Best Sadold Poems
The old man sat with eyes closed, dozing in his chair
Until a little voice he heard say “Grandpa, are you there”.
He gazed upon a little boy while waking from his nap
Then reached down with a sweeping move and placed him in his lap
The child was carrying a book that he wanted him to see
He held it up and asked him “Grandpa, will you read to me”?
The old man cleaned his glasses then opened up the book
And suddenly the two of them a wonderous journey took
They ventured lands so far away, sailed seas not sailed before
Met knights and kings and wizards on every distant shore.
Together they fought dragons, saved damsels in distress
Freeing lands of monsters and the treasures they possess
When the old man closed the cover to end their magic ride
He told the boy “We're much like books, what's important is inside”.
But one day when the boy arrived and rushed to Grandpas chair
Much to his disappointment, his Grandpa was not there
He ran to find his mother for surely she would know
Why the chair was empty, where did his Grandpa go
She sat him down and asked him if he remembered in each book
The adventures and the journeys that he and Grandpa took
He took you there to show you the things that you can find
The wonders that are yours to see if you open up your mind.
But he still walks beside you in the stories you have read
You're not left to go alone, he’s just gone on ahead
The child then went and chose a book and climbed up in the chair
And opening up the cover whispered “Grandpa, are you there”?
An intense aroma from Mother's lilac bushes
satiate the air through our open kitchen window
Robins perched on the rusty downspout
falling from our old front porch,
whistling their sound of peek, tut, peek, tut
Melancholy music is perceived faintly
in the very near distance
as my mother's fingers effortlessly
surf the ivory keys of the piano,
decades old and perfectly tuned
Daddy reclines, comfortable
in his easy chiar, listening. He smokes
cherry blend tobacco in a hand-carved pipe
creating an intithetic, lincering aroma
as he sips his after dinner drink
Too many whisley laden drinks
change the focus of events
as my Father stands up, curses
his dislike of a tune being played
He stumbles, raises an empty
bottle of Jim Beam Whiskey,
throwing it against the wall,
shattering it into small jagged pieces
Quicly, Mother's music ceases,
as the open window slams
shut, breaking the stained glass
that she loved so dearly
Soothing sounds and aromas of flowering
spring bushes no longer hover
but a repugnant smell of tobacco
and hard liquor remain
Sometimes I try and remember
the flowery smells, soft musical sounds -
but abruptly, I hear that colorful window
quickly close
Oh, how rapidly a serene mood is erased,
replaced by one of uneasiness, sadness
Evening softly pours down from the hills..
The birds quiet , I hear the old dog bark
Another day will soon be put to sleep
And again I will be alone in the dark
The scent of lilac now comes to me..
The breeze gentle as a baby's sigh
The old back porch a haven now
As I prepare myself to say goodbye
Never thinking it would be this way..
So many days without much meaning
Hearing the creak of the rocking chair
Now to the past my thoughts are leaning
I carved our names in the old oak tree
Across from the old mill bridge
A testament of love that grew each day
Standing tall upon that ridge
They cut that oak tree down today
It's limbs were tired and worn
But they couldn't kill the memory I have
The place where love was born
I used to visit that old oak tree
Each night before I'd sleep
I'd run my fingers across it's bark
Where our names were carved so deep
That tree of love would touch the sky
Each morning when the sun would rise
I'd sit each day to pass the time
As the age grew in my eyes
Though now that tree is dead and gone
You will never be alone
For I've written our names side by side
But now it's written in stone
Walks down by the harbor.
That cafe where are table still waits.
Times spent alone with you were golden.
So much more than just forgettable dates.
She knew what I could not understand.
Time is a gift.
A kiss of a raindrop is never ment to be kept in hand.
The steps of that old church still look out onto
the street.
Snow and time wash away the impressions.
Leaving only traces to every stranger I never truly meet.
Did it just disappear causing us to somehow lose track.
Does it seem pathetic.
To yern for all you'll never get back.
Couples see through me as easily as a ghost.
Maybe I should ramble.
But my soul will forever be attached to the coast.
Forgotten confessions are empty as to the city streets I tell.
How the young become old and bitter.
As reality shines through to show Im no longer under your spell.
For the night seems to gather the broken in a misfit pack.
Streetlights cast shadows that loom and hide.
As into a stranger I confide.
Dull has become the wit once sharp as a tack.
As I wonder do you ever reflect apon all you'll never get back.
JEZEBEL IS A REBEL
REFUSING TO REPENT
JEZEBEL IS RELENTLESS IN TACTICS
JEZEBEL WORDS ARE SOOTHING,SWEET,
AND SEASONED WITH FLATTERY OF INSINCERITIES....
DON'T EAT THE WICKEDNESS OF DECEIT
A STOMACH FILLED WITH MISFORTUNES...
JEZEBEL UTILIZES THE GIFT OF FALSE PROPHECY
SPOTTING THE WEAKNESSES
JEZEBEL SPECIALIZES IN THE GAME OF MANIPULATION......
JEZEBEL IS A BALL OF TEMPTATION DON'T GET
IT TWISTED IT'S NOT A PRETTY LADY DRESSED
PROVOCATIVELY WEARING RED LIPSTICK PRESUING
GENTLEMAN CALLERS....
JEZEBEL IS A DEMONIC SPIRIT BARING GIFTS OF:
CONFUSION,INFIRMITY,CALAMITY,FEAR,OPPRESSION,
DEPRESSION,DIVINATION AND A SPIRIT OF RELIGION
JEZEBEL HAS MANY TRICKS TO WOOOO YEAH BE CAREFUL
OF OLD JEZEBEL IT WILL QUENCH THE ANOINTING....
JEZEBEL THE BACKSTABBER,AND CON ARTIST TO THE HIGHEST
DEGREE DON'T LET THE OUTTER BAMBOZZLE YEAH......
JEZEBEL WILL SQUEEZE UNTIL YOU'RE LIFELESS
NEVER SECOND GUESS THE SPIRIT OF OLD JEZEBEL
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
PREFACE :
an old swing that once seated life now lays abandoned, encompassed within the
confinement of wild,unkept backyard the old man is left with. for a person, who has
been through every flavour of life, using this swing is a respite- a getaway from his
aloofness. And, more than that
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
There's a swing in the backyard, that lies unkept, hidden
that breathes through its cracks, yet remains dust laden
it glides through the wild growths, the over-grown weeds,
fireflies..in a cluster follow it along..as the wooden swing leads
it touches the farthest twig of the tree..that extends to the starry sky
leaping over the patches of green..witnessing the silence cry
at night, the swing comes to life, when it occupies a lonesome soul.
miles and high, it takes him along...and then, the memories unfold!
the crimson memories flare up, come to life.
and he's now amidst his childhood, its little games..and little lies
but soon the mortal cloud of his memories break, and it begins to rain
his watering-nostalgic eyes get so over-drenched ..that it seems hard to bear the
pain
another push, and the swing glides yet again.
and now he(the person) is pushed back to the time..when he was slender, young
and sane.
those perfect strong shoulders, and a grit that cuts through steel
soak him up in pride, as so empowered he feels.
and then, again..the swing ceases to glide..
his memories begin to fade away..like on the sand, a relentless ocean tide.
he catches his breath, as he prepares for one last ride
he thrusts his feet onto the grassy patch, and there he goes again...he watches the
swing taking him, rise.
but this time, he laments the losses he has had, the times that could've been better
the midnight moon penetrates through leaves, and on his swing it seems to scatter
comes to a halt, eventually..his swing. his memories have made him hollow
yet, another night...he'll kill his sleep, riding on the swing..shall rather watch the
fireflies follow.
Form:
Another episode of out on the porch:
It is cold out here
That is compared to the heat
Of mid-summer forward
One lone buzzard
Glides on the air current
Wonder if he is a scout
Searching for food
Maybe a young bird
Wanting to be free
Or maybe an old bird
Wanting to spread his wings
And float on freedom air
Soar to new heights
Experience new love
Or doing exactly what he wants
When he wants
He's gone _short lived flight
A crow joined him briefly
I guess he didn't want an old crow
Cawing and interrupting his new found freedom
So like life__ old buzzards
Wanting to fly free without an old crow along
Wonder how long it will take for them to realize
That they have ignored the best that life has to offer
In order to stay alive,
she had to be as sly as a fox,
as she lived in a cardboard box,
controlled stress,
an old mattress,
dirty old clothes,
a book or two,
as hunger shows,
dirty water for drinking,
while death is floating, and life is sinking,
those images stuck in her head,
and people who saw her
called her a corpse even before she was dead,
society continues to evaluate,
delegate,
isolate,
then eliminate,
but that’s all they do,
they aren’t alone,
and the subway station was her home.
OLD MANOR
THE NEW ONE
LOOKS LIKE OLD MANOR.
IT IS ANECDOTAL OF THE FEELING
TO ENTER THE MANOR.
WHICH HAS GIVEN MASOCHISH
OF LIFE-O.
IT HAS BEEN THE CURSE OF
MY LIFE.
WHICH HAVE MATTERED
A LOT TO EVERY LIFE-O.
AND NOTHING ELSE MATTER
EXCEPT THE THING LIKE
OLD MANOR.
THE THINGS HAS TO BE DIVINE.
BUT IT HAS CRUCIFIXED MY LIFE
FOR YEARS.
THE OLD MANOR HAVE RUINED
SERVENT OF THEIR OWN.
FLUMMOX ON EVERY SINGLE
THING THEY KNOW.
PEOPLE HAVE RULES OF THEIR
OWN.
WHICH ARE NO GOOD TO THE
WORLD.
THE OLD MANOR
HAVE GIVEN
NOTHING TO THE WORLD.
BUT I'LL DEFINITELY GIVE
SOME THOUGHT TO THE
MANOR.
AND I WISH TO MAKE
IT A PLACE OF
LEARNING FOREVER SO.
Form:
There was violinist
He was old and grey
Loved by all but could not stay
He played the violin to the grave
And there the old violinist spends his days
With his love shed in lights of golden rays
For Gean Isenberg, grandfather and friend you will be missed.
People has been looking for the fountain,
Of youth since the beginning of time.
With all the clues and guessing answers.
Just puddles of waters and a waste of many lives.
It was written in a riddle That no one cared to find.
Then the old riddle was framed for many years unfound.
The riddle said it was in a cave two miles down.
Once they found the spot the cave was covered with rock.
But in the riddle the cave only opens at 3:00
We waited till three then the cave open remarkably
It was pitch dark black we lit lanterns to see where we were at.
Finely they can see water and see light the mushrooms and flowers
Were all great delights.
The old man wizard ask how old she was.
42 se said. Take off your cloths and walked through the falls.
To he surprised her answered and love has jus been called.
She called down to her husband To walk through the falls.
He refused to Walk through he rather be old after all.
She did this all for him now she realize.
He blew his life for another woman.
Sometimes as i dance in the rain
I imagine myself in that state of mind
Of peace and tranquility
Forgetting almost that i was in pain
And seeing myself in a way
That seemed to good to be true
But then i find that old me
slashing and clawing, trying to get back
I try to forget, but then i regret
the stupid decisions i had made
I could've been stronger
I could've held longer
But i threw it all away
An uphill battle to get away
Like i'm running
and not getting anywhere
Finally, the old me fell into darkness
Screaming that she needed me
She's still here, but not as strong
Clinging on to silence
When there’s nothing to behold
In the mirror of this earthly
Visage growing old
Beneath what now just lingers
In this quieting despair
There lies an open graveyard
Begging for your care
The flowers here are wilting
All the children turn away
And in that I am haunted
There is no such thing as play
My voice sings of confusion
When I ask for your embrace
Instead I speak of lacking
And why it’s you that I should blame
Now alone beside the mirror
This old man is close to truth
And as he fades into the nightmares
He recalls what stole his youth
Stalking through the darkness
A passenger of pain
“It is I that haunts this graveyard”
And then he spoke his name
Awake and overflowing
With the senses I thought gone
The old man in the mirror
Is now a child with a song
He sat down with a pen and paper,
to write a letter in the heats vapor.
His wife at home tending to the kids,
fighting a war the UN forbids.
His convoy was ready, about to leave,
survival was low as his heart grieved.
The convoy was attacked, wiped out clean,
his body found holding Kathleen.
The photo was burned within his hands,
the government followed his commands.
“If in the event that I am gone,
deliver this note before next dawn. “
The military kept to this wish,
delivered the note on a silver dish.
When she saw it she broke down and cried,
as she read it her soul just died.
“If this note is delivered to you,
then the end of my life is true.
I will always love you that’s for sure,
As I wait beside heaven’s door.
I won’t go in the city above,
I want to enter with my true love.
So don’t you worry about me,
the difference is my soul is now free.
Tell the kids their daddy loves them,
it’s not your fault please don’t condemn.
For only when the time is right,
will you sprout wings and take flight.
I will be waiting for you to come,
and tell our girl stop sucking her thumb.
Make sure they know who their daddy was,
and watch our dog the small ball of fuzz.
Sorry I didn’t make it back,
I know I promised you and Jack.
He is old enough to understand,
we can’t see the Braves like we planned.
Make sure you take care of them for me,
and take them to our old tree.
I love you baby even now,
I will watch over you that’s my vow.”
By: Nathan Bane Leccese
© All Rights Reserved 05/23/2009
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*Inspired by the song "If You're Reading This" by Tim McGraw
For "Music to Your Pen" Poetry Contest