."
Flip, flip, you change channels, searching
for a show with some meaning to you, while
I with books piled high beside me, sit oblivious-
searching for meaning in poetry
I battle with inadeqate words against
the TV's droning tune
Some night I'll write one that
shoots holes in the moon.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013
When I retire and start living
I am going to stop writing and just live
Live, live, live like Auntie Mame
Or, maybe I will write about living:
Drink margaritas – lime only
Walk on pristine beach – white sand only
Take three shots of espresso - Cuban only
Read love poems only by Neruda – NO WRITING!
Recite Shakespeare - the comedies only
Cook healthy vegan lunch and do cool yoga
Drink cocktails - with Stoli only
Listen to Andy Bey and Patricia Barber for hours
Have sequestered time - with the LOML
Eat healthy vegan dinner and train for something called a 5K
Watch sunsets for longer than one minute
Go to indie films, live theater, hip clubs
And dance all night with buff gay men in briefs only!
I wonder if that is what living will be like.
Copyright © Laura McCadden | Year Posted 2017