Best Ninety Five Poems
Seize the day!?Seize the day,!!?Seize the day!!!
Once I cried “carpe diem”—pluck each moment bright—
But now I know: no soul can truly seize the day;
We can but watch it vanish into night.
Time slips through grasping hands, in echoes vast,
Like memories we hoard—“This too shall pass.”
Before we sense its passing, a thousand moons have passed,
Leaving only footprints fading from the glass.
Open your heart—learn to forgive, let fractures mend.
Time won’t endure; only the love you send
Will bloom beyond your time—compassion, gentle, kind—
Impressions lasting long after days unwind.
We cannot hold on to time, nor merely let it fly.
Still, there’s so much waiting—for question, life, reply.
By living fully, learning wild and free,
From five years old to ninety-five, there's more to be.
As age ascends, keep wonder in your gaze,
Play games, try tastes untasted—let life amaze.
Gather with friends, sip joy’s sweet draft,
Find sunlight in the small, and laugh the hearty laugh.
She's happy in the winter of her years,
near ninety-five, but still so keen of mind.
Imagination is her gift that cheers
the visitors who come and are inclined
to stay a while and listen to her spin
her stories as an author, she once wrote
of kings and queens, the rulers they had been,
alive still in her memory to quote.
Forgotten soul, is she; no next of kin
were left to visit her for quite a while.
But in that nursing home, she draws them in
with those great tales she offers with a smile.
If only winter years for all could be
so happy with this gift of memory.
Love is having, love is lost
Love believing that it is the key
This is what love is to me
Way back in ninety five
When I met a poet
A poet was he
He took me by the hand
Taught me about love
We were friends
We were lovers
To the bitter end
He would read poems in my ears
Would write my name like I was a goddess
Like no other
With a magic swirl
Held me like I was his dear
He kissed the light in my soul
Held me with an inspiration
We danced barefoot in the dark
Kissed in the grass in the park
Explored the avenues of our minds
Took me by surprise in never-never land
He listened to my songs
Helped me share my heart
Kissed my very soul
There were no tears
Then he was gone
The beauty of him
Took me by surprise
Our breath was ours
For the taken
And oh the lovemaking
My life have been filled
Lots of events
With lots of tragedy and laughter
But few regrets
Looking back over the past
So glad of memories
To make it last
As I experienced the pain
Of loss of my poet lover friend
In the end
I survived and live
With what is left
I will never forget
The friend I had
What I have seen
What was felt!
I do stand, laugh and love
I still
Shed a tear
As well as fear
At the end of time
Before I die
I’ll never forget my poet
And a Poet was he!
Brooke Dyan 2014
95%
John walked out the front door.
The screen slammed behind him.
It was very loud in the stillness of the day.
The man looked out at his land before him.
It was his father's land,
and his father's, and his father's land...
Traditions held for generations,
never broken, deemed unbreakable,
by wind, or storm.
Often on his knees in the night, to bring the rain.
Often under his breath, a word to his maker.
Yet this day, he was quiet.
He was one with everything, like the very air...
waiting to be filled with life, and only smelling of death.
The paper in his hand...
clutched in a grip of iron,
was a notice by the government.
"Kill all but five percent of your herd." and it continued...
"We will pay you to starve the rest of the world,
sit back and be glad you are not among those,
that will die of empty bellies."
Followed by the last line... "You are safe."
His fist turning white,
the blood forced from his hand,
by the tight grip he held,
in a personal effort
to strangle the words of evil
The man would not do it.
He would not kill one cow ahead.
He would not kill one cow behind.
The system, the shoppers on cloud 9
that demand compliance,
will need to send the rain,
of fire, as the man had tired...
of going along.
Alone in my room my eyes fill with tears
I’ll soon be gone for I'm now ninety five
I wish I could relive my youthful years
All my loved ones have gone, none are alive.
Lying here all day in this care home bed
Remembering the good times that I had
Three times a day by the nurses I’m fed
Being so immobile makes me feel sad.
The nurses are kind and so full of life
I’m frustrated now, just want to pass on
Fourteen years ago I lost my dear wife
I miss her so much my darling Yvonne.
I’m not well today I’ve pains in my heart
Hope this is my chance, this life to depart
Written June 13th 2019.
The house across the street
This evening has no light.
It lost its last heart beat
From within when they took sweet
Ninety five year old grandma to a nursing home over
on Wright.
The house across the street
That was made with love from concrete
Has said good night.
It lost its last heart beat
Through some ones awful deceit.
Boy, does that bite.
The house across the street
Has no one to greet.
This all happened to night.
It lost its last heart beat
I can't help it that thought I repeat.
To me it's an eerie sight.
The house across the street
It lost its last heart beat.
Keep faith within yourself for you’re alive.
You have no time for tears or thoughts of doubt.
You must be the victor and survive.
In daily life the hardships do arrive
with wondering of how it will turn out.
Keep faith within yourself for you’re alive.
Oh, with a human effort do you strive
your body racked with all emotion's drought.
You must be the victor and survive.
Fools think that life is all just play and jive
having all the swagger and the clout.
Keep faith within yourself for you’re alive.
As time goes by appreciate the drive.
There’ll be some happy days to rave about.
You must be the victor and survive.
Wishing you a life pass ninety-five.
Do not be old and only just a grouch.
Keep faith within yourself for you’re alive.
You must be the victor and survive.
1/20/20
She slips in late, almost every day,
begins her work, though it’s mostly play,
first catches up with her office mates---
every detail, her loves and her hates;
each story repeated several times or more,
to everyone passing her wide-open door;
after some minutes, she grabs up the phone,
most often personal, frequent calls home,
how many messages can one woman take?
Guinness should be called, for heaven’s sake.
Some little tragedy and the drama begins,
so many times, taking all different spins,
each little event spun for more sympathy
in grand scheme to move up the company.
Then acting begins, depending on need
as she maneuvers for additional leave.
How can that be? Can there be more time
left over on this generous company’s dime?
So by morning meeting, is anything done?
Likely not, but she hoodwinks everyone.
“Oh my. I’m so busy. I think I must ask---
someone else here to take over this task.”
Then down comes the boss, and up in a flash,
she’s amazingly quick in the three-meter dash,
“Look here old man, see what I did for the job?”
And in response his weary head starts to bob,
“such a good girl, keep up the great work,”
and we all know she’s angling for a new perk.
“I worked hard at home, for at least two hours,”
she tells the guy who holds all of the powers,
while under their breath her coworkers sneer,
“she doesn’t even work when she’s stuck here.”
After morn meeting she’s back on the horn---
to mother, brother, broker, lovelorn,
not to mention her bevy of needy friends,
to whom her ear she willingly lends.
Now---perhaps---she’ll get some work in,
unless it is time for her daily luncheon.
Scheduled an hour for her time to eat,
but ninety-five minutes she seldom will beat.
And then for three hours in the afternoon,
if she works even one, it will make her head swoon,
although she’ll get up for the middle-day break,
she never misses it, don’t make that mistake.
Finally the day reaches five on the clock,
but somehow she slipped out---with earlier flock!
You hear about
the Black slave trade
but you never hear about
the white slave trade
Vikings stole
the Irish and scottish
selling them
for the white slave trade
Even today
the female slave trade
continues in all cultures
it should not be
about colour
It should be about
man's inhumanity to man
As a world
we should stand
against abuse
teach your children
to hate
the colour of a mans skin
you teach your children
to abuse people
teach your children
to hate abuse
you create a world
that loves peace
Anger and hatred
build violence
yet there has already been
too much violence
ninety five million
American Indians
Killed and abused
by the spanish
conquistadors
Ten millions
africans killed
to line the pockets
of king Leopold the second
Millions of Jewish people
killed in the second world war
Man's inhumanity to man
every day
we prove that we can hate
yet
creating more violence
is not the answer
and only leads
to the cycle of war.
We had missed five days in
The last two weeks
Due to the ice and snow.
Roads and streets had been impassable—
Freezing rain, blowing snow and black ice.
We started the day late at 10 am.
I greeted them at the doors—
Worried about attendance.
But, ninety-five percent made it.
Fantastic!
They were wrapped in hooded jackets
And wore toboggans with rainbow colors.
Mothers had stuffed them with oatmeal,
Hotcakes and sausage.
One carried chocolate milk
And powdered sugar donuts,
Along with tousled hair and a big smile.
I was glad they made it.
We didn’t need to lose another
Day of instruction.
The day went smoothly, too.
In spite of the frigid cold that pushed
The mercury down to two degrees.
Frozen feet tracked salted snow
Onto brightly buffed tiles.
One carried an icicle two foot long—
I convinced him it would keep outside.
Then came lunch.
The short day was ready made for
Corn dogs and sloppy Joes—
A menu that might have been invented
By kindergarteners.
But they hardly touched either one.
Today they served
Golden Meadow Orange Dream Bars—
A dessert that was surely made in Heaven.
Ice cream on the coldest day of the year.
And the February freeze was forgotten.
The orange circled smiles of kinders
Beamed a warmth from within,
Making the remainder of the day brighter,
Marking an end to winter.
a flustered tango of Gypsy moths
drumming the porchlight; chalk artists;
the endemic disappearance of farms—silos lost
in unkempt fields; space stations; the sunlit-scent of lemon
oil on cherry wood; birth; the chasm between cultural
appropriation & cultural appreciation; the history in our dust;
loneliness & heartbreak; trivia; funky funerals;
climate change, hurricanes, earthquakes & neglected
victims; heirloom charm bracelets, homemade
wind chimes & the homing sound made by a singing bowl;
masquerade balls; cityscapes hidden in ant hills; fly
fishing; serendipitous skinny dipping; missing children,
teddy bear memorials, forensic identification, monsters
never found in sleepy towns; the horrors of zoos—
elephants gone mad, lions robbed of their pride;
book reviews; civil unrest, bad cops & good cops & young men
gunned down; brand new fire stations; cancer survivors who wear
baldness so beautifully; my favourite pair of jeans; river rocks
found by dearest hands; a letter that can never be
received; joyful celebrations; incandescent dragonfly
dreams; twenty million at risk of starving to death;
wildflowers shaking pretty little heads;
misogyny disguised as religion; forgotten veterans who die
a bit more inside every day; the rainforest, shrinking;
saintly stoners & postulant prostitutes; toxic smog;
madmen with warheads; cheese cake & ice wine;
every personalized Kama sutra move & the God-given
ecstasy of body on body language; holding hands;
why one giggle can change everything; Thanksgiving
prayers; abandoned minefields, boy soldiers & devastating
amputations; the songs of the working poor; lightning
over the lake; his timely phone calls; brotherhood & sisterhood;
love in its every form; old maps; twenty-one gun salutes;
the extinction of the Galapagos Giant Tortoise; being
five, being twenty five, being ninety-five; kites; dogs chawing
on ragged rawhide; church-like museums on a Sunday
afternoon; make-shift picnics; deja vu; thrift store
wedding dresses; long drives with comfortable silences;
fading freedoms; censorship; seamless moonlight;
introspective dalliances with self-acceptance; the power
of purpose; how to be the bigger person; how to go
in a new direction; how to rise above . . .
When Iceland rose majestically,
A volcanic isle, born of the sea.
This land, that continents divide,
A place where fire and ice reside
And Norsemens sagas, too were born.
Goddess Aurora, brings the dawn,
Thor is thunder, God of war,
Odin seeks wisdom it's folklore.
A pagan faith forever blind,
Nature is savage,sometimes kind.
Those cold North winds began to blow,
And wintertime delivers snow.
An idyll village by a stream,
Resplendent in a poet's dream.
Aurora dances through the night,
Fantastic bands of coloured light.
A blizzard came, the snow lay deep,
The mountain slope began to creep,
With noise like thunder from a gun,
An avalanche was on the run.
A mighty force, it's rushing sound,
Engulfing everything around.
The village now is buried deep,
For rescuers , no time to weep.
Where do they search beneath the snow,
No landmarks; so, how do they know?
Nature has shown her savage face,
This avalanche, her fall from grace.
The year was nineteen ninety five,
And twenty souls they did survive.
For twenty more eternal peace,
Oh! When will nature ever cease?
Is this the price they had to pay?
To live in fear another day.
On land and sea, just as before,
Mankind and nature, still at war.
As ancient runes, inscriptions tell,
This land where both can never dwell.
As legends say in every tale,
This constant struggle to prevail.
When man holds out an olive branch,
Nature, becomes an avalanche.
2/ 21/ 2015.
THIS CHEVY CAMARO, IS MORE THAN A DREAM.
IT'S AMERICA'S FAVORITE MUSCLE MACHINE.
IT'S NOT FOR THOSE FAINT OF HART.
IT'S CREATED FOR THOSE WHO APPRECIATE ART.
FROM COAST TO COAST, ACROSS THIS LAND.
THE ZL1 IS IN DEMAND.
YOU CAN SAY, IT LITES PASSION ON FIRE.
A TRUE AMERICANS, DRIVING DESIRE.
CHEVY TECHNOLOGY PROVEN ON TRACKS.
INDY AND NASCAR AND THATS A FACT.
WHEN YOU GET IN AND GRIP THE WHEEL.
YOU'LL KNOW FOR SURE, THE LEGEND IS REAL.
TWENTY INCH WHEELS AND TIRES TO MATCH.
STEP ON THE GAS AND LAY DOWN A PATCH.
PEDDLE TO THE METAL, YOU CAN FEEL THE POWER.
ONE HUNDRED NINETY-FIVE MILES PER HOUR.
ONCE YOU UNDERSTAND THE THE MEANING OF FUN.
YOU'LL WANT TO OWN THE ZL1
My next party will be a big one
Even larger than the last
Which was held in the city park
And truly was a blast.
Two hundred people of all ages came
To celebrate my day.
They brought cards and gifts and flowers
To cheer me on my way.
A team of horses and a wagon
Stood by to give a ride
I was driven through the streets of town.
To wave at those along the side.
That party was in 2013
And I was turning ninety-five.
In 2018 I'll have my hundredth.
That is if I'm still alive.
Some dear ones who were with me,
Will not be present at the next one.
But I know they will be watching and
Still enjoying the fun.
If you see this poem, keep it,
For it is an invitation,
To one of the happiest birthday parties
Ever held in this great nation.
The party will be 07/07/18
Written: 1/25/16
BASEBALL IS ENTERTAINMENT
I LOVE PUTTING ON A SHOW
I GIVE IT MY BEST WIND-UP
LET THAT BASEBALL GO
SOMETHING ABOUT A STRIKE-OUT
A FEELING THAT THINGS WENT WELL
UNLIKE THE HOMERUN PITCH
WHERE IT FEELS THEY RANG MY BELL
I CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TO FACE THE BIGGEST NAMES IN THE GAME
I BUILT THAT REPUTATION
I HOPE THEY FEEL THE SAME
I KNOW I GET A LITTLE WILD
BUT, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON CONTROL
NO INTENTION TO BREAK AN ARM
JUST TO LET YOU KNOW
IT'S LIKE ONE ON ONE
SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT
BUT IF YOU TRY TO BUNT ON ME
I'LL NAIL YOU ON THE SPOT
YES I HAVE A FASTBALL
NINETY-FIVE AND UP
I KNOW YOU KNOW IT'S COMING
SO GIVE IT YOUR BEST CUT
I'VE BEEN WORKING ON MY CURVEBALL
IT MIGHT JUST BACK YOU DOWN
CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE
TRY TAKE THAT PITCH DOWN TOWN
I LOVE MY JOB OUT ON THE MOUND
I LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
I LOVE WHEN THE BATTER AT THE PLATE
CAN'T HIT MY BLAZING FASTBALL
I LOVE THE PLAYERS ON MY TEAM
WHO LOVE THE GAME OF BASEBALL
IT'S A THRILL WHEN BATTERS TAKE MY CHALLENGE
AND CAN'T STICK MY NASTY CURVEBALL