Best Old Poetry
The Life Is …
The Life Is …
When I was young, there was no pain,
The only pain was to complain.
When I was young, I did not care,
Just as long as my love was there.
When I was young, my life was great.
But I was there a bit too late.
A bit too late to know life was,
being young and having no flaws.
A bit too late to celebrate,
What I had then was called my fate.
Now it’s different, weather is cold,
I turned into a man that’s old.
The spring has passed, summer is gone,
Autumn at rest, winter is on.
I am too old and know it’s gone.
It is too dark to hope for dawn.
Now I know that a part of life,
It is old age and lives with strife.
Now I know that my life is not,
The perfect plan when I had thought.
The life is not the silken dress,
Unmarked from flaws, full of success.
My life is just a song I sing,
It is winter chasing the spring.
It is sorrow, it is laughter,
It is hope for morning after.
My life is just a long poem,
Had a young star; none would know him.
The life is just a shooting star,
It is so bright but can’t go far.
Blink your eyes; it’s all be gone,
I played this game like a faceless pawn.
I played so well; somehow, I lost.
You don’t want me to count my cost.
My life is like a field of dream,
Or maybe like a moonlit stream.
My life is like a drop of dew,
Waiting the Sun to say adieu.
My life is like the dew at dawn,
The sun will kiss; it will be gone.
My life is not to be just young,
It is okay to be unsung.
My life is like the morning breeze,
It can bring storms or bring you ease.
You are hoping for one more dream,
That wakes you up in golden gleam.
The life is like a candle’s flame,
It lights up love or burns to blame.
The games are on, and the moves are fast.
I do not know how long they last.
For some, it’s short; for some, it’s long.
Go have more fun; it is not wrong.
Remember now, it might get late,
Go play your move before checkmate.
10/2/2019
Haloo
Note: The painting is called “A reminder”; it’s acrylic on wood.
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is the spiritual couplets. This particular masnavi consists of eight syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
My name is Gary Fields
And I am at the Poetry Convention
Their are a myriad of Poet's
They are all in contention
There are so many that I may
Want to mention'
So, pay attention
Fore they must do this
In abstention
At my table there are three
Their are four including me
The second choice in my contention
IS Dr. Ram Mehta
He is such an easy catch
He is a voice/a reflection
He shares' so much love and affection
Being one of so few words
His disposition is the best
And his Human Psyche will
Never rest'
Could this be some sort of test
That his deepest guarded secret's
Are guarded close to his chest
Being a doctor and all
It is unlikely that he will ever confess
Third at the table is the X DESTROYER X POET
Due to the lack of word's
She always' have something for ya
And will certainly destroy ya
If not, then simply ignore ya
Fore she deserves' to seat here
And not just on the foyer
It is a main bone of contention
There is no reason why I can't enjoy ya
Or at least releave the tension
With her advanced degree
her suplituding pensoin for Poetry
It seems' that her messages' are
Aimed straight for me
She give's to this her all
She never seem to miss a call
And to past the test
One may think that
She seem's to be a little obsessed
Most of all
She keeps' her secret
Buried so close to her breast
And what wonderful breast they
Might be
Only saving for us
The one's she profess to be the best
But never the less
She rises' among the rest
Fouth at the table is Ms. Sweetheart of Poetry
Wish she will spend more Poetry with me
And plain not just ignore me
Because I'm a fan of her now
She introduced me to this race
She is all ways' on the case
She is fully comfortable in her space
I just hope that she won't have to use
All of her mace,
She composes' herself with grace
Fore this is so much an adventure
And not just some silly old Snail Race
If I haven't said enough by now
Then it is because I am running
Out of space, or being run out of town
But, there is always one next year
Same time, manybe not
The same old place
GF
Gary Fields
Dr. Ram Mehta
X DESTROYER X POET
LINDA Marie/Sweetheart of Poetry
Carol (Next on Deck)
*******For the Contets "Tt The Convention
JUNE 2011
Not Today
When memories begin to fade
when I break promises I’ve made
and life no longer seems so gay
I shall be old, but not today.
For I have children I must hold
and many stories to be told
and much to see along the way.
I shall be old, but not today.
When I no longer care to write
of all life’s wonder and delight
or take the time to kneel and pray,
I shall be old, but not today.
For there is much that I must do
poems to write, at least a few
and so much more I have to say.
I shall be old, but not today.
When love can’t make my spirit glow
and I care not if roses grow
it’s then and only then I’ll say
I shall be old, but not today.
For in my gardens, love has grown
in all the seeds that I have sown
and never may it wilt away.
I shall be old, but not today.
When I care not how others feel
and life no longer offers thrill,
when hopes and dreams all fade away
I shall be old, but not today.
For I must not accept defeat
for life is short and oh, so sweet
and there’s no time to waste away.
I shall be old, but not today...
Younger wanting to be older
Older wanting to be young
Child wishing to be bigger
Bigger wishing to be thinner
Teen wanting a clearer face
Clearer face wanting a better body
People lamenting bad hair days
Bad hair days replaced with no hair days. . .
We diss what we have
Wish for what we lack
When what we have is gone
Oh, what we'd give to have it back!
Youthful desires for future yearning
Future bearing down like a train
Elders' memories of past unnerving
Hit by a train never the same
Heart o Silver, doth thou dither?
About the stars, or planets blither?
O grateful gods, become so weary,
Heart o silver, hast left thee teary.
Glaciated by wind and storm,
Nevermore, thy heart be warm.
A stony path,
A little stone bridge,
A place full of history,
To feel the spirit of the ancient times,
Just to have a look on the antique lifestyle!
***
A stone masterpiece has crossed the centuries
A stone art piece is now proof of the savoir-faire of past
A stone bridge, a vestige of the past, present
And future human intelligence!
***
So, nature is a place full of art and beauty:
A perpetual pleasure!
©Rita Solis Radius. On July, 9th 2015. Poetical prose “A Stone Bridge in nature”.
I just started reading
or should I say re-reading
a book by the late, great poet
Kenneth Koch.
It's called "I Never Told Anybody"
and it's all about teaching poetry
in a nursing home.
It's really good.
One of the poets who really shone
at the American Nursing Home
was a man named William Ross.
The first time I read the book, I assumed
he was old - in his eighties or nineties.
So imagine my shock when I read it again
and found out that he was fifty-nine.
Fifty- nine! Well, dagnabit, folks,
I'm going to be fifty-eight this year.
And I know damn well that fifty-eight
is not "OLD"! And certainly Mr. Ross
must have had a very clear, strong mind.
At least, based on his wonderful work.
And his poems still speak to me
And they still make me smile and wish
that I had the courage to just sit down
and write.
and write.
and write.
Hey, wait just a minute ...
I’m doing just that!
So thank you, thank you,
Thank you, William Ross!
Winter leaves
And falling rain,
Darkness; wounds
And growing pain.
"You used to say
That I was your inspiration...
From writing,
You could not refrain."
"There was a light in your eyes"
She said: "Now, your eyes are cold,
There's no more warmth in your hands;
You're getting awfully old!"
Winter leaves
And falling rain,
Darkness; wounds
And growing pain.
"I loved your words,
Your beautiful poetry!
To your imagination,
You used to give free rein."
"There was a light in your eyes"
She said: "Now, your eyes are cold,
There's no more warmth in your hands;
You're getting awfully old!"
With all the invisible tears
And all the hidden fears,
I lay down-dying-
Upon solitude's dilacerating spears.
Rochdi Bouille
November 25, 2016
They touch me inside and out
They twist and turn me all around
I feel locked in
And trapped out
I can be small Or large
I can be pressed and barged
I have no space
And i'm stuck in one place
I break when were robbed
im a door knob
Tranquil looking visages
Of trio in sepia,
Will remain forever .
-Ism
Your lovely name will sink into oblivion
Your pretty face will lose its charm
And all your moves and gestures that were accurate
Would be uncomfident and clumsy
You were the reason of human death
They sold their souls for hearing your voice
You were a siren, who took their last breath
You were the greatest creature of Nyx
People compared your body to the art
They tagged along without a word
They called you Seducer, Sweetheart, the God
But no one could see your wrenched wings
7/11/15
Go ahead laugh and cry
And if you'd like to ask me why
Don't let time pass you by
You have to try
Regardless of if you want the whole thing or less than half the pie
Remember you can't go back in time
My name is Timothy
but when spoken on your lips it sounds differently than any other
Your lips must be smoother than butter relaxing like rain
I never knew another to be as graceful or outspoken
Maybe I would like to take a little closer look into your soul
A simple man, I don‘t need much, I use few words; I’m Joe.
I once framed houses, now drive trucks. That’s all you need to know.
I love my wife and think she’s great, but one thing I can’t stand
She’s got so many things that it is getting out of hand.
Last month I hauled out all her * #^%$ and tossed it on the floor
of our garage because I could not take it any more.
When she came home and saw the mess, I told her: Listen up,
Your clothes take up three closets cause you’re such a cluster * %$#$#
I don’t care if the kids are gone. You don’t need their old space
to keep old clothes that do not fit and shoes such a disgrace.
The kitchen drawers are stuffed with junk that you don’t even use.
You have to clear the cupboards out before I blow a fuse!
I’ve taken all your Christmas crap and boxed it up for you.
It’s now in the garage there with your filing cabinet too.
These books and all the videos you never even play -
We’ll buy more bookshelves for them but throw a lot away!
You’re right. I never help to clean. but I feel too depressed
to wash clothes in the laundry room when I see all the mess. . .
the gifts stockpiled for grandkids; and that junk for holidays . . .
It’s got to be made orderly. Who needs it anyways?
I’m trying to be nice here. It doesn’t have to be
done all at once, but all this stuff. . .I feel like I can’t breathe.
I’m cleaning up my work spaces and then when I am through,
I’m going to redo the porch and uproot bushes too.
That sink we needed to replace I’m finally putting in.
I’m getting a new ceiling fan and also storage bins.
You poets here, this poem I post to keep you in the loop.
My wife can’t be here much this month at this here Poetry Soup.
I know she’ll come here anyway and say that I’m a louse,
but I won’t rest until we both have finished cleaning house!
* These are the expletives I had to take
out before posting because wifey said they don’t
accept swearing here. What a sissy site
For Nathan Dilt's contest: The Opposite Sex
and now for Destroyer~Poet's In the Mood * any poem goes Poetry Contest
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker