Best Lifeold Poems
A busy road.
A tree stump.
An old man.
Everyday at eight 'o clock
He sits there, cane tapping
just watching cars go by--
I among them
Such a lonely man
I say to myself
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Same old man.
He looks up, cane twirling
and smiles at me
in that split second
I smile back
A roadside friend is gained.
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different old man.
Day after day
He waves hi--cane dancing
Smiling
I wave goodbye,
no time to stop
Same busy road
Same tree stump
No old man
I screech to a halt
Ask of his absence
Clutching
a piece of paper
found taped on his cane
I weep in my car
and send a prayer
of thanks
to my roadside friend
Eleven words
Changed my world.
"Thank you lady in the blue car.
You make my day."
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different me.
The old truck hadn't been used in a while,
But it should be good for a few more miles.
Under the hood, the engine was rusty,
And the interior smelled faintly musty.
Assuming it would start--we all wanted to know...
When we put it in gear, would it actually go?
Someone called,"All the tires are flat".
But a little new air would take care of that.
Better get some fuel, since the gauge is on "E".
Wash the windshield, so the driver can see.
No problem to let it coast downhill to the mechanic's shop;
Next question:Are the brakes good enough to make it stop?
The truck was so bad, it had no heater fan.
But the Master Mechanic had a Master plan!
He took it to His shop for the needed repairs.
'Twas quite a long time that He kept it there.
He tinkered, and cut, and removed lots of stuff
Solving problems we had thought were real tough.
He put in new hoses, gaskets, and such.
What a joy to watch His skillful touch,
As He cut away the old to make room for the new.
Finally the day arrived when he was all through.
A great crowd gathered around the shop door,
To behold the new creation, there on the floor!
It was washed up, and pumped up,and all the fluids were filled.
Even the body He had been forced to rebuild.
Fresh paint;new tires;and the engine a'humming.
It was ready to face the world oncoming!
When flaws seem difficult to be fixed by man.
Stand back, and watch the touch of the Master's Hand.
Charlie Pelota
The Old man of Merces
His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain
His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep
Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound
A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him
My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese
Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder
After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed
With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
---
1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal
Feb.2010
Ten little toes, precious and sweet.
Connected to, chubby one year old feet.
Running across, my freshly washed floors.
Muddy footprints that start at my door.
Ten little toes, painted hot pink,
from under the hem, they peek beneath.
As she stands barefoot in her moms dress,
in the mirror, a seven year old fashion success.
Ten little toes, steps into her gown.
So happy in love, her feet don't touch the ground.
Standing there waiting, for the first note,
shoes in one hand, the other, the vows that she wrote.
Ten little toes, a miracle to see,
connected to, chubby new born feet.
Soon to be running across my floors.
A Granddaughter carried, through my front door.
For the contest "Barefoot"
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
Placement: 2nd
A Renga for Poetry Soup:
Meander
Time and the river
Endless silver morning
Autumn leaves float by
Shimmering streaming mountains
Pines swaying in constant winds
Morning mirror
Another gray hair
Ah! the wind of time
Spring's last daffodil
Plucked for a dinner paty
Diamond blue fragments
Reflecting off stream waters
Another moonrise
Sunset colors disappear
Shooting stars
Campfire sparks
Fresh fish and conversation
Embracing shadows
How many friends have vanished?
Canyon echoes
Retirement time
Facing all the could-have-beens
Tears in whiskey
Quietly at the gravesite
For her long dead daughter
Rolling ocean waves
At the sunset horizon
A ship disappears
Dry pine needles underfoot
In the distance, tolling bells
The sound of a car
Approaching - disappearing
Sleepless night
Between the windowsill plants
A single moth, dry as dust
Cloud shrouded moon
Moire patterns fill the sky
Wandering ghosts
Great grandfather's photograph
Fading before my eyes
Dried flowers
Holding a spider's web
Sunrise
Children building sandcastles
The sound of waves and laughter
The old phonograph
A song from long ago
A shaft of dust-light
Sitting on a redwood stump
A logger counts his wages
Stopping to listen
An unknown bird's mournful song
Fern embroidery
Seeds on the wind drifting by
Tea kettle whistles
In the dazzling sunlight
Achingly white billow clouds
Ring of blue
A drone of mid-day falling
On the autumn wind meadow
A hawk ascending
Call of triumph echoing
A trout in her talons
Smoke from the hermit's cabin
No one remembers his name
Winter rain
The dry emerald brook
Resurrection
Waking from a flight filled dream
Facing the machine filled day
Watching the moon set
Chaotic starshine appears
Orion's embrace
Singing satellites sparkle
Between the winter branches
River of wonder
Filling the child's eyes
Christmas morning
Bright snow on the open field
Melting in the winter thaw
All that I can find
Of the homesteader's church --
The empty window frame
Spring breeze rustling the old tree
The sound of grass and lilacs
The old woman
Serves herself a cup of tea
With her memories
Forest boulder
April rain
Lord give me strength, but most of all I need understanding,
this old world has gotten crazy, unstable, and so overwhelming and demanding.
Things that you know are wrong, get the go ahead, the proverbial green light,
what has happened to our fortitude, our willingness to make things right.
Growing up if we heard the hell word used, most of us would blush a glowing shade of red,
now if you don't cuss, people think you're a little sick in the head.
You can color me old fashion or anything that you choose,
but I liked those old days much better, maybe I have lost most of my screws.
I think the sixties was a turning point for this country, what with the hippies and the
Vietnam War,
it divided this country, and left a festering scar.
That was when drugs and free love seemed to take center stage,
that was when my age group the “Baby Boomers” were the main rage.
I couldn't see it back then, all the damage we were doing,
but the storm clouds we created were savagely brewing.
All the good and right our forefathers fought so hard to protect and keep,
we destroyed and now what we sowed we must reap.
We created a monster that only God can make right,
we've unleashed the devil, and he's full bloom into flight.
Like the genie that is out of the bottle, there is no way to get him to go back,
he's feeding on our children, so evil a heart, so calloused and black.
Sometimes I just want to say
I reckon it doesn’t matter any way
I remember once I watched a ghost
Fly into a soul and become the host
As darkness inhales clear blue sky’s
Mothers feeling their children’s cries
In a distant bar there is a singer who sings
As two more betray their wedding rings
Gliding upon the dance floor of lust
If you burn the toast scrape the crust
On the other side of town a call is made
Another soul is offered up for trade
Trading tricks just to ride the white horse
Steady as she goes and stay the course
A little old lady about 60 pounds
Grabs her chest and hits the ground
A baby is born to the most awful fate
Parents drinking from the pool of hate
They had no love and with noting to hold
Play in the snow and you will get cold
An old man could no longer take the strife
He grabbed his chest and fell next to his wife
I guess that is how strong love should be
If you have to go then please wait for me
As suddenly as it started it was all over
A man finally found a four-leaf clover
He left home when he was barely thirteen,
Said he got tired of getting beat, by an old man that was down right mean.
Said it might have been different, had he done something wrong,
He said shoot I ain’t perfect, but I know when I don’t belong.
He said momma left when I was just nine,
She said she couldn’t live with a man who wouldn’t choose her over moonshine.
And after that it was hell to pay,
Cause he’d get drunk dang near every day.
So I kind of figured I’d get out while I could,
Cause the life at home sure weren’t no good.
It’s been pretty rough out here, but I’m finally learning my way,
Picking up cans and bottles pretty much makes up my day.
Well I’ve been on my own for a little over three years now,
Don’t know what happened to my old man, don’t really care anyhow.
Went by the house once and it was all boarded up and had police tape draped cross the door,
You can bet I wasn’t going back in there that’s for sure.
Shoot I appreciate the money, what’d ya call this an interview,
Shoot mister there’s a lot of kids out here like me, and this was the only thing they
could do too.
At 85, the old lady inches slowly
towards her living room
holding firmly to her walker,
her mind is sharp-as sharp as it's ever
been.
Her legs have become weak
with age,
she can no longer see clearly,
any visitors who ring at her door;
nor can she hear them.
Her friends have all passed
leaving her alone,
the last remaining
"Golden Girl."
At 15, the cat sits quietly in
the doorway,
the days of chasing balls and
imaginary birds
have long since passed.
Her body aches with arthritis
and her kidneys are failing.
Reaching her chair, the old lady
slowly lowers herself
careful not to fall.
She raises the footrest
and covers her legs with the quilt
she keeps nearby.
Seeing this silent signal
the old cat moves across the room
and, with great effort
jumps into her lap.
The two, having grown old together
settle into the familar comfort
that each has come to know.
A gentle pet on the head,
a grateful purr
they close their eyes.
Hope built upon the sand
as castles before the waves.
Heart filled with Puppy love
and hymns sung beneath
Daddy's watchful eye.
Nothing Holy remains
Happy a forgotten word.
Love drowned in Jack and coke
before he was thee years old.
No harmony in that house
that house not a home.
Her health a poor excuse to stay
a good excuse to leave him home.
Praying no one would see.
My hand on fire as it closed
on the frozen food.
Filling my pack ~ without looking
Hungry doesn't care
as long as it's fed.
A starving beast~ wild
Anything a feast
after three days.
Afraid of getting caught.
Pride a terrible thing.
It always grows before the fall.
Tonight we eat like a king
in a land of milk and honey.
Pigtails and peas with rice.
Never knowing he knew
till the end. ~ Grateful
that he understood.
wishing I could change things.
Ashamed of my actions.
Sometimes sand castles fall.
Holding a feverish hand I
laughed until I cried.
I should have thrown down
that foolish pride. I could have had
steaks and chops too.
I still have the old key
He passed to me.
I hold it in my hand sometimes.
The old freezers long gone.
I Hold on to it remind me.
Sometimes Sand castles fall.
There isn't much a parent
misses. Hidden in our eyes.
Remember that and remember too
that The good stuff is locked away
But that Daddy shares with all!
It has come to my attention
so I thought that I might mention
to relieve your concern with old age
you really must turn the page
which will help to release any tension.
I'll mention, and I know that it's bold
but it's apparent that you must be told
although you're advancing in years
which is one of your major fears
it's not how old you are - it's how you are old!
Some have passion and
Dreams in their hearts
That weave in and out
Beyond the edges
Of small places
Their dreams may be only words to some
But to them they mean everything.
And others,
Just as young,
Run off
With no plans
No ideas
And never a second thought.
The dreamers and the aimless
Eventually meet
In the East Village
Center of the counterculture in New York
Birthplace of artistic movements
Punk rock
The Nuyorican literary movement
Site of protests and riots
A place of coffee shops and smart pubs
Hidden inside tenements and dank basements.
And every corner busy.
The older residents
Are immune to the antics of this place
Living in the neighborhood for decades
They have witnessed its many changes
Speaking a hundred different languages,
Accents from the cold climate
Of Eastern Europe
And warm places in the Islands,
Theirs is a smaller world of
Cheap apartments
And open air markets
Where customers
Still haggle over prices.
In dark places
Painted over decades of neglect
Old Polish ladies silently pray
In empty Catholic Churches
Built over a hundred years ago.
By Fall the last Summer’s batch of young leave
Some with promises
Others with regrets
But if there is a regularity
To the ebb and flow of this place
It is the tide
Always bringing in the new.
On Avenue A,
Just off Tompkins Square Park,
An old Spanish woman sits
In a doorway
Watching the artists, radicals and fashion lovers
Walk by
Anyone who cares to listen
Will hear her sing
An old lullaby
"Close your eyes little ones and sleep
And dream while the angels watch over you
I will hold your hand
And when you wake up in the morning I’ll still be here."
From a store window
We watched a woman hit by a car
Wearing a bright summer dress
She moved in short staccato steps
In a desperate dance to stay alive
Hands reaching out
To no one.
Saw the driver’s face
Anger and impatience
None of us believed that a life could be over
This suddenly.
Sirens wailed in the background
Announcing what was to come
Gaze anchored in the distance
She held my hand
We begged her to hold on.
After it was over we stood up
Forming an impromptu circle
In the street
A father and his eight year old daughter
A middle aged woman
And myself
Strangers until this time
All speaking at once
Awkward handshakes
A timid pat on the back.
Still holding her father’s hand
The eight year old looked beyond our circle
Not listening
Not hearing
The sadness in her eyes
Told us what we didn’t want to know
Sweet innocence
Of a little girl
Was lost forever.
The house we lived in
Was someone's idea of a castle.
Stone and old cement walls
Ornate ceiling fixtures
A faded marble foyer.
There were no buyers
So it went cheap
My parents were also practical.
There were two apartments
Which meant a monthly income.
We lived upstairs
So as to not hear footsteps at night
Our rooms were small
And the walls retained a coldness
That lasted until summer
In the foyer
Near the door
Was a telephone
Perched on a small table
Big enough to lean on
In case the call
Became a conversation.
The phone itself
Was basic black
Ordinary
And indestructible.
Our TV was in the living room
We watched
The Kennedy/Nixon debates
And witnessed the trauma of Kennedy's assassination
The nation grieved
For the Kennedys
But not for too long
Our attention was diverted
When the Beatles arrived.
It was the sixties
America was anxious
And searching for something new to believe in
And so were we.
Things changed
I left
My sister married
And our little brother
Inherited a room of his own.
Parents didn't change
They spent time
Dwelling on old memories and unpaid debts.
I visit the old place
Now and then
Driving by slowly
Long enough to see that
The new family:
Added an extension
Expanded the garage
Used up most of the back yard
Changes which I can't approve.
I still remember
When I lived there
How I was able to see the New York City skyline at night
Lit up
And full of promises
Then
I would dream
Of being someone else
And somewhere else.
Once passing by the house
I imagined
The front door
Opened
I was tempted to walk in
And saw myself climbing
The long staircase to the top
To look out and see
If the city lights
Still shone brightly
Beckoning me with her spell
If so,
I would ask whatever happened to my dreams?
She looked in the mirror
and giggled with pleasure
to see that she wore
her old clothes from her teens.
But then she recalled
that she wore them in pregnancy -
laughing out loud,
she still loved her old jeans.
Jack Horne for Nette's 'It's in the Jeans.'