Best Oldness Poems
-Toddler Sky-
Down where I sleep,
You hold me, embrace my every way
The Marks up on my skin
You caress, taking away from the ugliness
Watching the simple breath, when I breathe
Breaking the ice, soothing my inner peace
A sweet spray across the paleness in my limbs
Holding the warmth, I've been loved throughout my life.
From picking up sticks to the walking stick
My loving dear I know you will always be there
A few wheel chairs, when broken bones mend
You know my every cure*
Walk with me across the hall
Through the oldness, and the boldness of every color in the sky
Thank you for taking me as I am
A light twinkle' every time I feel the colors of the rainbow drip
Now a newborn takes his form
In you I find the strength to stretch my arms and reach for every star
When happy moments fail,
I embraced the colors I found in you
I make out every tree, and wonder why and how?
I close my eyes to imagine the fun of chasing fireflies
Tonight I'm keeping my prayers simple, cute, and innocent
I will count sheep and search for sweet lullaby dreams
Smiling like a 3 year old this very moment,
You think I'm having "Baby Blues."
My loving dear, thanks for having patience,
Painting my way down a toddlers sky
Every time "P M S" hits
~SKAT~
Categories:
oldness, blue, body, childhood, how
Form:
Free verse
Why living in darkness,
If you have the shine at your side?
What is this rag for?
this cloak of sadness
You have the wonderful cape.
of joy at your disposal?
Why do you live crying
final tears,
if life carries on,
liquid and flowing?
Why do you create obstacles
and walls, if any stronghold
impregnable is simple
house of cards, which with
a brief but strong breath
falls to the ground ...?
Why Fear oldness
and the decay of the body,
if we are spirits?
Why Fear Death
and the blackout of existence
if nothing expires or vanishes...?
Do not you have perception
that spirit continues?
Categories:
oldness, allusion, life, prayer, wisdom,
Form:
Free verse
Infection Sublime
by Odin Roark
with his lone return
on this New York street
in middy’s humid heat
he did see shutters closed
behind antique glass
whose reflection reminded
he wasn’t born there
only grew up in the embrace
of a brownstone haven
the oldness
now new
restoration hipster style
closing his eyes
he remembered
battered front door
yapping terrier just inside
forever on guard for landlady safety
the nightly dash
up dark stairs to the 3rd floor
evading the heel-nipping
four-legged devil incarnate
opening his eyes
blazing sun reflected back
like a searing message
“isn’t it time to move on?”
he sensed the warning
but no one appeared
no one stared from behind
invisible lace curtains
there was no one
sidewalk bare
street deserted
not even the ubiquitous taxi horns
no
he was alone
in Manhattan’s summer heat
the kind of thermal suffocation
forcing the discomfort of false memories
the kind he didn’t need
when melancholy’s purity
would always walk beside him
such was the newly sterilized street
the occupants unaware
how sublime yesteryear’s infection
Categories:
oldness, nostalgia,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path,
Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune,
Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet
Now you wouldn’t even know it was there.
The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but
Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now
Overgrown with the passage of time.
As children we would follow that path
Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other
Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end
To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar,
Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please.
For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves,
Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness
There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times.
Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window
My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the
Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though
I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands
Hammering in time with the wireless, our
Hair and clothes powdered with the dust
Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present.
Those memories now lay in the dust, like
Echoes clinging to a voice, all
The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now
- Gathering dust
Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that
I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve
Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child,
Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind.
John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’
28 Feb. 15
Categories:
oldness, age, childhood, grandchild, memory,
Form:
Narrative
Ever since the creation of mankind
Life has puzzled the human mind
Has anybody ever questioned its origin?
Poets, philosophers , sociologists are still behind the margin
The first man's companion were darkness and solitude
God created Eve to fight this nigritude
Living together they populated the world
For their children to say their word
Made up of three stages
man spends life through different ages
Childhood, adolescence and oldness are the main frames
That fit in the games
Why do we cry on our arrival?
Because life is not a carnival
It is rather a mission
Where everyone tries to maintain his position
Juts like a coin with two sides
Life looks easy inside but tough outside
But whether head or tail
The ship has to sail
Categories:
oldness, age, creation, games, life,
Form:
Rhyme
Through trials and plans
through darkest hour
into troubles and
peaks of the joys we devour
Where all is not finished
until a life is complete:
friends tended, gardens mended,
homes built on unyielding stone
In the final days of a fading thought
in the obscurity of oldness grown
Where life is less than it could have been
and all that is left is you
In the end of all: Integrity
summed up not in how we began
in the midst of tribulation
Nor, what we did along the way
When walking into the darkest valley
and having stumbled on feet of clay
how will you finish?
I pray you finish well.
Categories:
oldness, introspection, life, philosophylife, integrity,
Form:
Free verse
This world is beautiful place
This beautiful place with lass
With her sunset
Beautiful
When her sun raises
It's beautiful
And the moon in alight move
Is beautiful
Through out of her night
Is beautiful
The gleaming of her stars
And morning shines
Is beautiful
Her mood
As the waves of her ocean
The blooming of her sight
Her oldness of her blessing saint
And breezes of her beaches
Her mountains and her meadows
Teaching for us her love
The beauty of her fall and fame
The difference of her four seasons
The pouring water of rains
As roaring of her mount river
Or floating hovering fog of her face
The beautiful secret sigh
As ease of her drizzle shower
All her flagrance her fun
Different faces
And different voices
Of her
So beautiful place for lass
Is beautiful place for love
Categories:
oldness, beautiful, love, nature, beautiful,
Form:
ABC
OLDNESS
Once I had freckles, now I have wrinkles.
Chalk it up to my oldness.
Once there was presence, replaced by flatulence
Oftentimes caused by my oldness.
Many’s the time I wanted to rhyme
and pour out my feelings on paper,
but life interfered and my choices were veered
and I thought I would get to it later.
So later is now and I find myself older
And taking the reins, I face life much bolder
By learning new things and seeing wild visions
and blessing each day throughout every season.
When this lifetime ends and another begins
I’ll count those as friends who wield mighty pens.
Categories:
oldness, humorous, life,
Form:
There is a vast domain,
Grounded on a golden land;
There the immortals remain,
And those who in holiness stand.
Once I reminisce on the pure realm
Beyond the shadows peep
Where beings in white apparel swiftly touch
My sovereign bids me to natter
Of how mortal there must occupy
In eternal bliss
Where the mighty one is eternally pleased
Not a taste of this ground is felt
Nor the chattels of this home can compare
The lanes are of choice treasure
The trees fairer than cedars of Lebanon
And of the river, as crystal, not like Jordan
Yet unmixed, while that of Euphrates is less
Every flower is arrayed gorgeously
And they sing melodies, not upon ten strings
But upon angelic inspiration, of harps
Made without hands
Time has no power there, nor can cause—
Oldness or baldness
There are no unequal roads of life
For goodness remains a seal,
The vast domain speaks plenitude
For the plenum from all race
The sun and the moon are not at their posts
And upon the brightness, its source is not from them
At instances when I feel the heat
Of this accommodating hut
Then I reminisce on the pure realm.
Categories:
oldness, angel, heaven, visionary,
Form:
Romanticism
I walk through the ages of a man seeing and experiencing the trials and pain of what it means to live,
Over and over I will love only one for the rest of my life,
Over and over again I am newly born.
For an eternity I say goodbye to those who I have known and who have loved me,
Through ages past and futures void I sing my song of who I think I am, and add my actions to the story of them.
Eternal youth and never ending oldness I feel,
Forever searching for the experience of life.
Never dose my purpose for existence in life reveal its self,
but only when I am without.
The body I travel in attracts or repels others by its look or sounds that it makes,
True communication is hard to structure if not impossible to send.
My name is Simon , or at least that’s the name my much beloved parents called the body when it was born .
Whatever looks out from behind these eyes has no name ,
Or at least one I can not remember.
Memories are like blocks, and are added to me, reinforcing the living and driving this body on.
Procreate, satisfy, achieve,
That is the mantra this body vehicle vibrates too
So I cry out in moments of clarity,
“There must be more than this? “
Only then to sink back in to the hive of life.
My dreams scatter me back and forward to impossible times and places,
Only made more real by their persistence in coming.
The reflection of the mirror is just a check on time and how others may perceive me.
I see nothing only a trick of light,
Soon to flicker and fade away.
Categories:
oldness, allegory, blessing, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
Don’t cause the problems, give them a solution.
The workers were hanging on electric boxes,
And diving in the heaps,
To search the words where files were burning,
And stretching off the mentality.
Nerves were tightening,
Muscles were pulled forward and backward,
Upward and downward,
A sketch was hanging in front,
How to keep straight backbone.
Legs were num, over the years,
Electric heat massage the cold over the bones,
And body was feeling tired,
Eyes were dumping in the lightening bulbs.
But a packet was pulling the time softly.
Smile was disappearing in the wrinkles,
But a rank was jumping on personal experience,
Time was always a question of figures,
Sums were added, subtracts or multiplied,
Zero seems always stronger than words.
After thirty five years service,
A happiness shakened me,
The clapping were welcoming my respect,
And a proud was honoring my shoulders,
I were free to enjoy my lonely oldness,
My past was pulling me back,
My future was running a cause,
My present was walking with sticks,
Pills and injections were only my hope,
The white dresses were crossing my eyes,
My life was lying on a death stretcher,
The death was pulling a wagon of my time.
Categories:
oldness, devotion, education, faith, family,
Form:
Verse
You are so beautiful..
That sparkling smile
That heart-wrecking tears
That bursting anger
That glowing idea
That sickening freight
That widened exclamation
That thrilling surprise
That skipping-heart crush
That spell-bound love
That out-of-world romance
That contagious humour
That loud laughter
That immunic sickness
That awesome childhood
That immature adolescence
That matured adulthood
That fierce youth
That vicic oldness
That heck-along madness
That experienced advices
That learnt lessons
That timely help
That un-expected miracle
That un-wanted enemy
That most-wanted friend
That swift kindness
Everything packaged into one body,
Everything is unique
Nothing is comparable to you
Nothing excels you
It is THE ONE AND ONLY YOU.
Categories:
oldness, confidence,
Form:
ABC
My mirror shows me my dancing seventeen-year-old self
When I wanted to be called woman, frowning at the term girl
I am going to go roller blading today, I sing out to my husband
He has allowed himself to turn old; he starts discouraging me
I do not tell him that yesterday I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro.
Or that tomorrow I am going to fool with a stripper pole at Mr. Leer’s.
None of his business that I am going bungee jumping today at two.
He patters in and stares at me. You’re not young you know, he says.
It is with joy in my heart that I escape his oldness; wearing my short shorts,
Crammed into Nancy Sinatra “These Boots are Made For Walk’n” boots.
He dares not follow me. He is afraid to get in a car with me.
I fancy myself a race car driver, daring death to get in my face.
Did you take your medication? He yells from the doorway,
Afraid to come out onto the porch because he might break a hip.
We have aged completely differently, he and I. I give him the bird as I leave.
Categories:
oldness, age, humor, humorous, marriage,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Not a whole lot going on today -
guess I'll clean out my junk.
Here's a rubber band around some cards
on the bottom of my trunk.
I don't think Dan would want these Pokemon cards.
He's on the other coast
in a far-off land called New York City,
in the legal practice, engrossed.
He knew every kind of Poke-critter,
each and every power.
If he would show as much interest in school
as Poke-facts he would devour!
In those days, he liked to tag along,
counting fishes in a brook.
He would listen so attentively
as I read to him a book.
He was gentle, kind and innocent,
such were his quiet ways.
How, fondly I remember my son
back in those Poke-days.
He would tell me 'bout each Poke-beast,
but I couldn't get it straight.
I was busy taking care of things
and couldn't quite relate.
There was Pikachu, the Poke-star,
the brightest of the bright.
Yet, my gentle son, had more use for Machop
who knew just how to fight.
Daniel is now capable and strong.
He doesn't need Machop.
I suppose I can throw away these cards,
this train of thought to stop.
Yet, maybe these cards have magic.
Could Machop help me today -
in my oldness and my greyness?
I better put these cards away.
Categories:
oldness, age, childhood, parents,
Form:
Rhyme
That was the day for the members, to gather in a room in the local library
The knitting club has one weekly day, past noontime to the evening session
That was the usual day for them to join together with their knitting tools
Round the clock, they all meet and greet one another, and knit together.
Her friend found her in her spot, she was knitting with a soft whitish wool
Moments of knitted patterns of a softer white, with whitish grids, formed
Her friend noticed her busy hands, those knitting with swiftness, much care
She did find a delicate pattern of networks, there, created one after another.
She greeted the friend, as her friend will be joining the club for the first time
And she showed her a beautiful sweater. “It is seventeen years old.” She said.
The new member took the handmade sweater, she touched that delicate piece
“Seventeen years, too long a time!” She smiled. She could feel the oldness.
On that very moment, she was thinking about something else, simultaneously
A flashy moment about life along seventeen years, along with past and present
A span of seventeen years, in happy and sad moments, she could almost sense
That her life had a lot to tell her, while looking back at those pearls of moments.
Categories:
oldness, life,
Form:
Free verse