Best A Hundred Poems
Some days I feel so damned old
Like my zest is starting to mold
Seems my feet are always cold
My golden years ran out of gold
I'm sitting here on this old swing
Watched the ending of another spring
The birds with their young under wing
The warm gulf winds start to sting
I remember swings used to be fun
We'd jump out and land on the run
All those years chasing the sun
Now those memories are called homespun
And all in the blink of an eye
Young goes to old on the fly
Shake my head and let out a sigh
As a hundred springs pass by
by Daniel Turner
On a walk after the worst of the Sandy storm
I slogged down the still dampening
Green grass valley rutted between
The moldering fences of the shadowed alley.
Under the low, ominously rushing, soggy gray clouds
I saw so many black birds silently
Clinging against the stiff breezes
To the broken branches of the skeletal oak on the corner
As if they relished the fate of the cruelly stripped leaves.
I saw a hundred crows there.
How many make a murder?
Black pointy wraiths;
Scattered commas lined up like
Iron shavings stuck
To magnetic branches.
Dull steel skies slid in vast arcs around them.
Sprinkling windy foreboding,
Their clouds reached down
To Collect their talons.
So many eyes I know they see
Spiny black needles poking out of me.
Bloodless murder, muffling gray gauze No need to caw…,
A hundred crows see it all.
it is cold and the flowers are dying
becoming withered memories
leaves are drifting and rain is falling
and the river flows like a stream of glass
the grass is fading
and birds are flying away
and the forest is taking on a sombre hue
and storms shake the ocean of my sleep
where my hair is soft as a spider web
and my filmy dress a paling green
and I stand still in this decay as a tree
with my arms outstretched to the sky
oh, the fine thread of summer is a fading thought
yet, there is a hazy beauty all around me
and within the crumbling fragile leaves soar
oh, the splendor of the whirling burnt orange
and red leaves spinning
like weeping blood red raindrops
oh, listen to the sweet chiming
of falling leaves
that I will hold like a blanket of memory
while the wind utters low wails like a hundred violins
and hidden birds sing
a beautiful symphony just for me
Each night
you dream
in fours or fives
or more--
hundreds of dreams a month,
thousands of dreams a year...
yet you think you've dreamt
only a few, and can scarcely
remember those--
where then are
those unknown dreams?
Are they hiding?
Hiding in a special place
within your unconscious,
that vast part of mind
lying iceberg-like
'neath the waves
of the knowing world?
Are those dreams
that came alive only
in the dark side of
your mind still there,
waiting patiently
to be known, known
by your sleeping soul
when it awakens
in the real world?
I have lived long enough
to have made over 100,000
of these little home movies--
will I ever get to see them again?
it is cold and the flowers are dying
becoming withered memories
leaves are drifting and rain is falling
and the river flows like a stream of glass
the grass is fading
and birds are flying away
and the forest is taking on a sombre hue
and storms shake the ocean of my sleep
where my hair is soft as a spider web
and my filmy dress a paling green
and I stand still in this decay as a tree
with my arms outstretched to the sky
oh, the fine thread of summer is a fading thought
yet, there is a hazy beauty all around me
and within the crumbling fragile leaves soar
oh, the splendor of the whirling burnt orange
and red leaves spinning
like weeping blood red raindrops
oh, listen to the sweet chiming
of falling leaves
that I will hold like a blanket of memory
while the wind utters low wails like a hundred violins
and hidden birds sing
a beautiful symphony just for me
I find you in the place of tears baby,
oh, you never saw the azure sky above;
have been beneath the soil all these years,
but I have spoken to you a hundred times a day.
Nothing is engraved bay,
no name, no date;
I am sorry my little one,
I was so very young myself.
Your father faded from my life- the reality,
of a girl who would have his child;
and then you were born and quickly gone,
my parents told me you were adopted.
They thought to protect,
no name, no date at all;
and for all these years,
I have searched for you.
I spoke to you every day my little son,
dreaming of what could have been;
I contemplated a life with my own little boy,
yes, a hundred times a day without words.
Now, it is time for me,
to honor your name and date;
to engrave it in the stone,
it is time to correct the wrong.
(and now my search for you . . . is over)
_______________________
May 1, 2015
Poetry/Verse/A Hundred Times a Day
Copyright Protected, ID 15-1164-777-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the Standard Contest, VERSE A FAVOURED THEME
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
my weary trudge along a hundred miles
through rugged roads lead my steps~
to a closed iron gate
I find you in the place of tears baby,
You never saw the azure sky above;
Beneath the soil all these sad years,
I do not speak in words but thoughts.
Only one word engraved,
Baby, no name, no date;
I am sorry my little one,
I was so very young myself.
Your father faded from the reality,
Of a girl who would have his child;
And then you were born and died,
My parents had you buried quickly.
They thought to protect,
No name, no date at all;
And for all these years,
I have talked to you silently.
I speak to you often my little son,
Dreaming of what could have been;
I contemplate a life with a little boy,
A hundred times a day without words.
And it is time for me,
To honor your name;
Engrave it in the stone,
It is time my sweet baby son.
"It is time to correct the past . . ."
_______________________
May 1, 2015
Poetry/Verse/plus one line/ A Hundred Silent Ways
Copyright Protected, ID 05-558-375-01
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Contemplation- Rumi, Visual #1
sponsor, Mystic Rose, Judged 2015
Second Place
Will the world still be spinning, Will the sun still be out
Will the waves still keep crashing, And laughter all about
Will the sky still be moving, Will the moon still be bright
Will the children still be praying, On and through the night
Will the cars still be running, Will the snow still come down
Will the movies still be showing, Will all leaves be shriveled and brown
Will the world still be spinning, Will the actor still bow
Will my heart still be beating, A hundred years from now?
if I should die tommorow
or in one hundred years
I've been blessed by all I've seen
and sounds that have graced my ears
It hasn't always been easy
Yet, I would not change a thing
From hardship came such beauty
Within my thankful I can sing
I have lived all my moments
Both the quiet and extreme
In these moments of contemplation
I am appreciative of where I've been
A guest upon this planet
on life's beach a grain of sand
The reason I have significance
Is that I'm cradled in my Savior's hand
I have known love, above all else
To be the essence that makes life real
A husband, father, brother and friend
My loved ones are the spokes upon my wheel!
So my ending is only a beginning
Tommorow or in a hundred years
If at that time you cry for me
I hope they will be happy tears.
Inspired by Demetrios's poem "Life a gift is"
Please be sure to visit Demetrios, his poetry shines!
Limerick: A hundred years ago, nay, fifty
A hundred years ago, nay, fifty
Who dared prod the female anatomy
Now men ride rough shod
On toll-free wide road
Ere steam-roller dries tar in a jiffy!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
I’d like to have a hundred hands
That portrayed in a tale
To expand the two hands
That gifted by my parents
A Hundred hands to set up the tents
In the refugee camp;
To offer fresh water to the kids
In the dry countries
Deforested by the timber lords;
To blanket the old people
Whom they switched budget
From the welfare to weaponry.
To inspire the blinds
In place of the leading dogs.
I’d like to have a hundred hands
To hug and to pacify
The miserable grassroots people
Whom their govt rated them as
Slaves!
In rain and sun, entrapped by death, we cuss,
Through pain we run for love in times of hope—
The world we dance within makes dust of us,
With all the light, when silver clouds elope.
I've trained for this a million lives before,
And every cast I've worn was blessed in stars—
I may or may not have a million more,
But I know I'll be proudly dressed in scars.
So you can hang with all the doubt you twist,
And tangle up the grit you choose to lack,
While I maintain that time does not exist;
Your days will all cave in when you look back.
And yet I understand your need to stray—
It's hard to live a hundred years a day.
THAT tear
I wish to be
so pure
a true drop-see
an innocent expression
so true conjured from me
made piece
sad apple bit
my heels burn in stiletto
but my dress falls neatly
a walk from here
to there
but ageless tears see
each frame-flash desire
numb-we my-soul-be
always
I wish a rain to dance in
just me and cloud-thunder
that only an
eye-God see
What I am inside always!
:: ~ ::
These superficial lives we lead,
are they really worth the cost?
Like a charging stallion-steed,
we're strong and proud... but lost.
The things today we hold in hand,
are temporary treasures,
but effort spent to feed your soul
will surely last forever....
If you could know the day you'll die,
would you let time just idle by?
Or would you try to bend the course of fate,
to make that final ending late?
So this question might be asked,
when you're finished with this lifelong task.
Of all the laughter, sweat and tears...
will it matter in a hundred years?
Copyright © 2002