Best Grey Haired Poems
I wander far from the coal-tar smog
and buzzing sounds of the city
to a place where I can smell
fresh-cut hay in a tepid breeze.
I stroll through a woodland path
winding its way along evergreen trees.
Like a silver-lime leaf my heart
settles in Willington waters
I know I belong to the lake.
In distance white butterflies follow
the whistling tunes of an old railway train.
Infront of me set sail long canal boats
Behind me dogs bark,men walk
A grey-haired lady stirs crystals of sugar
in bone-china cups filled with english tetley tea.
The out-stretched arms of dandelions
welcome home foraging honey-bees
A Peak District Chalet in the little mountain village
awaits my return,my forgotten pen
and new sunset dreams
Inspired by my last trip to England.
So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.
Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.
Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.
A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.
I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.
August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth
*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.
The Mayans were an intelligent lot,
At least that’s what I’m told.
So I sat around for umpteen years
Just waiting for Doomsday to unfold
I watched as some around me
Sold everything they had.
While others took the attitude,
Awww, It won’t be all that bad.
There were many other seers –
We’ve heard them in the past.
They predicted things like earthquakes,
Or some atomic blast.
Well, the date that we read into
That gigantic Mayan wheel
Was actually unimportant
And really no big deal.
We put so much importance
On things that all began
When, perhaps, we used bad ciphering
By some old grey-haired man.
Did he know of the importance
Of things he did that day?
Or did he sit there figurin’
On tricks that he could play?
So, I’m left to sit and wonder.
Where would we be today?
Suppose he’d dropped a decimal point
Could doomsday be another day?
Written By John Posey
12/24/12
"The Ways"
Failure, my grey haired mentor
Toil with me once more
Send me into bowels of competition
Content with loss, experience
Leave me now, I will never learn again
Build me up, a camel under burden
Knock me down, a reluctant pugilist
Prepare me for our assault on reality
Fear resides inside me, successor
Witness to frightening change
Comforts of defeat are fleeting
Status quo won't fool me again
The journey, the pleasure, all gone
Consumed in an avalanche of old
A game of sport yields victors so sad
champions go nowhere but down
Sitting on the bus with a
thirst. My little girl asking
me for a drink, yet I have
nothing to give.
A kind
stranger over hears. An old
lady with silvery grey hair.
She taps my daughter on the
shoulder with a bottle of spring
water.
It is a lesson learned, giving
from the heart. Sometimes you do
not need to look far. The human
touch can still spill from the heart
with love, meaning so much.
My faith has
increased from that encounter, that
minute in the hour. With an old
silvery grey haired lady on the bus.
Put it down to a grey-haired obsession;
Participles are a vexed question.
Even though it sounds quaint,
Elegant it ain't,
Robbing gerunds of their possessions!
Oh a Nation of Assault
Whilst we're all in default
Reminescent of former cataclysm
Government locked the vault
how much longer shall we wait
as the grey haired fools debate
Listening to the tale of jobs they will avail
A generation of innovation is at hand
will they listen
So prosperity can expand
the families suffer
with little buffer
When healthcare is in despair
and college loans unfair
Senior citizens living on a prayer
Its hard to be aware
Do you Dare
Corporate Greed is how they feed
starts as a seed, becomes a need
Dictate Dictate Dictate
Then they turn the table and
give the activist a label
They wont be happy till they are done
When no one can afford to have fun
Theres a lot pain
When your at the bottom of the food chain
In the richest nation in the world
Light of day
brings
a visitor.
Magnificent,
grey-haired
bastard
from
nowhere
but here.
Banters at me,
"There is a
plan for you."
With hands spread
illustrates,
"From birth
to death..."
Pauses
and waits
for me.
Then in revelation,
"and in between..."
Comes the promise,
"is life."
Having an obvious proclivity for story-telling,
the old man leaned forward in his chair,
eager to impress the grey-haired men gathered around him
while he continued with the saga of his most peculiar life.
With each slight nuance of his speech
and with every twist in the plot of his tale,
he was able to hold them all spell-bound!
I can attest to this, for I watched him
as he cleverly mesmerized the group of men
for a little over an hour!
There seemed to be no aperature through which
any one man could slip into inattentiveness,
for that old storyteller would gesture wildly in one moment
and then – in the next- - he would pause for dramatic effect,
and then he was immediately back to his fascinating narration.
I wondered as I listened to him -
how did this wizened centenarian
still show the marrow to continue at such a pace?
At last, I could tell that he was winding down.
His nursing home peers, hanging onto his every word,
leaned forward in their seats
as he, at the same time, leaned into them – his adoring audience -
and delivered the climax!
I myself was inwardly chuckling, knowing
that the story he told was not his own!
He had ripped off the plot of the most engaging movie
which I had seen recently at a local theater.
But how were the other old men to know that?
In this barren place, they never got out to see movies.
The storyteller was the new kid on the block!
I marveled to think this man now 100 years old
had recently seen a contemporary movie still in the theaters!
For sure, nobody else in that group had seen movies
inside an actual movie house for at least the past decade!
I had to hand it to the guy; his temerity was epic.
He was -after all -
one to tell stories!
Nov. 16, 2018 for John Hamilton's 'Eight word challenge-9' Poetry Contest
~~~~~~ *-* ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ *-* ~~~~~~
" come fluttering words, come drifting words to me . . ."
Once upon a time in a vicinity, year 1895
A maiden's dwelling in an old-fashioned antique edifice
Lavishing her every second in an everlasting woe
Cursed by her yesterday's ordeal
An appalling juncture - Striking ...
Mind still delineate the affliction
Coercing herself to bury the reminiscence
Yet every single thing she sees is a replica
Reflects the montage of the man
Living alone in the rocking chair
Sited in a chamber beside the glass window
Overlooking outside " his " small world
Isolated...quarantined - declining with his incorrigible ailment
That aged man...around 90's - grey haired
Crease are seen - brought by the yesteryears suffrage
Eyes almost close - going to surrender everything
No words come out - voiceless
Yet words come fluttering and drifting to him
Through " his " heart's voice of love...
Retrospection stocked in nowhere in space...
Little by little ALZHEIMER'S DISEASE masticating his very last breath. . . . . . .
Now, residing solely - she's so sick
In this vintage, life-vacated home
Together with the last flowers
Given before " his " death
The only reason why she's still breathing for life
Petals are falling like raindrops as her tears do so
Almost ceasing her life too with the malaise
As the flower abandoned by its only glory
Wishing to go where her father go.
~~~~~~ *-* ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ *-* ~~~~~~
===========================================
*-* *-* jun-jun villanueva
*-* *-* " WHAT IS SHE THINKING " contest
*-* *-* July 15, 2011
As we sat for a quick evening snack
A knock on our door came with a smack.
A thoughtful lady whom we adore,
Our sweet grey-haired neighbor from next door,
Brought dinner, dessert, and candlelight,
With a string quartet for our delight.
Living as a pair in a hurry
We forgot our anniversary!
Pomp and Circumstance
time and life got in the way
grey haired graduate
There once came a grey haired old man.
Or am I mistaken was it rather a ma'am?
Nevertheless he big brought gifts
And climbed big cliffs
To deliver them to his little fans.
The hazy morning dew of spring
Glitters as a Sheppard’s son
Envelops a gentle fawn
On equally wobbly knees.
Clear blue summer afternoons
Shine as a man
Wrestles the mighty lion
On legs of iron.
Foggy chill-winter nights
Freeze as a grey-haired man
Nods to a inky crow
On sticks of wood.
Between hypnagogic trances
And vivid hallucinations
The flats, sharps, and rests
Of tones reflect off
A Queen Alexandria’s wings
As the Monarch soars by
At seventeen miles per hour.
Taking place in dreams and time.
Insomnia begins to blend
Real and fantasy
Today and tomorrow
Then and now
Who and how
Misty harbors of psyche
Attain carnal knowledge
On the grassy knoll of
Psilocybin. Exploding
Inside a weary head
With finger paints
On a black canvas.
Fickle now the transcendence
Of the color spectrum
As it aligns to those
Who die and are dying
Dig no more for the chains of his grey haired heart
keeping his bones away from the common cart
A wild man who caught and sang the sun in flight
raging going not gentle to that good night
Time holds him still green dead owl crossed on his way
even his glazed blazing meteor eyes were so gay
Simple Welshman not for this proud man apart
love its arms no praise wages for craft or art
Tell on the streets on its back he threw the sun
singing in his chains to there the sea undone
They say never trust a man who does not drink
Dylan Thomas did his best do you not think
Dylan Thomas this his centenary
born on October 27 1914
One of the worlds best poets