Best Old Woman Poems
Shawled against
the damp night chill,
she waits
slumped low,
crumbled
in her favorite chair.
Old and tired
she waits.
Eyes, once bright,
cast a milky stare
blind to all
but distant memories
and moments carved
treasured wooden dolls
faces and form
now whittled away
unrecognizable.
Lines and furrows etch
the frail countenance
struggling in vain to see
a fast approaching
destiny.
Daylight dims as twilight fades,
and lurking in the corner there,
A Dark Shadow
smiles. . . . .
as the old woman waits
Alone.
In the outskirts, where whispers weave through the wind,
there stands a farmhouse, its timbers groaning with secrets,
a silhouette etched against the horizon’s fading light.
Once, it was alive, pulsing with the beat of day-to-day,
but now, it’s shrouded in a cloak of solitude,
walls lined with the echoes of laughter long gone,
rooms filled with the heavy air of stories untold.
The woman who lived there, a mystery, a shadow,
wandered its halls like a ghost, her presence barely felt
but in the gentle ivory caress of piano keys
that floated through the night, a sorrowful symphony
played to an audience of moon and stars.
Folks in town, they gossiped, cruel jests hidden behind closed doors,
labeling her a recluse, a witch, a specter of the past,
never understanding the weight of loneliness she carried,
a burden that bent her shoulders and dulled her eyes.
She found peace in her music, notes rising and falling,
like the breaths she drew, deep and resonant,
a language only she and the night could comprehend.
The farmhouse, with its peeling paint and creaking floors,
stood as a testament to her existence,
its decay mirroring the abandonment she felt,
doors no longer opening to welcome guests,
windows looking out with a yearning for the world.
Inside, the piano waited, its keys now silent,
dust gathering like a blanket, a comfort in the stillness,
each particle a memory, a moment frozen in time.
And so, the house remains, a relic of loneliness,
a monument to the misunderstood,
its story floating with the wind, carried through the fields,
a melody played on the strings of time,
eternal, echoing, alone.
(This is a fictional poem)
A 94 year old woman kicked my ###.
She beat the crap out of me and left me bleeding on the grass.
Every time I got up, she knocked me down again.
She beat me really hard and I sure as hell didn't win.
The fight started when she asked me to put out my cigar.
I told her that I'd shove it up her vagina and I guess I went too far.
When she got through beating me, I had lost most of my teeth.
Now people laugh at me and all I feel is grief.
From my chap book, "Not So Serious"
‘Tradition demands respect for age.’
Proclaimed some ancient Chinese sage.
Ah, that is such a noble thought,
But wise old Chow he really ought
To walk the isles of a supermart,
Stand behind old granny’s cart,
Left mid-aisle, perhaps forgot.
Limp, lump, wrinkle, lowly bent,
God only knows what’s her intent.
She, oh so slowly, moves about,
No particular thought or route.
Oblivious, she, this ancient dame,
To all but her arthritic pain.
But be thou merciful, be kind
When standing in the checkout line.
She’ll goose you with her shopping cart,
Perhaps let loose a trembling fart;
Then once she’s standing at the till,
She’ll fish a coupon, argue the bill.
Then comes one’s truest peeve of all,
Poor clerk has made call after call;
Out comes the hoary, leather purse,
A waiting shopper’s foulest curse.
She shuffles, mixes, dips, dips, dips,
A whiteness on her withered lips.
Minutes go by, seeming like weeks;
At last she grins, cackling, speaks.
“Oh, dear, my money’s out in the car.
Please wait, I’ll run, it isn’t far.”
I found a notebook in blowing trash
left by an elder moving away.
Did she not want to keep it, I asked
Won't fit, one room, is all she would say.
She was bidding farewell to her home
of sixty-five years: she was too old
to live among ghosts she said would roam
I saved book to see what would unfold.
Opening the book, enchantment poured:
watercolors on each wind-torn page.
children, garden blossoms fondly stored,
ladies, beads in hair: the Flapper Age!
I was enthralled. An artist she was!
Beside each drawing, a note left, too.
She was a treasure living near us
I feel ashamed that none of us knew.
We tend to equate old with past tense,
behind the times, so we hesitate.
Of distant years, and her added sense
tales she could tell if we would relate.
Yellow flowers I took in blue bowl,
and visited with her a long while
I said, to hear her tales was my goal,
and saw the beginning of her smile.
March 22, 2023
for "Writing Challenge--N Words"
by Constance La France
a First
i am as the old woman in the park
set up my easel
prepare the paints
not about wanting to become Picasso
no set course or a master plan
but where rivers wander untethered
the mare whose canter has never known
saddle, headstall, bridle, or bit
her reigns encompass my soul
it is this and nothing more
the canvas is you
the colors i apply
each passing stroke of the brush
are the precious moments
every touching of your hand
when your eyes lower
and a smile bursts into view
the look that says everything
my heart held in a breathless pause
there is no devotion within
other than the canvas
the world can give me no crown
that could compare to the park
it is an island paradise
the canvas, the colors
no greater acknowledgment is there
then the love we share
gives life its' every breath
every heartbeat
every moment a colored jewel
my heart a filled crown
caressed in gentle ocean breezes
in the park, i am marooned with you
with no other wish on this isle
your hand in mine, life is the completion
all of my wants dissolve into one desire
the canvas you are
OKC 3/22
old woman with stick
love's wisdom smiles with wrinkles
knows all lines of love
The vines stretched up the sides of her house
from behind the hedges, neatly trimmed
she'd been on that corner a long, long time
six decades before her eyesight dimmed
The concrete steps through puddingstone walls
that one would climb to reach her door
if they could speak, the tales they'd tell
such lovely things they kept in store
The many times that I would visit
she always had cookies on a plate
Exactly when I can't remember
but I was seven, or maybe eight
In winter time, her stairs and walk
I'd shovel out, sometimes with friends
I never thought at that tender age
that times like those would ever end
Four decades since those days have passed
and I finally found the words to say
this kind old woman mattered to me
this kind old woman who's gone away
Slouched in the chair, with the lights off
Bottle in her hand she’s
Amused, by the illusions she’s having
No parents, dropped off at the steps of those who don’t even know her.
Who don’t even care
Don’t judge me!
Smoke slowly releases from her soft lips
She has no education no understanding
What comes after 10!
Who cares.
Her hair is wild as she smacks the guys hand away
That tries to touch her
You don’t know me like that!
Lost and no love
She sniffs away the powdery
Snow that falls from the sky with no shoes on
Black eyeliner drips down her face
And her scent is unbearable
I have low- self esteem she says.
Her skirt rides up her backside
And her eyes roll back
She is at the point of no return
She is lost with no home and no one to love.
All because someone forgot to love her a little more
Against gray walls, soft light reflects
Her memories, her endless quest
For contentment, not so complex
Her gentle soul always felt blessed
She recalls all the times of hope
Against gray walls, soft light reflects
Faith is with her so she can cope
Joys come, beyond what she expects
Love is the thing she still respects
She thinks of the pleasure she’s known
Against gray walls, soft light reflects
Living gladly in her brownstone
Thoughts of her past ever haunt her
This old house thrives with her effects
Her soul recalls love she’ll prefer
Against gray walls, soft light reflects
Nestled
in her old chair-
world outside her window
and indoor plants, a sign of life-
she knits.
Fingers
work their magic-
grant her moments' purpose;
then reminiscing years gone by-
tears flow.
Slowly,
she wraps her needles
and the unfinished scarf.
Putting them aside, she whispers,
“what for...”
The old woman in the shoe scandal
who had those kids, too much to handle.
Now that they are full grown
and she is home alone,
she'll down-size to a sandal.
February is her enchanted month
a time of birthday songs and refrains,
when an added year is but a number
so, what is her secret dream for today?
Whipping pasta and cake on a quiet evening,
strains of ‘Moonlight Serenade’ whistles..
then comes a knocking, her group of friends,
surprising her with rows of colored helium,
prisms of yellow, pink and red giant balloons
gathering around her in bouncing relay!
Laughter rolls as they pop colored orbs
till everyone sings for her life’s wish- upon star…
from out on the porch, a flurry of balloons
is released… soaring for cheered returns of days.
She keeps one zeppelin with a freckled skin,
to remind her of this unforgettable time
while moonbeams whisper high above,
“You’re not alone;” her eyes misty like night-dew.
1/27/2016
Birthday Party Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
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~ To my dear AUNT MIMS on her forthcoming 70th birthday.
She lives with a 'weekend' sister and two dogs~
Playful old woman
you are a star in mens eyes
vintage and vibrant
There was an old lady called Jeanette.
Who wiggled in line for a toilette.
She said, "I can't wait!
I fear it's too late.
And my bottoms a bit more than wet."
Everyone poops contest
By Roy Jerden
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