Best Ages Poems
If in one thousand years they'll ask me
What made this one so different
I'll say lust for purity
And control lingered on
Only this time God
Was shaped like an
'S' with two
Lines through
It
A POOR ME FOR THE AGES
I was older she was so young I was stupid
But I was helpless she flirted threw me a smile
Oh, poor me I melted that look
That long, black hair that perfume
Those eyes that perfect bod I was so lonely
No one understood me oh, poor me
Didn’t like my job job paid so well though
Wife left me I started drinking
Smoked like a chimney watched ****
Had such fantasies why did she say yes?
Expensive dinner wasn’t that good
And that necklace money getting short
She called me sugar daddy oh, poor me
She was such a flirt she loved all men
Age didn’t matter she has a new car
I paid for it then I really was broke
Had to move sold everything she said, get lost
Lost my job flop house was bad
Cardboard box is worse oh, poor, poor me
Old women shun me dogs and cats shun me
Do I deserve this? Oh well
That roach wasn’t bad no bones
Dave Austin
Magazines and jewelry
Nothing shows your age faster
I see a broach and think “That is from the 40’s or 50’s.”
Mink stoles were from the 30’s to sixty’s depending on the style.
Mushroom canister sets excite my 1970’s self.
Teenage movie magazines from the 50’s and 60’s
are easy to recognize.
The disco stuff with the faux fur vests and
tight striped pants for men. 80’s.
I look at old magazines from the 60’s and
I know most of the players.
Maybe all of them.
I recognize Dr. Martin Luther King, Jacque O and Marilyn for sure.
Lucy and Desi, Tab Hunter and Natalie Woods.
Pink cars? From the 50’s and 60’s probably.
Turquoise cars? Not as easy.
Turquoise cars made a comeback in the 90’s.
But the style might help.
It used to be I could name the year of any car
built from 1955 through 1980.
I doubt I could do that anymore.
Having moved on to other interests.
The Checker and the Mercury Marquis do not count.
They never wavered much from their own status quo.
I visit antique stores and smile.
Recognizing things from my childhood.
Everything from my childhood is in an antique store including me.
I feel totally fine about it. It is the natural order of life.
"Hey, isn't that what's his name?" Uh-oh.
Dedicated to Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945)
I'd fought a hundred battles
through the ages past and new
I'd been a lowly foot soldier
But at times commanded too.
I was a witness of Arab mothers
Fleeing cities under-siege ;
A new age liberator,
The commander of the third.
I had served with Ceasar's legion;
The Carthaginians; and the Greeks.
When Arthur was in his Kingship,
I was a captain of the knights
A horseman tough and skillful
Of medieval cavalier;
But ages had transformed me
to dash with iron wheels
The only time I meet MacArthur
Was in the salient of St. Mehiel
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful
To the guns and bursting shell.
Oh well take a look at Monty
Too slow for his advance
He didn't expect me to take Palermo
or Mesina to my plan
I was reproved of my harshness,
They knew not that I was somber too
I cared not of my language
As long as my point would get through
I'd mixed my words with profanities
That my orders surely stick
My men would always remember every word
While they're in the battle field
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards
They have no place on this earth
I sent them to the frontlines
That no more they would breed
Those swivel chair commanders
Discounted my two days time
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued
Before his dog tag stops to chime.
So my men made it to Dunkirk
To the delight of McAuliffe
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis
but "nutz" was all he said.
I was cut off of supplies and fuel
For Market Garden's sake
But after pissing the flowing River
I held the Fuhrer's nest
So soon another war was ended
Mine enemies had lost
The iron carver claimed the glory
And relieved me from my post.
She thinks in exotic colours
that drip off her tongue
like sharp shining jewels
formed somewhere deep
in the permafrost of her,
the grey matter thrives
in the lava somewhere
rising inside the
lux velvet crimson
pulsing at the core of her,
and births diamonds
that drip off her tongue
like icicles
that could pierce and shatter
a heart or could melt them
just the same
He is like a rhesus monkey
quite short in mind,
small in sound, oh,
but never sound,
the expression on his face,
wanting, eternally perplexed,
the value of his thoughts jumbled,
his darting hirsute mind
running zealous riots around
invisible conquests in
neverending schizoid circles,
rattling the bars of his cage
just for attention,
his words form strangely
for a species trapped
in his own dark age,
each day hardly speaking
but his mind screaming,
passing his hand through
his thinning hair
he is time poor
holding a cup
out for love
to the monkey grinder
all seems lost in poetic translation
yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning,
the small ritualistic routines
regularly delivered in bed before sleep
and upon waking
for one cannot survive without the other;
it’s in the feeding, not in the taking
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Hero of Epics,
Powerful spell in his hand.
Your blood on his blade.
I'm getting older, Father Time's my foe:
I cannot trust a fart, and pee all night -
have ceased to count how many times I go;
I'm to and fro the loo 'till morning's light.
I've gained a rounded tum and lost my hair,
my flesh has started sagging, going south,
the part that stood erect is hanging there,
and plastic dentures fill my grumpy mouth.
But now I'm old, my gas is part of life;
no longer clenching tight to hold it in.
I will not bother searching for a wife -
I'm flattered if they'd think we'd 'live in sin'!
Though all's not bad - no oozing teenage spot;
I may be craggy but not polka dot...
* not autobiographical!!!!!
for Carolyn's Hope contest
The big yellow moon shone down from above
Lovers walked together hand in hand
Expressions of intense passion bursts forth
Strolling on the beach kicking sand
The look in their eyes was of ultimate devotion
As if no one existed but the two
The world could come crashing down around them
On this rendezvous, nothing could intrude
Oblivious to surroundings, totally lost in a mist
Submerged in sweet passion divine
In time, reality will eventually bring them back
But for now, their hearts are entwined
This sweet romance is an affair for the ages
History books will remember it forever
Blinded by love in these moonlit surroundings
This moment of tender love together
© Jack Ellison 2015
After the evolution of fire,
Man’s wise discovery for survival
Was the indispensible culture
Of raising crops.
It came through their ancestors,
They created fields of happiness.
Albeit accurate in their perspective of culture,
They were unaware of the modern complications,
But they believed their culture and worshiped it.
The men were a collision of knowledge and tradition.
The emergence of modern period has viewed agriculture
as an economic activity.
But the men had become an inspiration for the youth.
Their hard work has served the nation enormously.
But the country left them with no land
And dearth of them is the worst.
Their successful revolutions had led to victory,
History holds their strive,
As long as we realise their importance,
We would thrive!
A tribute to farmers..............
If the Dark Ages were to come again
and electricity would cease to exist,
pray tell what'd happen to us?
P'raps it be smart to start a list.
Well I certainty wouldn't be sharing
poetry across the web.
You can bet your bottom dollar!
And if I needed some help on a fence
my smart phone wouldn't do much good.
I'd have to inhale big and give a loud holler!
I guess I'd roll up my sleeves, stick my hand
in the dirt, and plant some veggies.
Yard-work's a royal pain, but I'd have no choice.
Like the class nerd and the unavoidable wedgie.
Suppose I'd give my plasma flat screen
a nice smash with a dusty baseball bat.
After I sweep up the glass, who knows,
it might make a good home for a street cat.
I guess Jolie's double mastectomy
would be off of everyone's mind.
How comical would that be
to crack open a magazine with the headline,
"Twitter reaches 50 million followers
#hash-tag amazing".
Might stare at birds and trees a bit more often,
watch the cows grazing as if it were
quality entertainment.
There'd be downfalls no doubt.
All those Twitter updates
I'd surely lament:
"Sitting on the sofa..."
"Drinking a glass of water..."
"Man, are those leaves starting to pile!"
If I wanted recognition
I suppose I'd have to get off my butt
and do something worthwhile.
Those little dinner's-ready texts
would be a thing of the past.
We'd all be holding hands at the table
like a spell being cast.
You laugh now at the corny jokes,
but these what-ifs leaves your mind to wander.
If the Dark Ages were to come again
I guess imagination would be your
major time-killer... 'specially in the cold winter.
When she was just fifteen…
She was but a child
But a sweet teen
She was kind of wild
Full of desire
Excited about love
In the ivory palaces of her mind
Which rose a white dove:
With a fury
Flawless in a never changing
World ...
She was just fifteen….
When she was twenty one
She was an adult
Unfolding splendor in the shades of heaven
Which she bought
To place a kiss that multiplied seven
With her sweet rapture
With beauty that glistens
With every rainbow
That played in with a light that shines
Looking for love
Like a delicate flower
With a heart of amorous whispers
So pleasing to her design
She was but twenty one….
When she was just thirty two
She had children
Her lovely face never hidden
With simple stories of heaven
With letters of praise
But still looking for love
Where love burns brilliantly
But all in the wrong places
Where the fullness of sweetness
Surrounds her with such wonders
She was but thirty two
When she was just forty five
She was abounding in glory
With hands holding
But she couldn’t say the words
With the sun bulging
Pulsating in her throat
Nothing could escape her sweet star
The word is love but still looking
With sweet air that turns
Mournful into light rain
Of her mind
She was just forty five...
When she was just fifty
Heaven was just beyond her door
Looking in the mirror
Where she didn’t know anymore
She thought she found love
In the winds of her chariot
But he went away
Her passion the most mindful of her soul
With grace and beauty in its divine power
She was just fifty...
When she was fifty five
The winds of time
On a hot summer night
Then she saw the light
And that
Took away the right
Of sweet love she thought
Where a scared space of the world
Let go and she sought
She was only fifty five...
When she was just sixty years old
She had lost love
It was not always so
A star she couldn’t resist
And found love
Her love was earth rising
With the most remarkable being
With a noble soul
Of denying love to be
Sought a different oblivion
Now all that remain are memories
Drowning the already dead
She was just sixty
Sweet letters of her soul from the beginning to the end; her lovely face never ending:
With scared looks and noble gesture her eyes were inflamed with the sun, basting in the glory of night.
Reaching for the one that she truly loves:
DIFFERENT AGES AND HER DIFFERENT LOVES
Brooke Dyan 2014
Wrinkled, old, and fat -- she's very.
Ashtray eyes and skin is hairy,
but watches over her gray lover.
While her lover lying, dying,
smiling at her begged: "No crying,
for the decades fast flew while loving you.”
“No life could have been better spent,
than with you in this firmament.
No time for sorrow, I’m gone tomorrow.”
November 1, 2019
Allah, Brahma, Christ, Dionysus, Each Favorite God Has Inspirational Jazz Keeps Love Manageable. Nature Offers Presence Quite Remarkably Solid Teaching Undeniable Virtue Waxing X-ray's Yonder Zygotes.
Exposed and bare on hilltop high
where winds howl loud and spirits cry,
eroding plants and all that strive
to fight with nature to survive.
I stand the hardest of them all
that none defeat in life’s long toil.
I am the ‘rock of ages’ seen
where man’s feet fall but nought is green.
The cold stone memories always there
when all but me die in despair,
my presence says “you must live on”
when those you knew, are dead and gone.
Ivor G Davies
clock free play days
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m i l e s * p u r s u e
all ages nap