Best Aged(A) Poems
The cat sat on the windowsill,
And stirred a little in his sleep.
Each breath a cloud upon the glass
And outside the snow was falling fast
The children all went out to play,
But he couldn’t be bothered to move today.
The radiator hummed, and the woman hummed,
And the cat hummed in his sleep.
And all about the little house,
The snow was getting deep.
The woman sat beside the fire,
And sung a merry little tune.
As she sung, back and forth she rocks,
Darning a pair of colorful socks.
Her hair is turning silver-gray,
But you’d never believe she had aged a day
Since she and the cat and a box full of shoes
Came to the house on the dune.
And all about the little house,
The snow reflected the moon.
In a little town
with a little street
and single traffic
was a tiny diner
with just a few people
among them Robert
and his wife Francine
who for twenty years
order the same things,
pancakes with butter
for mister Robert
omelette with truffle
for Mrs Francine
the same time forever
the same routine
but one morning
oh what morning
Bob came alone
and ordered for two
this is for Francine
said with some guilt
that came just alone
and time, what time
it was going quick
and Bob the postman
it was growing sick
pancakes and the omelette
were freezing quick
waiting for Francine
but she never came
because was killed
from a drunk driver
who got in wrong place
in the wrong exit.
Since then
Rob the postman
comes all alone
and orders for two
pancake with butter
and truffle omelette
the first is for me
second for Francine
she is coming late
because the traffic
after sitting lonely
with coffee across
he gets up,awake
goes back to work
aged a million
and totally lost...
In youth, vacations lent my Summers wings
and Christmas gilded wintertime in gold.
I've aged (a bit) and love my Falls and Springs
for landing in between too hot or cold.
In time, I've learned it doesn't pay to be
too up or down, too rich or poor, too round
or thin. Avoiding each extremity,
I balance life by seeking middle ground.
I used to have my weight control down pat,
then physical exertion simply froze.
I'm somewhere south of fit and north of fat;
my muscles shrink yet still my middle grows.
As seasons come and go, I grow more sage;
I know the meaning now of "middle" age.
You made a grand appearance 19 years ago,
A grandson of whom I immediately cherished so.
Your Daddy was so proud placing you on a table top to view,
I didn't realise then but now believe Ireland had sent you.
Your Mom was from England & your Dad from Ontario,
You'd charming ways reminding me of Irish relatives I know.
It was as though you'd inherited their amusing personality,
And you were at birth a blessed treasure to me.
Throughout the years your love was constant and sincere.
I christened you, "Squirt" long before you'd aged a year.
Mysterious your similarities with my side of the family,
An Irish Heart beats within you, I'm sure and a bit of royalty.
From a wee toddler you were kind, sharing everything,
Your candy, your toys, your love, and favourite ice-cream.
One day, after I've gone away , God will help unfold your dream,
Hope you'll wind up In Ireland with her 40 shades of green.
You are one in 10 thousand, a loyal grandson, and friend, true blue,
Whatever path you take in life ,I will always love you-Nanny
Poor old Guido Fawkes who was born up in York
fought in Spain, rebel flame there was lit
and though it is known as the 'eighty year's war'
when he came back he hadn't aged a bit.
With Wintour and Catesby , they all hatched a plot
to send all of our MP's to hell
and only Lord knows if
with all that explosive
with more luck it would have gone well.
Fawkes heard people coming
who were checking the plumbing, their footsteps were near ,
and much louder.
Instead of the rats and occasional cat, they found
several tons of gunpowder.
And trapped in the cellar that unlucky fellah
no chance of receiving a pardon,
midst the hot dogs and beer
is punished each year
on a bonfire in my neighbour's garden.
A football star with super speed,
Our prom king, Kyle, has gone to seed.
No longer likely to succeed,
He's out of work and hooked on weed.
Behind you's Jennifer, the one
Who led our cheers and planned our fun.
Most popular, with honors won,
She's sheriff now and totes a gun.
And over there is rotten Chad,
Once cocky jock, now deadbeat dad.
He bullied me and so I'm glad
That his investments turned out bad.
Well, here comes Sue, who was so shy
She never even kissed a guy.
She's since helped seven husbands die,
But always has an alibi.
A wit and prankster of renown
Who backwards wore his cap and gown,
Was Jason there, our class's clown.
The best mortician now in town.
A teenage tramp in scanty dress,
Yvonne no morals did possess.
She'd cheat and lie, so who would guess
She'd be a judge and great success.
Poor Adam there has gone to pot,
His hopes of being doctor shot.
Divorced and now a lonely sot,
The saddest of this sorry lot.
Remember curly-headed Clay,
The eagle scout and closet gay?
He's quarterback for Tampa Bay,
Is out, and wears a full toupee.
Poor Brook, our class's beauty queen,
Who prompted thoughts in boys unclean.
She's gone from slender sweet sixteen
To hugest hips you've ever seen.
And look at Zack, the puny nerd
With build and beak just like a bird.
Once too afraid to say a word,
He's now a billionaire, I've heard.
A romeo, Jake had his fun.
Most every girl he knew, he'd done.
Now congressman in Washington,
His votes are screwing everyone.
There's Beth, who boys refused to date.
Alone for years, she married late.
Her husband left a vast estate.
That hunk she's with is twenty-eight.
Example of the alpha male
Who knew not how it felt to fail,
My buddy, Ethan, went to Yale.
But he's not here 'cause he's in jail.
I view this wreckage with dismay,
This gathering of youth decay.
For one exception, look this way.
I haven't aged a single day.
National Nude Day – 14 July
I believe that it started in France
When some folks left their house without pants
Without batting an eye
They simply walked by
And not a soul bothered to glance
Encouraged by nary a stare
They next chose to go out all bare
With bare ass and boobs
And blasé attitudes
In French you might say laissez-faire
Well brother, it caught on and spread
And finally came to a head
It’s a national day
When it’s simply OK
To go without clothing instead
So unbutton – unzip
Drop your drawers – show a nip
No one will think you are rude
If you don’t mind the breeze
From your neck to your knees
Tomorrow’s your day to be nude
Me? Well I’ve just aged a bit
My body’s not that trim and fit
I could show off my parts
But it’d just break your hearts
So Nude Day – I guess I’ll skip it
Uncle Mike
I'm a (She)
By Laura
November 8, 2015
I used to believe in endless possibilities
You see, I was carelessly redeeming favors I didn't earn
So when I started to burn without an urn to catch my falling ashes
I threw feul into the soulless clashes of fire the masses waged
I backed the winning horse of every rat race I could find
Went blind inside my mind where right and wrong stayed undefined
Every day I rewind those memories with missing pieces that I find
Relive those sounds through missing dreams where life was kind
Somehow I aged a million days within the span of every year
Redemption near yet still so far, cause I ran out of shooting stars
So tired of running from fear and crying out those desparate tears
So I'll stay here and heal my face, where the girl I am is never far
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
I aged a small number of hours,
none the worse
since posting about Daylight Savings Time,
a radiant playful verse
teasingly succeeded against being terse,
a cogent tangential thread,
where passage of "time"
ranks front and center
this central theme constitutes cultish obsession
with vibrant youthfulness
as if senescence a crime imposed
(at birth) on every purse
son, thus a healthy and prominant grow wing
(nee bursting out all over)
market and cottage industries didst swing
into high gear (make that overdrive)
addressing telomeres shortcomings
justifies tamper ring
with chromosomal genes
to sustain bug eyed sales figures,
asper amazing grace full spy king
scales into the stratosphere,
with cosmetic surgeons hoe ping
where, (particularly among
baby boomer generation)
appear younger looking than offspring
(albeit, whereat either gender undergoing
bust ting bosoms and tightening tushies)
to foster said tune, where billions of dollars
come into play, I haint joe king
this feeding frenzy removing without a trace
(of surgeon's needle) unsightly wrinkles,
stretch marks, blemishes, et cetera
(over a life time) fulfilling vanity
in the name of eternal quest to dupe biology
paying mega bucks postponing twilight/ evening
years not yielding to depredations when dotage
a stark reminder what natural aging doth bring
superficial (skin deep) transformations,
which cannot reboot major organs
allowing elderly to rock with van
halen again, since primary maximal apex
i.e. post adolescence/
early adulthood marked urban
boisterous antics, the tacitly accepted behavior,
that would appear down right foolish
as if elders played kick the can
if chronologically old geezers let Mother Nature
rightfully round up steering committee
gently rowing rickety ship of lovely bones
dutifully paying (chump change) to the bargeman.
THE EVER DWINDLING FEW - USA Version
Beach Omaha
At Omaha an old man stands and limps down to the shore,
Where on this sand he crawled and ran so many years before.
The skirl of pipes still in the air, the ceremony o'er,
He knows the ghosts who haunt this coast in the fading wake of war.
Huddled in their landing craft, together yet alone,
Some join a cheer to quell the fear that turns young limbs to stone.
Others lost within the thought that chills them to the bone,
Not knowing if they'll see again the fields and hills of home.
A sudden stop, the ramp is dropped , Omaha revealed,
Bullets frothing water, flying shards of red hot steel.
A thrown grenade, a shattered leg, his private war soon done,
Sheltered by a parapet, he prayed the beach be won.
Young men who fell upon this beach who lie not far away,
Are still young men among his ken, not having aged a day.
They gave their all when duty called, hair never turned to grey.
They grew not old as he grew old, no feeble steps for they.
For their lost years he'd shed his tears, he'd been there yesterday,
Where snow white stones mark where the bones of all the young men lay.
They cried “Hurray!” and “USA!” and braved the gates of hell,
Now walking slowly down the beach he wanders where they fell.
Where chaos reigned and lives were claimed by death's uneven hand,
The shore of war is quiet now, a peaceful stretch of sand.
Old men in chairs with snow white hair are wheeled down to the shore,
They are the ever dwindling few, soon there will be no more.
Some there among are the proud sons of those who fought before,
Believing they were there to win the war to end all wars.
But strife will always be our lot and war will have its day.
Silent prayers for those who dared with home so far away.
So once a year some come back here where many came before.
Warriors then, now ancient men who gather near the shore
To honour those who lie in rows, and comrades still beside.
A time to grieve and to receive a grateful nation's pride.
They are the ever dwindling few,
Soon there will be no more.
Ellis Pringle Craig, 2023.
I have lived a thousand years,
And I've never aged a day,
I have shed so many tears,
Watching loved ones pass away.
I have seen cities grow and change,
From London, England to Paris, France,
All my life I've had to rearrange,
As the years went by in advance.
I will never see another sunrise,
I've forgotten the sky of blue,
When shall I meet my demise,
Until then, I must continue.
I have taken lives of the innocent,
And I did it without a care,
No harm is what I had meant,
That is the cause of my despair.
I will taste the iron in your blood,
Dripping over my fangs, it shall flow,
Running down my throat like a flood,
But when, you will not know.
As the clock tower chimes eleven,
I'll be looking for my next victim,
I'll fly through the dark heavens,
Deciding, will it be her or him.
Written by : Kelly Deschler
Poems From The Vampire Contest
By Laura Dee Battle
November 24, 2014
Aged a lifetime in the span of a year
Between right and wrong; the pain in my tears
I fear this is all I will ever get to know
The gloom in the clouds; the eyes of the crows
Barren land of long forgotten sons
The blood that I shed to say I had won
It's never so care free as I make it out to be
Read between the seams and see my insecurities
Don't try to understand the places I have been
Don't want you to ever know the pain I'm letting in
No longer can I hide the screams inside my dreams
Honestly, to me, not everything is what it seems
So memories deceive our daily reckoning
The weighing of the scales in days the demons sing
My chest is caving in beneath the heels of heavy boots
This toxic place of mine is breaking at it's brittle roots
I know this apocolyptic weather will make me a little rough
Remembering days of healing cuts before my skin was tough enough
I'm searching the silence in my mind for a better siren song
So, please don't mind the violence; cause my heart will never be wrong
Water is uniquely ancient, yet it hasn’t aged a day.
It’s older than Dr. Leakey’s bones.
Older than Olduvai Gorge.
Water is older than life itself,
Unaltered by evolution’s chaotic ebb and flow.
Undiminished, though redistributed,
Surviving every mass extinction,
While continually redeeming itself through the sacred trinity
Of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation. STOP!
All the water that exists today is all the water ever was,
Lapped at by pterodactyls and mastodons.
Slurped down. Pissed out.
Recycled over countless generations,
And though polluted, can ever be made clean,
Giving blood, and sweat, and tears
Their most obvious property:
An aqueous disposition at room temperature. STOP!
Water raining down. Water drying up.
Raining down. Drying up.
I naively let it fill my cup,
Conformed to the shape of my emptiness,
Because that’s the American way.
All or nothing at all. Love it or leave it alone. STOP!
Now I’m a wallflower every social hour,
Where cup half full and cup half empty
Cut the rug like Fred and Ginger. STOP!
My cup is full, but my dance card’s empty.
There’s no one here to even tempt me.
Billy Idol sang a song about that issue. STOP!
Hard water. Rock hard.
Hey, Culligan man! STOP!
AND WE HAVE A WINNER!
I saw you walking in the park today,
And all at once my world came tumbling down.
You looked as though you had not aged a day! -
Although I noticed just the slightest frown
As your eyes blinked against the setting sun.
You raised your hand as though to wave at me;
And my heart, foolish still, became undone.
But you sought the shade of a walnut tree
Close by, and didn’t see me standing there.
It seemed to me the birds had ceased to sing,
As though they knew the sum of my despair
And winter’s cruel slaughtering of spring.
Too soon you turned and quickly walked away
And left me there with one more day to slay.