The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
bumps and blips appear at night
on my neck, a gruesome sight
before I was aged seventy-three
this horrible stuff didn’t happen to me
Ya'll know Frustantien
Yeah aint he the one
who wife left him
while he was getting
a root canel.
I heard she took to the doctor
dropped off
and while he was there had the
moving company come
and pack up
and took her stuff to
a new place
and aint tell him nothing.
Nah, I heard he got emplants
and she said
she didn't like him smiling
up in woman faces first
cause he stopped doing that
while he was snagger-toothed
but the thought of
going thought that again,
she just couldn't do it.
He told me she became a birdliked creature
and flew him
to a polluted lake
where he turn to stone
and she flew him back and dropped
him to earth
where he shattered to stone.
Well anyway, I heard that he and
his wife were getting back together
she moved back in a coouple days ago.
They some nasty people, bet she
been out there doing God knows what
with any ole body:
We know he is!
(Laughing they changed the subject to something else)
aged woman gazes
through the kitchen window stares....
brown thrasher bathes
The library is a well.
Everyone drinks here without coins,
without proving they deserve water.
Come inside.
The old man reads his newspaper by the window,
teenagers cluster around computers like moths to light,
a mother spreads picture books on the floor
while her children build towers from blocks.
This is the hearth where strangers warm themselves,
the table where rich and poor sit down together,
passing knowledge like bread,
hand to hand.
Outside,
the world charges for everything,
a chair costs money,
warmth costs money,
even standing still in the wrong place costs something.
But here the door opens.
Here the librarian says How can I help you? to everyone,
no matter what's in their wallet or their past.
This is what democracy looks like up close:
bodies in chairs,
hands on books,
people teaching themselves to grow
toward light like seeds in a shared garden.
When the library closes,
we scatter back into the cold world.
But tomorrow the doors open again,
the lights come on,
and we return to this last free place,
this harbour,
this home we're learning to protect.
Yes, Jesus went and prepared a place just like He said He'd do, He built for me a mansion, and one for [mother] too, and if her home was measured by her precious love divine, I know my mother's mansion is higher than mine.
~ Albert E. Brumley Sr.
Now at ninety one she has aged beautiful,
her smile is delight as she greets the newest baby,
the new puppies, the winter hummingbird in the cold dawn
of morning breaking the blue mountain sky~
she hears the call of eternity echoing
from the halls of heaven where angels wait
to welcome her home after a life lived well,
she wants to answer that call, to go home and be with God,
but she hesitates to leave her children,
for they have always been her bonny babies,
how can she leave the ones she watched over all the long years?
Go, Mother, we will come to you by and by.
my hands earned their dots
a wrinkled aged prettiness
suspiciously smooth
I counted stars behind the glass,
while prayers like feathers fell—
each strike of ruler, each cold heart,
was heaven’s tolling bell.
They said my silence was a sin,
my dreams a devil’s tongue,
but I could hear the world within,
the songs the atoms sung.
The floor was stone, the hours long,
my fingers traced the air—
a symphony of light and wrong,
and mercy, unaware.
They could not cage what they could not see,
nor burn the crystal mind—
for I was born of mystery,
and truth they left behind.
Now still I walk in measured grace,
through corridors of pain,
and every bruise became a place
where stars return again.
century old home
weathered paint, aged roof
love holds together
Son of Man, pause before judgment's seat,
Lest haste consume your soul's retreat.
Do what's right, yet don't waste precious time,
For pleasing all is a futile rhyme.
In seeking validation, you may lose your way,
And those you please will mock you on your final day.
Marry with wisdom, don't borrow to impress,
For pleasing others can lead to financial distress.
You can't please all, not even those you love,
Do little things that bring joy from above.
Take care of yourself, find happiness true,
For in your joy, others will find joy anew.
Beware of three: the young, the old, the weak,
For lies can bind you, and freedom you may seek.
Heed this advice, a treasure rare and true,
Worth more than gold, and wisdom shining through.
I happened on a tardigrade.
He told of places he had stayed,
and sadly sighed.
He spoke of the friends he had made,
and the times he'd been afraid,
and then he softly cried.
He'd lived in Antarctica and Spain,
the fiery desert and icy rain,
and neither froze nor fried.
He was old, in so much pain,
and asked, "why must I remain?"
before he finally died.
Their fists were of furious intent,
But backs were too aged and bent.
It wasn't the seizing,
But rather the wheezing,
That both to the hospital sent.
When old age comes and I grow weak and slow,
And cannot do the things I used to know,
Dear Father, please take care of soul and flesh,
And guide me through life’s trials.
It brings me shame to rent when I am old,
Lord, bless me with a house before I’m cold.
Let me build my own home before that day,
A place of rest where I can kneel and pray.
If others face poor health as age draws near,
These trials come with time, and bring us fear.
But still I pray with hope and lifted eyes:
Lord, keep me safe, till body fades or flies.
Flourished and nourished,
hair locks resembling branches,
I gaze as it dances —
when blowing, he looks glowing.
Twenty years had passed,
but still, I last.
I may have ripened,
but I'm still the same berry, same fruit,
slightly fragmented, a little indented,
not demented.
You got a sample of me when I was at my prime,
taught a few tricks — oh, to replay our time.
Let me discover what you have learned;
still, I yearn —
like the eternal flame, I burn.
Do not read me as if I come with the label “handle with care,”
I am more than able.
Only sixty-five, still alive!
Round-bodied, the taste of sweet and sour —
come and devour during lunch hour.
Do not guzzle — sip slow,
take the time to enjoy this aged wine as we intertwine.
Oh, how you've practiced —
glad to discover upon this mattress.
in the
aged
pear tree
which has
several
dead
gray, peeling
limbs
a catbird
calls to
his mate
a nurturing
love affair
intense, passionate
his steadfast
love
for his mate~~
admirable
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