Best Elderly Poems | Poetry

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New Elderly Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Elderly poems are below this new poems list.

An Elderly Cardinal by Rigoler, Maurice
Today's Vocab Word Is ELDERLY by Canerdy, Janice
The Three Elderly Elders by Barter, Denis
Some elderly, glamorous, Hollywood maidens by Klugman, Alex
Opinionated About Elderly People by Lee Sr., James Edward
Bridge The Generation The Young and Elderly by Lee Sr., James Edward
the elderly man's made a pass at her by pachecho, connie
A Prayer for the Elderly by Rose, Brenda
Elderly Zombie by TheKidster, Billy
The Blossoming Elderly by Rose, Brenda

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The Best Elderly Poems

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Humanity

If we don’t feel with our hearts, we don’t belong
If we don’t see as one, the world is wrong
Beyond the wars and the hate and the insanity
We are all connected as humanity
We are the child with cancer who still wears a smile
We are the kid from the projects facing trial
We are the pregnant teen feeling lost and used
We are the elderly man in a home abused
We are the young couple, marriage on the rocks
We are the homeless one in a cardboard box
We are the cold and hungry, sad and depressed
We are the lonely child who never felt blessed
We are the woman whose life was filled with pain
We are the man standing alone in the pouring rain
We are the child who struggles day to day
We are the teenage girl who ran away
We are the soldier killed in an unjust war
We are the young man who can dream no more
We are the inmate locked away for life
We are the old man who has lost his wife
We would be better off without our vanity
And have a sense of belonging to humanity.


Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2010


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Loneliness

People milling around I  do not notice them, 
my face is turned to hide my loneliness,
Am walking in my own despair
No one else intrudes on my thoughts of 
"How they were"
 

Days, months, years when  love mattered
Loneliness was just a word
One word amongst many not used, thought absurd
Now I live this word

My heart is broken Feelings are numb
Trying to be the person I once was
People see my dimpled smile
Cannot see the ripped up emotions
Of reality.

Loneliness is an illness
Medication cannot cure
Non viral yet can spread easily
Prolific between young people
The elderly also.

Symptoms
Eyes are looking dead
Face looking down
Shutting out interference
A hug helps but non returnable .
Responses non existent
Living dead.

To be lonely is more than being alone
Loneliness can kill your soul


Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2014


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If I Could

if i could,             

                         i'd  wish a magic wand.            

if i could,

              i would build dreams                

                                     brick by brick

                                                        the kind         

                                                                one could hang on to            

                                                                                                one could live in.

if i could,
        imagine 
               upside down 
                                rainbows                                                           
                                            so the sky 
                                                            baby blue 
                                                                        would look as if 
                                                                                         it was smiling.
        
my bestest hope 
                                  wipe away the tears from
                                                                 the hungry
                                                                 the abused
                                                                  the sickly 
                                                                      children
                                                                and elderly.            

                                             this first,
fore all else,       
                            yes the children and the elderly.


if i could,
                            replace every tear with a smile
                                                                              a hug
                                                                          a tickle

if i could,

snap my fingers make money obsolete,
                                               
                                                        plenty for everybody to share.

        clap my hands medical care everywhere would be there.


in my heart, live dried out tears.
there, i hear the pulse of our planet.
                                 so many good people,               
                                               people who care.

there's a black venom       
                       such a small dose
                                 affects the masses.    

if i could,
                    supply all with the antidote.



if i could,              
                   i would build an arc
                                sail 'till the world was cleansed 
                                                              move in with everyone           
                                                                                             on one land.

call it OURS.             
           yes definitely OURS.
                                           i like that name.
                                                      
i can't.          
              i can't do all those things.

i can kiss where it hurts.         
                                 give hugs freely.
                                             give what possessions,                                       
                                                                    i can do without,
                                                                            share my physical wealth.

i fear nothing.
              least of all poverty
                              happy to share what i can.

i can offer you my love
                                       love comes easy to me.

it never feels like enough.        

                                        but i am here,     arms wide open.


tell me what is it you need,        how can i help.


i love you,

                               unconditionally.




14~12~2014
Maurice Yvonne







Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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Pearls Beneath the Harbor

Our bank accounts nearly emptied so we could afford a vacation; two young working girls who'd never been far from home. We were looking forward to finding love on a romantic tropical island. Maybe someone in our group would cast his smiling eyes our way. How exciting it would be to be swept off our feet before we'd even left the ground! But when the tour guide said, "We're all here. Let's go," we were surrounded by eighteen fellow tourists who looked like they'd escaped from the geriactric ward. We saw smiling eyes, but they were all magnified behind bifocal glasses.

walkers and canes  
ambling down slanted ramps: 
no young men around

An overnight flight to Oahu, left little time to say more than 'hello' and "where ya from" before it was lights out for the elderly ones. Soon we heard the snores of those who were to be our companions for the next ten days. Alayna and I giggled as the snoring grew louder. We whispered, trying not to wake them, finding the humor of our plight. We managed to doze and in the morning, eighteen happy faces greeted us as we headed to the loo.

waking:
faces blushed in shame
from wrong conclusions drawn

Delightful confidants, the geriatrics turned out to be. They sang and danced and made us laugh at their antics. We learned that age is not a deterrent to having fun, and we became protected daughters of eighteen doting mothers and fathers who chaperoned us as if we were their charges. Not lacking in energy, despite limps and arthritic knees, they were fun travelers through every tour we'd booked.  No complainers among them, and always the most eager to be underway.

On the last day we visited Pearl Harbor. Alayna and I weren't interested in a monument over a ship that was sunk in WW II.  That was before we'd been born! With a little coaxing from 'Daddy' Glenn, we decided to tag along.  Something happened to us as we walked upon the bridge-like structure that spanned the USS Arizona. Several of the gentlemen in our group were veterans and began telling of their experiences in the war. We listened and learned, both rapt in awe of their memories. Goosebumps covered our skin when we looked into their solemn eyes. In eyes that had gleamed with laughter for the last nine days, we saw anguish as they recalled the horror of it all. 

sunken ship
for their burial tomb:
death beneath the harbor

There was an opportunity that one of us could have been romanced. The island boy who surfed the beach at our hotel was throwing glances our way. We decided to forsake the straight white teeth, handsome face, and seductive stares, and opted to spend our time with those who wore dentures and whose faces were wrinkled by time.

It had only been ten days that we spent on Oahu, but in that time we both grew up. We learned not to judge at first glance, and if given the chance, we would do it all over again. Over the years I've often wondered if the group had ever gathered for another journey.





Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2017


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My Piano Knows

My piano sits alone a lot of days,
       Waiting for someone to come along who plays.
Usually that someone is my son or me,
       But lately since he's in college, it's been me, you see.

My piano knows when I am angry,
       and lets me take out all my anger on the keys.
My piano knows when I am sad,
       and lets me play it until I am glad.

My piano knows when I am in grief,
       because of the songs I play, it's really beyond belief.
And of course my piano knows when I am happy,
       I play songs of contentment and joy and lots are snappy.

I can be feeling blue and play a harmonious melody or two,
       And in no time at all I will feel like new.

But my piano is loved best at Christmas time
       Playing all the Christmas Carols and Christmas Chimes.
Songs of Jesus love for us and how He came to earth.
       Songs of Angels singing and about His lowly birth.

Songs about three wisemen, my piano plays them all,
       "White Christmas" "Blue Christmas" and songs played at the mall.
I love to play my piano for people to enjoy,
       Elderly, mid-age, young folk, and every girl and boy.

But listen carefully dear hearts, take heed in what I say,
       My piano knows that most of all, God gets the praise always!


Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2009


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The Giant of Lisbellaw

Stood I there, that last day,
On an iron bridge...
An aqueduct by design,
Where, looking dreamily out over
The Ernes Lower Lough,
My compressed shadow 
Momentarily paused -
To contently recline:
Amidst coy Junes radiant beams 
of sweet benign!
All was stilled, all was hushed,
Save vast reed beds sided by the
Shallow hills of Lisbellaw;
And I am lost to enchantment
Of such beguiling thoughts -
Then noon stumped up...
Squatting idly down on 
The far eastern shore.

Stirred bloods mixed and
Glowed, 
Risen inside the linings 
Of warmed and prominent veins, 
Starkly contrasting against a 
Bleached and weathered rail of
Coarse and twisted grains; 
Whereon, my hands staid by 
Wonderment,
I dissected my solitary years
Of three singular and two score 
More;
When, suddenly, down the narrow
Lane:
The loudening sounds of 
Motoring -
Progressing steadily along 
Emanating from a diesels engines 
High-torque drawl.

From this carriage alighted an
Elderly man -
But what a giant of a man who
Now stood before!
With shoulders like a Donegal 
Bull -
He must have still stood well 
Over Six foot- four.
And with a courteous nod of the
Head
To an impassioned peroxide 
Blonde,
Whos ample Bosom could bring 
Comfort 
To any mans bed -
Would such that desire should 
Implore,
Stepping assuredly away,
Gently closed the big cars door.

Here was a gentleman schooled 
In concision;
He a masterly exponent in the art 
Of communication
Made more effective by
Elimination of redundancy;
Economy of language, economy of
Movement...
Deliberate, terse, and very much
Versed,
In this, his brevity of 
Installed incumbency.

The thin lines of orange and 
Mauve,
Tracing like fizzing peat turf 
Flame,
That squared within his pale 
Blue shirt,
Criss-crossing at right angles 
Across
His torsos colossal frame;
Where one could plainly see, 
With merely just a single glance,
Demonstration of a mighty fulcrum
Centred by the heavy silvered
Buckle -
Whose leather belt drew in at the 
Neatly pressed pleats
Of the softly blackened corduroy 
Pants.

Compromised somewhat,
And anticipating a reaction
That might be considered rather 
awkward and a little adverse...
Suggested by the immense manner 
Of ambling approach,
I stumbled over meaningless 
Words
As I struggled for something,
However nonsensical, 
To almost apologetically broach:-
"There is rather few Bream",
Said I -
"But the river is brimming over
With plentiful good sized Roach"! 

A quizzical look flickered and then
Mapped itself 
Over that impassive face,
A look that younger or more 
Foolish folks 
Might have mistakenly 
Misinterpreted as an arrogant
Reproach.
Stared he down into the glare
Of the rippled depths...
As if examining the thinness of
My mortal soul;
Stared he distractedly across 
The bays great expanse
As if imploring unto mysterious 
Currents,
Swimming with beguiling Nivian
In swirling dalliance,
That may offer up, like Excalibur -
Some fantastic vision to behold!
Intently pondering;
Perhaps, I reasoned, In search of
His forefathers soothing muses of 
Old
Drawn from legend of folklore:
Doubtless could fortify depleted wit...
And thereby his heart console;
Wherefore, in slow response...
The worthiness of this bridge he
Didst prepare, 
Therefore - to so virtuously extol!

A dialect, commanded by 
Measured brogue,
That over me enveloped
Like fog upon Cuilcaghs mystical
Hills of continually eroding
Sandstones,
Developed through ancestral 
Enhancement...
Indelibly immersed in Fermanaghs 
Guttural and broad undertones;
Enriched by successive generations 
Rejoicing in their Heavenly bower:
Now just buried bones
Rehearsed and blessed in public 
Liturgies
Delivered under Alberts great 
Tower -
Upon whose mouldering caskets 
The bells striking chimes 
So forcefully atones;
And a voice brought hence to this 
Place,
A voice born to converse in 
Singularly articulated lines...
Fortified by propriety of grace...

Whence he spoke:-

"GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN -
FROM OLDEN TIMES"!

Without more ado, and uncaring of
An answer,
He turned and strode away;
Leaving me feeling,
During that brief intrusion of
Heavenly interplay,
As if this had been one of Gods 
Emissaries descended,
During zenith of Prime Meridian,
Upon this devoid and hushed
Highway.
Quickly re-ensconced,
As if demanded by higher 
Authority
To react swiftly through 
Necessity of immediate response,
Bridling horsepower once again 
Reined;
Mighty pistons, growling to life,
Contained -
Within the exploding bore and all 
Its fiery strife!
Wherein the cast block:
Pivotal rods pushing down hard upon 
A ground cranks bolted constrains -
When powering my receding vision 
Away...
Away into the diminishing dusts of 
Hosannas racing refraines.

Left alone,
With head bowed in silent 
Deference... 
For the ruminations of an older
And wiser mans preference,
I knew that I would forever 
Remember
This revered and most hallowed
Day.
For now committed to mind -
Be that Bridges steadfast and 
Enduring designs...

And those eternal words...

"GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN -
FROM OLDEN TIMES"!



A TRUE STORY THAT HAPPENED TO ME 16 YEARS AGO.


Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016


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The Makeover - Still Weeping



Still Weeping

Original poem - Verse - June 8, 2013

Many came with flowers,
rainbows of roses and lilies,
solemn people came and went.

And then it was quiet,
the white snow fell upon me,
as I lay waiting in my eternal peace.

In a low voice father spoke,
with tears so fondly all those years,
then an elderly man came to be with me.

Often my beautiful mother came,
so mournful she came on the coldest days,
then one day she came to be with me forever.

Many times grandmother came,
oh, I remember her sweet, lovely voice,
then she came one dark night to be with me.

Many times a little girl came,
she crooned my precious name, Susie,
her eyes so dark and sad with weeping tears.

And even now, so often,
a woman comes with raven hair falling,
could this be the little girl who is still weeping.

I hear the names she whispers,
she does not cry just for me but for all,
who lay with me beneath the grass, rain and snow.


_________________________________________
Still Weeping The Makeover - Sonnet - March 15, 2015 Many came with flowers, rainbows of roses and lilies, Solemn people came and went, then it was calm; Snow fell upon me as I lay beneath the barren trees, It was quiet when father read me a lovely psalm. In a low voice father spoke to me so sadly for years, Then an old man came to me beneath the azure; Often my beautiful mother mourned me with tears, And soon she also came to be with me forever. With her sweet voice many times grandma came, Then she was with me and I soothed her fears; A little girl crooned Susie, my precious child name, Could this be the young woman who still weeps tears. She weeps and prays for all the names engraved in stone, All who lay with me where wildflowers have grown. ______________________________ March 15, 2015 Verse/Sonnet For the contest, The Makeover, sponsor, Roy Jerden Second Place


Copyright © Broken Wings- Dear Heart | Year Posted 2015


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FAMILY SECRETS

Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone This was the first time I’d laid eyes on your final resting place In front of me stood a grey granite slab covered in emerald moss Green ivy clung to the stone and snaked round the nearby yew tree It was evident your grave had not been visited for many many years In fact, until ten days ago I didn’t know you existed … A family secret kept hidden from me by my elderly ‘mother’ It wasn’t until her recent death I discovered the real truth At the will reading the lawyer presented me with an envelope Spidery handwriting revealed that my real mother died in childbirth I discovered that I’d been adopted; my real name was Sara James Seeing my original birth certificate for the first time was a huge shock Now I know the reason I felt that I never belonged With my raven hair and pale skin I looked very different from my sister Beth I’d been told I looked like my great aunt and I’d never queried this Now I stand in front of the plot where my real mother is buried I spend an hour weeding, tidying and cleaning the gravestone Rivers of tears run down my face when I finally reveal the inscription Carved in the decaying stone I read Ellen James - died 17th April 1953 aged 33 Fell asleep with her tiny angel Susan James - died 17th April 1953 born sleeping Family secrets kept hidden in the graveyard Sobbing bitter tears I kneel down and leave a red rose For my mother and my twin sister that until today I never knew existed Fictional write for Camouflage me a Poem Contest Sponsored by Broken Wings Theme 1 chosen - Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone 08~04~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016


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A Prayer for the Elderly

I prayed today for the elderly
They long to hear for you to say
Words of love and words of praise
With acts of kindness they once gave.

And if you’re going by their way
They’d like for you to stop and pay
A visit where you both can play
Disregard what you may.

Before their heads they shall lay
At night before the sun and it’s ray
When they bow their heads as they pray
Praying you and everyone will be okay.

Brenda Elizabeth Rose


Copyright © Brenda Rose | Year Posted 2016


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COURAGE VS CONFLICT

COURAGE VS. CONFLICT
The history of man defines Ape as a primate. Man seems to be in that mind-set today. He lives life as pent because he denies himself religious freedoms. God refined humankind once before and, therefore, he will do the same once more. The factor ends when iniquity meets perilous world. The mania of man will bring forth extinction. In parable, the elderly wisdom was predefined by the life they had lived since the beginning of time. They had seen themselves within their prime and captured these elements through their way of life. Their beauty was not a basis to define. They were primates of mammal and nomadic. Their skin was olive nonwhiten via sunshine. They hunted with self-made weapons and brought back a feast many times. However, one male cultivated the mind. He invented weapons for prosperity. An abundance of wealth all received.
Today is venturous. Humankind has crested to another prehistoric image. Our originations through inventions and development have implemented innovations. Our minds must continue to reinvent not to become another mandrill. The core of our existence relies on this. We are human beings and the highest intelligence. Insofar as we are not predetermine... Insofar as we are no predestine to a grandeur form... Insofar as we see no more adjustments that are required for humankind physiological form... We have peaked physiologically. Therefore, we will henceforth to inform our mental faculty. ____________________________________________________|
Penned on October 19, 2014!


Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014


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Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

I come to you with a special need
Please keep me humble as I succeed
My Lord within the breath of this prayer
For all those in need I offer care
The elderly call me when in need
Lord, forever help me plant thy seed
I pray dear Lord to never forget
The things in my life that I regret
Let me use those things so I can be
Forever serving you humbly 






Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009


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Rainbows Dreaming of Gray

Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.

"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms, 
"Someday soon you will understand."

And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.

But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.

So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.



NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014


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Grandfather Speaks with Eagles

Irony cries out in Boulet’s rendering. Elderly Native American’s stern expression seems captured beneath eagle’s wings. Symbol of power and freedom, mighty bald eagle was chosen by European ancestors - United State’s national symbol. Yet independence for all was denied. Tribes seeking only to preserve their culture, their way of life, were undeservingly imprisoned on reservations. Stifled was freedom’s speech. Let the eagle’s voice be heard; toleration of injustice carries harsh consequences. Spread your wings, powerful bird, restore harmony to land seduced, neglected, compromised. Transmit tribal elders’ timely message. Human annihilation’s path is cruelly carved when animals and plants face extinction. Mounds of trash blister our land; parched prairies struggle to support life. Sorrowful cries of dying species echo through stripped land, causing songs of despair to resonate. Grandfather, speak with eagles; others appear deaf to your wisdom.
*Written October 15, 2014 and dedicated to late artist Susan Seddon Boulet, whose 2003 painting “Grandfather Speaks with Eagles” is but one of many pieces that evoke emotional response.


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014


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Portrait of a Public Servant

It is 3:00 a.m. on an icy cold winter morning. A piercing alarm shatters the silence at the station, and he is sped away on a flashing red vehicle, horns blaring, to respond to the emergency. At the scene all three floors of the tenement are engulfed in flames which are spreading to adjoining buildings on either side. With selfless dedication and tremendous courage, he rushes into that awesome inferno. He is a professional firefighter in the city's Fire Department. But so many people never think of these virtues which carry him through his work. Dedication… As a public servant hired by the city, he is needed by every man, woman, and child therein. This requires selfless dedication, for his purpose to save the lives and property involved in a fire emergency comes above all else. It may mean leaving Thanksgiving dinner at home with the family to respond to a three-alarm fire. It sometimes requires working on important holidays, so that the entire city is protected each minute of every day. It demands hours of study, drills, attending classes, constantly upgrading techniques and solving the new problems in firefighting. It involves endless paperwork and reports. It means being on call at all times to come to the aid of others in trouble. This is dedication. Courage… A lighted match held close can often produce fear in the average individual. What a tremendous amount of courage it takes to run into a burning structure with flames licking at him from all directions… to enter the interior which is charged with dense smoke, where visibility is zero and requires him to crawl on his hands and knees, close to the floor where it is less thick, in order to see anything at all. But he forgets the risks. Most important is to rescue the trapped children, the elderly grandfather, or anyone possibly hiding under a bed, or squeezing behind a stove or refrigerator as they so often do in panic; or those screaming at a window, in which case he must scale the outside of the building on a ladder and attempt to bring them down to safety. This is courage. I admire and respect him for these traits. They are part of him as a firefighter fulfilling those duties which are so often taken for granted. However, I do not take them for granted. His virtues never leave my mind. He is my husband. © Sandra M. Haight 2014 All Rights Reserved ~8th Place~ Contest: Sketch a Character Sponsor: Gautami Phookan in honor of my husband a firefighter for 27 years who retired as Assistant Chief


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014


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The Fairy Tale

THE FAIRY TALE

Long ago, far away
As the elderly birch trees say
There lived a beautiful girl, in the castle of misty dreams,

Her eyes were abyssal,covered by angel's wings
The smell of mystery lingered in her dark hair 

But she never smiled,never talked,dark clouds hovering o'er her pallid face
Dreams and dreams hurried away through the window of her distant gaze.

No wonder the castle hid itself in the fog of loneliness,
All day long it cried and cried waiting for the sunlight.

Till one day the winds raced,through the walls of the dark castle
Every tree and every bird looked in awe,as God glided through the forest
He moved in speed towards that window, the once silent forest gossiped about his arrival.


Her little heart jumped and hummed like the commotion outside,
To catch a glimpse of him she spread her gaze wide..
He loomed across her window, still, for the first time.

He thought, he found, what he searched, whom he knew through the ages
All the happiness came alive as letters out of the amber pages.

She knew she cried, she never smiled as she was waiting to be found,
Watching him so close by, her heart rhymed the only sound.

The clouds raced far away,
Through the mist the sunrays made way, 
the misty dreams melted away.

One embrace,one silent gaze,she smiled, the alabaster foam danced over the waves,
The rosy colour flew across her beautiful face.
The trees sang, the birds tweeted, the octaves danced on their own
The seeds of love found their way out of the rock one again.

Long ago, far away...
The castle glowed, the gloom faded away..


Copyright © Moumita Dey | Year Posted 2015


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If I Ruled the World


If I ruled the world I'd paint it mostly blue,
Spiders would build the finest webs - I'd decree the morning dew,
Auroras would shimmer above the poles, their colors ringing true,
Those would follow my first thought, "Good grief! What will I do?"

Puppies would be off to run and romp, kittens added to the chases,
Mountains, deserts and oceans - set down in law as special places,
The red kite's ride, the jaguar's stride, moon and trees within their races,
The sable's fur, the cheetah's purr, we'd acknowledge such given graces,
And I'd praise the honored beauty in elderly people's faces.

Wind would dance across the sand, long waves would come ashore,
Unfair rebukes and tactical nukes - do we need this stuff anymore?
Graceful herds would move around the Serengeti plain,
I'd reach across the ocean, try to lessen my good friend's pain.

I'd find the key to hardened hearts,
To quell our many tribal wars,
Diplomatic smarts and peaceful arts,
Those things I'd underscore.

No more homeless, evermore - from that they would be free,
(I'd live with the skepticism that we could ever all agree.)
I'd want to know all the poets, every poet that can be,
To never miss the poetry, it's in every soul, you see.


24 February 2017


Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2017


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Those who are now elderly sit and reminisce

Those who are now elderly sit and reminisce
of sweet idyllic days which often they miss.
Sitting as families in beaming abodes
whilst a flickering fire dances and glows
Cosy nights in with cards and knitting
and days in the garden, weather permitting.
Snakes and ladders with family members
bed time when fire burns to smouldering embers

At school they were eager and behaved well
parting from friends with kind farewell
walking home with no worries or cares
helping with tea, then bed after prayers.
Yes, they love to recall memories of times
they learned stories and recited rhymes.
Played games with balls and skipping ropes
grew up with imagination, dreams and hopes

Now the old are found to sit and moan
at the new technology they are shown
the transportation speeding past
how times have progressed much too fast
What happened to appreciating what you got
being thankful despite not receiving a lot
Now seized by temptation, money and greed
today we're consumed by the need to succeed

The loud and so-called 'unique' youth
appear as disorderly, rude and uncouth
the bright, colourful and distinct attire
Is received as offensive, obnoxious and dire
Teenagers walking in packs of elite
music blasting with no rhythm or beat
the old will avoid and cross the road
feeling hostile on return to their abode

The clashes in cultures cause opposition
juveniles grow with too much ambition
thoughts  consumed with riches and fame
money, films, music and fashion to blame
little time for families, never mind schools
displaying no respect and breaking rules
What happened to growing with parents as guide?
what happened to strolling in the countryside?


Copyright © Not Telling | Year Posted 2009


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Memories of You

There was a little boy whom I called “Joshie.”  He had a face like sunshine. He would play outside all the time; never coming in when I said to. He loved to skateboard until the sun went down. I would say “Joshie come in; this is going to get the best of you!”  He would just smile that silly grin and look down. He loved to help the elderly for he felt their pain. He charmed them with his compassion and passion. He loved pen and paper, brush and paint, too. For art was his talent, it was what he loved to do. Awards were plenty, recognition was abound. Once they found Joshie’s work, nothing could turn them around. He loved his dog Oliver, just a little thing at that. Whenever he would lick me, Joshie said he was giving me a bath! Joshie was good with the little ones for he knew how to play. Make believe was his specialty and it was always a good day. Grandma K-K and he were very close; little spats now and then. The best she only wanted, so she gave much attention to him. Jonathan, Joshie’s little brother, was the greatest of all. He did want not to be called Jon-Jon because that made him feel small.  Joshie taught Jonathan to ride, and Jon taught Joshie to skate. It really did not matter for they always stayed up late.  Jingle bells and peppermint sticks; our favorite time of year. Houses lit with colors. What is your favorite pick?  Joshie awoke with the sun, while Jonathan wanted none. So, the stairs down Joshie would go ready to take a peek; deciding to open everything just so we could sleep!  But, they grew older.  And, Joshie moved to the city. He was not well, but he did not dwell, 
He just did not reach out to us. The evils of this world encircled my son and slowly took him in. The devil and all his workers really did a number on him. I reached, and reached stretching my arms long.. I called for help, but no response for he was gone. He was going down a path of destruction, and there was no reason or deduction. I thought I would watch him simmer that the bad habits would slowly evaporate. But, the more I watched, the more he detached and Joshie seemed to dissipate. Merry Christmas, Mommy!..... I love you, Joshie. But, can we go back to bed?.....Only if you take me, ‘cause there is no one I want instead. The last time I said “Goodnight”... they were burying him in the ground. The pain remains; the memory will not fade. I just want him around.


Holly P. Moore
October 2012



Copyright © HOLLY MOORE | Year Posted 2012


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Playing Make-Believe


I have many happy dreams of my childhood life,
      Mother and father and grandma made it special;
Playing make-believe was something I really loved,
            I  could do that for hours and hours and hours.

Father made me a table and chairs for tea parties,
      I  even had a cabinet for dishes donated by mother;
Pretty dishes that I dreamt of having myself one day,
            And now I have lovely vintage dishes in my home.

                              (I like to set the table with mixed-up dishes)

Grandma provided some of her old clothes and jewels, 
      Now I have a passion for vintage clothing and jewelry;
I adored my dolls and still I have many of them on shelves,
            They used to sit on chairs listening to my stories.

Mother said, "that girl sure can tell stories and stories,"
      I could ramble on for hours and hours and hours;
And the bud of a writer was blooming in childhood play,
            And now I write poems and stories gossamer.

                                (I write of my childhood dreams and my life)

It soon became clear that I loved animals of all kinds,
      Carrying them home for repairs and tender loving care;
Father said, " she will either be a vet or work in a zoo,"
            I became an advocate for animal rights and protection.

Always I have loved cats and my first came at Christmas,
      Snowball was her name and I dreamt of owning all kinds;
A steady succession of cats have brought me happiness,
           My old fat cat reminds me of a childhood stuffed toy.

                              (My kitten needs to grow into her big ears)

Of couse I dreamt of meeting my prince charming,
      And I did,  the moment I saw him I knew love;
My heart and soul is his forever and for all eternity,
            Our love is like a stream that goes on and on.

I once had a good job with the welfare department,
      They sent me to Hudson Bay to help the Inuit;
That work was so rewarding and filled me with pride,
             But the child in me had dreamt of much more.

                           (I loved the beauty of the north not the poverty)

I never dreamt that I would ever become a nurse,
      But I am and this job brings me happiness;
Helping the elderly has become my mission in life,
            A frail hand in mine brings me tranquility. 

So much of the child who was me remains,
     That little child dreaming and rambling on and on;
She still exits in my soul and she still dreams,
            Even sometimes she plays make-believe.

                             (That girl dreaming , she now dreams poems)

____________________________
August 11, 2015

Narrative 

Submitted to the contest,  New or Old 5
Sponsor, Eve Roper

First Place 


Copyright © Broken Wings- Dear Heart | Year Posted 2015


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EVERYONE NEEDS TO READ THIS

There are so many people who will stand up
In the cause of speaking for others, but
What is the motivation for this act
I mean what do they gain to be more exact
I mean, they speak for some, but who will speak for all 
Whose Life is more valuable....that's what I must ask yall
At the moment of conception, who will we cherish
And who will receive our condolences when they perish
Some never got to taste breath, many never saw the light of day
And if they had a chance, I imagine this is what they'd say
I never got my chance to lie, I never got my chance to tell the truth
I never got to be the elderly, I never got to be the youth
I never got to Love, I never got to hate
I never had to rush, I never had to wait
I never got to laugh, I never got to cry
I didn't get to win or lose, I didn't even get to try
I have never seen the sun, I have never seen the moon
I never felt a midnight, I never touched a noon
I never got to steal, I never got to earn
I never got to teach, I never got to learn
I didn't get to work, I didn't get to play
I never had to leave, I never got to stay
I never had my chance to listen, I never had my chance to tell
I never got to buy, I never got to sell
I never got to kill, I never got to save
I never had my chance to be bad, I never had my chance to behave
I was never your worst enemy, I was never you closest friend
I never forgot to say I Love you or to ask how have you been
But it's only Life right....I mean, you got your chance to record it
But we will never get ours....we are the aborted

"The Aborted"
by:  Eric L. Boddie


Copyright © eric boddie | Year Posted 2015


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All About Cecilia

Middle child of seven siblings and has had a troubled childhood
It has made me a stronger person, just not easily understood
Had a baby at seventeen and had to grow up in a flash
Now tends to over think, tries not to do anything rash.

I have dark long blond hair, hazel eyes and an infectious smile
Patient, laid back, but still gets frustrated every once in a while
Likes long hot showers and is wise with money
Drinker of herbal teas and hot lemon with ginger and honey

Friendly, outgoing and loves to laugh
Driven, ambitious does nothing by half
Enjoys to read, dance and play scrabble
Inspired by poetry, in writing it I dabble.

Is a PSW in long term nursing care
Empathy for the elderly I can't but share
Loves truly and deeply, is a hopeless romantic
Directionally challenged without a GPS I become frantic.

Mother of three sons, who enriched by life with so much joy
Recently blessed with a grand daughter, who I cherish, love and enjoy
Kindhearted, non judgmental and a very loyal friend
I'm always there when needed, on me you can depend.

Never smoked, did drugs and rarely ever has an alcoholic drink
Likes crosswords and sudoku, games that make me think
Loves sea food, sauteed onions and homemade soup
Energized by biking, long hikes and is a leader in a scouting group.

Moved by Nickleback's song, 'If Today Was Your Last Day'
For we should live life to the fullest, let nothing stand in our way
My favorite movie is 'Ever After' starring my favorite actress Drew Barrymore
Hoping like the movie that my prince charming will soon walk through my door.

****Sidney ~ LeeAnn's " All About ___ " poetry contest ****


Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane | Year Posted 2012


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Taxed to the Hilt

My hero is Henry David Thoreau
Rather than pay taxes, to jail he’d go
     With Uncle Sam’s hand out
     Thoreau turned up his snout
Refused the poll tax, voting he’d forego

An elderly woman across the street
High property taxes she could not meet
     Her house went to foreclosure
     Homeless, died of exposure
While the politicians live on High Street

Jonah dwelt in the belly of a whale
No taxes on such a home did prevail
      But as soon as he got out
     Jonah faced taxes no doubt
Moby Dick's "inner condo" is for sale



Entry for the Taxing Times contest


Copyright © Diane Locksley | Year Posted 2011


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Seize The Moment

Live for today, our wisdom cries,
On looking back through endless years
To youthful days with mackerel skies
When joy of living outweighed fears

Let's seize this moment while we can
Latch on to this day of life,
Those inner joys shared when a man
Does truly love his loving wife.

Leave old age for the elderly;
Let them reminisce
About the past, the things they've done,
The good old days they miss.

With age and wisdom as our forte
Let's love and laugh and roister.
Our ship has finally made the port;
The world's at last our oyster.

Our best of times ahead still lie
With greater happiness than ever.
Though yesterdays have all flown by
Tomorrow's dreams will last forever.


Copyright © Warren Dickman | Year Posted 2015


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Memory Quilt

Memory Quilt       “ For Auction contest “

Welcome all to today’s prestige event
Let us start the day ladies and gentlefolk
We have this wonderful memory quilt 
For your deliberation and delectation today
It was made by two elderly spinster sisters 
When they decided to do this quilt they decided a pattern
And they thought they would use pieces from dresses
The one they wore in their younger years
There are pieces from a day dresses, morning, and evening
Each one holding a special memory for them both
As they had worn them to many events when young
Each section of cloth has been cut very precise and sew with loving care
A selection of shapes are involved in this,
The principle ones, lozenge and triangle shape to form the main squares
This then makes up the size large enough to be used on the bed
They embellished it with heart and circles and lovely flowers
These being the decorations from the dresses themselves
This work took the sister six years to lovingly to complete
And it is all hand stitched onto a pale blue linen cloth to hold it complete
This wonderful piece comes with a description of each dress
Also on which occasion it was worn by either of them
It became an item beyond price to them when it was finished 
I hope ladies and gentlemen that this will give some idea 
Of the memories, work and heart ache involved 
In the making of this superb memory quilt
I know that this quilt will reach a very high price today
Myself I would place a bid of fifteen thousand
But it will not be enough I fear



Copyright © MARY GRACE | Year Posted 2016


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Believe

The scent of lavender and Rosemary 
In the hedgerows as I walk 
The fox disappearing so quickly 
Into the hollow caves of chalk.

Within the old oak acre 
The trees reach up to meet the sky 
A humming bird providing magic for 
A little boys enquiring eye .

Then I see her wild raven hair 
and those gleaming emerald eyes 
She beckons me with her finger 
To disobey would be unwise .

Though she may be elderly 
I know she'll bring me luck 
So I carry her crockery 
To wash in the friars brook

Then I fetch her water 
and I do not spill a drop
I turn to leave as I was taught to 
She insists I stop . 

She takes my hand in her hand 
In silence she reads my palm
I don't know how but I understand 
This lady means me no harm .

Then she made a big mistake 
Her story did not make sense 
What does a child know of heartbreak
Or its dreadful consequence .

I was to remain faithful to my conviction 
and true love would find me 
I must not be swayed by contradiction 
The colour of lavender held my destiny .

At home my grandma told me 
Gypsies were fantastic at reading sign 
That dear old lady Rosie 
Had just predicted mine .

I have had so many heartaches 
As into a man I grew 
but forever love make no mistake 
I still believe in you.



Copyright © DARREN WATSON | Year Posted 2014