Middle Age Poems | Examples
These Middle Age poems are examples of Age poems about Middle. These are the best examples of Age Middle poems written by international poets.
A nation rainbow
It rained and rained, fine rain but persistent
mountains dissolved, and rocks turned into sand
When the rain stopped, a smooth landscape
of peace and camel dung
Before the deluge, people who had sinned were
stoned to death since this was no longer
Possibly the sinner had to eat a kilo of carrots
until they turned orange and
were not invited to dinner
or supervised at the supermarket
The authorities thought this was a good idea and
made a color program,
to better classify
left-wingers
and radicals, making them eat cabbage till they
turned green and could not hide their socialism
tendency and forbidden to enter posh restaurants
The government liked this so much that they decided to
Classify all classes, beetroots for the royals
deep yellow for the middle class, and potato peel
for the working class and pink for artists
Alas, people fall in love across the color barrier
Their children looked like rainbows and were impossible to classify
Therefore, the government declared everyone's
equals, but instead build bigger prisons
The Guardian
A glittering gig for Gaza
must have been great for the participants
From the middle drawer came
stars given a chance to gloriously dress
music, dance, and even poetry read
dramatic words, suitable attire, and
Don't forget how they applaud themselves
One does not like to spoil the party
But what difference does it make so late
in the day with a hundred thousand
dead children under ruins.
One wonders if the newspaper that
reported this feast, has a sense of shame
Wit
Where were you when I was arrested at a public toilet for drinking
of a flask of brandy- the man beside me was a police officer out
to catch people like me who needed a drink to survive the tedium of
living in a provincial town in the middle of a landscape of cows
Where were you during the court case when the judge said I was
a disgrace, a plague on the backside of humanity, drinking in public
It is a serious crime, the buffoon thundered, throwing the gavel at me
It hit a guard in the head, who was knocked out
Where were you when I had to run the gauntlet of jeering reporters
and people pointed me out in the street, and a hush when
I entered a café, and the waitress refused to serve me coffee
You went on holiday in Spain, drinking red wine.
Children of the Gaza,
How do you strive to survive?
Children of the Gaza,
Why aren't your struggles amplified?
Children of the Gaza,
Can you hear my voice?
Children of the Gaza,
Tell me, are you still alive?
Young souls, being killed everyday,
"Babies aren't meant to be here", they say,
There's a horrifying, terrified sound 2 year olds make,
Hearing the sound of planes.
Being fed water instead of milk,
Where has your baby formula been?
Being thrown bombs over your heads,
Is this how months olds are supposed to be fed?
Voices struck in their throats,
Bloody and hoarse,
Lost in the noise of destruction,
Panic attacks and starved stomachs.
What did they do to deserve,
To be born in the middle of the war?
A Newspaper
Once upon a time, the Guardian was a famous newspaper
it was democratic, to a certain extent, and readers are
invited to give their view, but with moderation and niceness
If not, they would politely ban the regressor
When the paper was famous, it was a bit left-wing, but always ready to see the other point of view
It was pro-Israel, defending Palestinian artists' rights
while overlooking as long as possible, the utter brutality
of Israeli politics against, say, Palestinians
The fact that the Guardian has been able to change is its
ability to alter its stands, yet holding to their journalistic
who are not left-wing, except for some of them who
Thanks to nature and time, they have wings.
Today, the Guardian is no longer a newspaper; it is more
like a color magazine dedicated to true sex stories shies
not away from lesbianism and what we now call gayness
It caters to a younger middle class, employed in, I think
show business, or the media, with titles like TV analyst
Or a researcher of AI, who will one day make all of them
out of work
When I get up in the morning, I drink a cup of coffee and
For entertainment, read the Guardian
every day and a sweet shop
On a plateau in the middle of nowhere, there was
a shop selling chocolate and week-old newspapers
I had no money, but in exchange, the man
accepted a hail of hay, the farmer gave when he
told me to go make my own bed, I had slept with
The milkmaid he had wanted for himself
as the evening gently fell over the desolate landscape
A horse came walking to the sweet shop that
also sell crossword puzzles and mouth harmonicas
It was the owner's transport, and he didn't like to stay
all night, asked me to take the shift, his main
The problem was all the rats that tried to break into his
shop, I could sleep on the kitchen table to avoid
being bitten
Nine, the next morning, he was back riding his steed
Monday morning
woke up at eight, it was a splendid morning
cool before the day becomes serious and
demanding attention
belonging to the 1% of people born before
the second world war, I'm often awake
in the night before falling asleep again
my first thought was not profound, but
about coffee, I had to drink it black since
I had forgotten to buy milk
switched on the computer, reading the news
scanned an article about the lack of sleep that
only spoke to the middle classes
to those who sit in nice offices filling in
forms and are unspecified planners of
something they think is important
not about building workers, or about those
who begin their day at six, shift workers
were overlooked, ditto the army of cleaners
a psychologist from Leeds had a word in
he had nothing relevant to say other than
He had a doctoral degree in sleep
not to be undone, an article about X that
was tendentious with no understanding
how important is it for our future
Dismayed, I went back to bed thinking
how idiotic the world is, full on self
important people and their tiny world
at the pharmacy
ome books in my bookshelf are unread
and can stay the way, I need not read
everything printed
depression hangs over the landscape like
dust on windows tells me the obvious
come clean me now
When finally going ashore, I had floated
like an ant on an oak leaf, I was baffled
electricity bills have to be paid
the pharmacy is open, but I will wait a bit
it is full of middle-aged women talking
about their illnesses
there had been a storm, pot plants
had fallen to the floor, the weather
is getting worse every year
the apothecary is empty. I walk in
to get medicine for diabetes, but
I no longer ask why me
Horn Music
In the late forties and middle fifties
horn music and military marches tunes
were often parlayed in the town's park
and we lived nearby and bore the brunt
of this noisy music
to complain was not easy as the music
was seen as an expression of freedom
chasing the German army out of our
cherished country, admittingly with
the help of the Russian army, the
British took the credit
Horn music is simply horrible to enjoy
the noise one has to be unmusical
one would think the noise had stopped
with the arrival of modernity, rock and roll
and Elvis Priestly, but no
I was invited in the eighties to read a poem
in Oslo. When my turn came to read
the horn orchestra struck up.
In youth, loves kindles, ignites flames bold
While two hearts dance beneath a cloudless sky
With soft gentle hands, in a "whimsy" he did mold
Two young bodies close in his last good-bye
In my "imagination, I can feel
And "dream" in "reverie" of our lost youth
Now at times, I cry about the raw deal
The fervent winds of passion gone, in truth
In aged eyes though not in "hallucination"
A steady warmth still flows from each sweet soul
Not from youth's passion nor middle-age station
Lows have made our life's love completely whole
At times "visualization" brings back youth
When fantasy and "dream" sometimes hid truth
It seems that I am getting old and grey,
my body's also slowing down its pace.
But, I've still much to do, and much to say.
It seems to me that life is like a race,
It starts off fast with youth upon your side.
You swiftly run and barely leave a trace.
It seems each day is like a rolling tide
that ebbs and flows decisions are engaged.
And through each year no choice, we take the ride.
It seems before too long we're middle aged
more settled, future planned, yet to unfold.
Perspectives held when young have some-what changed.
It seems somehow, our lives become controlled
by forces unforeseen we cannot stop.
Dictated by our bodies growing old.
It seems that soon we'll have to close the shop,
and face the fact we can no longer be.
So, take the final journey to the top.
It seems the bucket list that is for me
is incomplete, therefore I'll have to stay.
Tick off the list to do and lots to see.
And I should really start this all today,
it seems that I am getting old and grey.
It is five o'clock somewhere
And the porch is still there
There are cocktails, and the a swing that still sways
With the wind and the whispers
We will all meet here
With our memories of those yesterdays
At the end of West Road
We watch fireworks explode
From the porch on the Fourth of July
Now our children are grown
We thank God for His gift of new life
We share pictures and days tell
Of memories we won't sell
On the porch until the middle of night
From two months to ninety
The stories get mighty
On the porch that assembles the time
Through our lives and our eyes
We had a guide in the porch light
That shines on and through each passing year
On Sunny Hillside Farm this day
Family takes their place
For another photo on the porch wresting time
I can’t remember who I was,
before voices other than mine stepped in.
I think I wanted to be
a movie director, a script I read in kindergarten—
a line or two still hums when I dream.
I think I wanted to be
a fashion designer, my first sketches—
heels like daggers, dresses stitched with thunder.
I think I wanted to be
a writer, during math class in middle school—
a girl with powers, betrayed by her lover.
Now I tell people I want to be
a marketing executive, a product manager—
since when, I can’t remember.
Before voices other than mine stepped in,
I think, I think—
I wanted to be
the hand behind moving dreams.
______________
Note: Inspired by a line I saw on Pinterest 'Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?'
I speak just to realise no one is listening
That feeling hurts like when your parent ignores my good for my brothers bad that kind of feeling were you clearly got the least amount of christmas present but can't be rude so hold it in
Every year is just more tears
I give and give and give and they don't notice until i give up
I want to talk about but can't because i don't want them to solve my problems i don't want them to draw attention to me i just want then to listen
To sit there with me till late at night and listen to me talk as i sob in between sentences
the bridge
In the middle of the bridge, we leaned on its railing
and looked into the slimy, green, and slow
running stream. Its bank, decorated with plastic bottles,
used condoms, a long-since-dead dog, yet grinning as
recalling a filthy joke and a three-month-old abortion,
half eaten by discerning water rats.
Over this beauty of decay hung a reluctant, pale sun
refusing to lend light to this polluted river scene.
The first time we came here, the water was clear, we could
see fishes you held my hands, she said.
My hands were cold, spat into the filth below, dug them
deep into my pockets, hunched my shoulders, and
began walking. No bother telling her that our love was
like a river burdened by too much debris.
All we have in common is our shared solitude, but that is
a dad is better than being alone.