Best Seniority Poems
Olive’s Cinnamon Bark
It took her some while to sense the meaning of feeling good in her skin
Her mirror her prism her mosaic glass and the mist on the crystal of time
At first it had appeared to project a tarnished reflection of yesteryear’s
Cinnamon Bark of Youth
A silver hair dropping its flair onto laughter lines and sorrow grooves
The imager an hour glass of pleaded messages to tempt with gloss and mask
To stifle the miracle silken touch with unkind uncalled for varnished perplexion’s
Olive Shine of Middle Age
Still a child at heart tanned by weather of challenges growth blissfully wild
Perception perspective’s inclusion recovered beauty never lost but adorned
With garnished collection of scent’s senses and unspoken images to become
Acorns of Seniority
27 March 2018
My name is Mario and I have an ingrate for a brother, his name is Luigi.
Even though our games are in my name, he's always had it better than me.
He needs to be taught a lesson and it will be left up to me to teach.
The sorry bastard takes everything, he even married Princess Peach.
He always got all of the attention from our father and mother.
Now he wants our games to be called the Super Luigi Brothers.
He went over my head and asked Nintendo to change the title.
I'm so pissed off at him that I'm starting to feel homicidal.
I sued Hollywood Pictures in 1993 because they did something that really made me mad.
When they filmed the Super Mario Bros. Movie, they made me old enough to be Luigi's Dad.
I deserve seniority because I've been in more Nintendo games than Luigi.
I was in Donkey Kong and years later I was in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out as the referee.
Luigi had better learn that I will not take his sass.
If he doesn't shape up, I'm going to kick his Italian ass!
(This poem was inspired by the Super Mario Bros. Games.)
Subsequent seances of satorizing sanctities signal two fold sinfold shat sightings of nevertheless neverings that all ways
super suggest our innate inadequacies pertinent to socio precious
pontifications post prevalant askings of the revr
irrevelant rationings of a rationedrace resigned to complacent cow a tures politico compliant to the inner igno twinings adjacent to your soul
sellings as they relate to yr inner partisanplasmic potentials. remember yr humble DNA, beginnings as they restorocoordinate
yr predisposed primary plastic parental beginnings as to what is for u as an emo entitiy. As a parent times three of the son persuasion,
I can contrast contemplate the socioprotocals that r supposed sublime to cater to the male powers to be and socio sale the rental rites of
tremors that will swell the estrogenic ebb tides of common bond intelligence. I am at a personal peramater that is awash with the
paritisan status quo and the beliefs that LIE within the scope of their being. Retread the constitution and all that the FF's put into place for
the good of the postulate union as a WHOLE. Persuasion is inconsequential, no matter,
in---adequate as to its modern day relevance explicit. If u can't sociocope and lean really far foreward, and do us a big
FAVOR AND OFF YOURSELF, OR CONVERT, INTELLIGIZE YOURSELF, RE EVAUATE YOUR brAIN RELiaANCE, SEEK STRENGHT FROM YR gone YOUTH, IF U CAN STILL FIND IT, AND GO
INWARD TO LEAP OUTWARD TO HELP ALL OTHERS
REGARDLESS OF RECOGNITION, WEALTH, SENIORITY OR ANY SELFSERVING SIGNAGE OF SELF RIGHTEOUS SIGNFICANCE.
THE BEST HELP IS THAT WHICH IS GIVEN, USED, AND PASSED ON, NO THANKS NEEDED,
PAY IT FORWARD times 3. Give is as Give does in the insignificant web we weave. Careful with who u have for breakfast,lunch, dinner, snack,desert
and night cap. All things being ugly equal r alive and wish u ill. Perverse protocol is protected in a nestled non conveyrance of abbey normal malice. Step right up!
THE TIDES OF TIME
Willy nilly the aging process
Smooths and recycles the sharp edges of life
And re-sorts our big troubles and small.
The ebb and flow of time - irresistible,
Repetitive, constructive, destructive -
Cleans the rubble-strewn
Patch of our life,
Rounds and makes regular each grain,
Filling in holes, combing each strand
To form a smoother pattern until
Seniority brings serenity,
And the tempests of hot temper
Abate, to be replaced by
More clement elements.
Our older, smoother, rounded
Patch of firmament
Must needs fit more firmly
Into the cycle of life,
For the tides of time wait for no man.
I give to you...
And you gave to me...
A rash, a fever, headache and the Flu...
I told you not to go without a coat...
And now you’ve got a very bad sore throat...
With fever and pain in all your muscles...
Coughing and sniffles, with draining from nostrils...
Tissues scattered all over the floor...
Bottles and pills from the drugstore...
Chicken soup is what I recommend...
But a sandwich also you did command...
And how about some chips and a nice cold brew...
For days I made you a priority...
Your every whim took seniority...
And then it happened, I started to sweat...
Became lethargic, and better yet...
You were over your bout with the Flu...
As I plopped my body onto the bed...
You stated you were going out to get something to eat...
So I could get some well deserved sleep...
As you closed the door, I heard you say...
Call me when you get better, OK ?
And that’s what brings me here today...
Perhaps I should listen closer to what I say...
" You should take better care of yourself ! “
"Destination: New Covenant"
When we arrived
at our destination,
the place they called
"New Covenant",
we were assigned
fresh armour.
we thought the war
left long and far behind us;
of course,
our ranks had changed,
but our allegiance
for saving contracts
in the between worlds place
was much to our disbelief,
swiftly locked in again.
we were, one must admit
with good humour -
hell-bent, resigned.
Our redeployment
steadfast, some considered
insane, we had no time
to complain.
we, were told to 'man-up'
this was our mission -
so we, the perceived
fallen, unsubtle yet,
viably courageous,
remained
stoically aligned.
"Karma is a b**ch",
the untainted remaining
flaunting their immunity
from return, watching
in their safe sectors
playing their harps,
all chimed.
We saluted,
smiled back at them,
and sardonically
flipped the birds -
we weren't 'tweeting'.
switched on, we were,
in our protection.
Light suits
full commando wings
on display,
we boarded the
supersonic getaway
and at the helm,
The Firm's leader,
the No. 1 Honcho,
the Big Cheese,
the Chief-in-Command
delivers us from...
well, you know the story -
His rank
is very well deserved
earned by blood,
sweat and tears.
Worthy of respect -
over us, he has many years,
seniority, experience.
His instructions
are ultra clear,
some might say,
religious. He's our,
lead stag, we follow, he steers.
He declares, commanding,
loud and sincere,
"Buckle up Legion.
The last battle.
Victory to all.
God speed.
Burning entry
by clouds.
Bury your fear."
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
A man, 20 years of age, another man, 40 years of age
The young man in his inexperience asks the 40 year old man
"You've lived twice my life, whats your advice?"
The older man pauses
Reflecting on his own life, in hindsight..
He says:
It is said by many
The best teacher is experience
This statement is true, but experience
Does not equate to intelligence, or intellect
As both do not equate to experience
With every word from spoken by a man in his youth
It is received by the senior with a grain of salt.
Though in reality, they are both adults
What distinguishes a person whos lived longer?
Is years of learning beneficial if they accomplish little?
A decade spent listless watching days blend together
Carrys more wisdom, more growth than 5 years of struggle?
To believe this I refuse.
Adults of seniority, arent always mature
Bickering, arguing with each other,
Talking over the other
Neither letting either get one word in edgewise
Their bodies mature, years experienced
Yet arrested development has left them
Adult children
The fresh face child who endures struggle
And is given responsibility,
Experiences his growth as man
A man who never has had to struggle and grow
Is stuck in his adolescence,
Imagine the weight of the air in that house
which in the summer months would strangle you,
wearing heated gloves. Tough luck.
A gulf of emotion that is always a week ahead;
trying to claw back
a sense of permanence
as it lingers in a cold sweat. Windows
crack with discomfort; the place is dead.
All of those whispering memories
that remind me of my crippled crown
an accolade
of atrocities;
dripping with blood that is warm, not red.
Dried it looks a heavy brown, stiff as lead.
Imagine the ricochet of a drunken fist
that snuggles nicely between the nose and lips.
Impact dribbling
down
the spine and slapping the hips. The barrels
of my skull, those holes that whistle in the wind
a sort of lubricated lisp that rests on tears.
A sense of brutal butchery that batters
the borders of belief,
a false economy
to pray that some how, some day and in some
small way this tale will turn. Dismay,
this is not pain. This is not the teething
clamp of a hungry blade, the creasing
curve
through flesh and vein.
This is my reality, or at least it was,
why? because. The luck of the draw, the imploding
exploding, digesting, regurgitating ying and yang
of this universe - the gaunt keeper of humanity.
Sanctimonious,
a symbol of sellotape
that binds me perversely to my past. Manipulative
memories that need to be restrained, filed
with all the crap. A thrill, a subversive
all too serious sensational sense
of seniority,
capped with stark stupidity.
An intoxicated journey that reached an end. Your
choices scarred me; let's not pretend.
When I was two and twenty
The lassies were abundantly plenty
And dance all night long
Was not the name of a song
But something we all did aplenty,
Then there came three and thirty
The women became much more flirty
And all knew my name
For I was king of my game
And I never did anyone dirty.
Next I turned four and forty
And I started to gain much seniority
The men called me Sir
And all the ladies would purr
For I was a man of authority.
Now that I'm five and fifty
My game has turned a bit shifty
The ladies are few
I need my dentures to chew
And my dancing is done in a jiffy!
Timothy I. Brumley
Life begins at Forty
F orty finds its first step facing fearless maturity.
O rdinary one proceeds onward or is considered celebrity.
R easoning reckons winning whims to prefer prime priority.
T ransition takes tough arrogant youth into tolerant seniority.
Y oung heart glistens ever-young even crossing Forty.
01/23/16
Forty Poetry Contest
Sponsor Silent One
I waited
Under the outspread foliage
Of the banana tree,
With ripening fruits dangling precariously,
Wondering,
With eyes set on the earth,
Wishing I understood
This everlasting madness.
To what end would man go,
To what end?
A mystery it remains,
Like the age old conundrum
Of the seniority between the hen and the egg,
Like the unfathomable depths of the bottomless pit...
Oh! Lamenting in unbridled grief,
Mother of all,
Seated on an ashen throne,
Wails poignantly,
While her children trade mighty fists,
Wetted by her tears,
Buoyed no less by her flashing darts
Of fierce reproof..
I, a mere bystander,
Watching, meditating, confused,
Lost, trying to understand what
Led to such fisticuffs
Between brothers who sucked on
The small obfuscated nipple
And rode the same burdened back..
Yes!
To what abysmal end?
What, hidden under the rigid crusts of the earth
Drives man to seek so zealously
To bury his fellow man
Six inches below
And shake his head
From side to side
Wearing rehearsed frowns,
Indifferent, obeying the laws
Of anarchy, and basking
In the prestige
Of ill advantage?
For in these matters,
Fasidically christened "the survival arts"
Men show sleight of hand,
Dexterity and mastery of the deleterious science
Of death...
And for his fellow, he is unapologetic..
Fallen, have you into the cesspool
And mucky wastes of nothingness,
You survived not,
And as such, were not fit to survive...
We, must hold our
Small heads in mad agony,
For shamelessly, we have
Trampled on the little men,
So dastardly disparaged
Till they shrunk,
Into tiny ants
Who suffer in silence
While the mammoths fight
For the trophy from Sheol..
I wondered....
Days passed,
Nights went by, sleep eluded me,
Nightmares sought out my deranged mind
And tormented me,
And I could not bear it any longer!
I searched the lengths and breadths of the earth
For answers, from men
wizened beyond my years,
But found them not...
I found only fools,
Tightly snuggled in their cosy territories
With mighty barricades
And tall barb-wired fences,
Throwing orgies...
For they had defeated themselves...
It was then, I slept...
This time, in the gentle
Stillness of the Caspian,
Wishing I was never born....
Where Is?
I read in poems and stories
Where is bliss
Answer found in school class and in friends
Requires to speak with
A maturity of belief
And a source of love to each
Dramatically I rode towards age shadowing each
Incarnation of value to all
Never found jutted
In rich culture of trust and for sheltered beings
Wind wished to touch sky high
Forgetting self important for earth
Meteors hurled countless down towards earth
Silent cries were dipping down
Through the light of fire woods
Black out were silencing all in the queues of death
Neither miracle nor failure project
Unsuccessful dialogues were sinking
Hopes have suicide through the sip of leader's gulp
A message of success
Ill references were carrying signals
Diurnals were clouded nocturnals were facing late
Lives of the corpses were in line for burn
civilization of dilapidated towns
Places for weeds and for new concrete born
Where is jam in the road of oil seekers
To run ease lives of children
Expiry medicines fainted waiting in friends' blockade
Odd culture and lame adm.. describes
Venture of the day with ink-less pen
A mail of voice blows in the evening screen
Where is my right and entity?
One octogenarian throated in loaded vehicle
Youths have occupied his seniority sitting heartless.
grace a Anne Lamott
Among the ducks, who are autonomous,
come and go at will, no passkey needed, and
the raucous Northern Geese in sabbatical here,
who is the Geese Boss Bird? Is there a consensus?
A vote? Seniority, or brute force to elect a leader
for the familial entity that sweeps the air over our heads,
honking in the wake of whoever's le capitain?
From whom do they get their directions,
their criteria for depart and arrival?
In the parking lot beside the lawn sloping down
to the lake where the birds congregate, I
am as still as a Setter pointing his prey, watching
a family of geese in near approach. Mother
Goose and Big Daddy steer six small offspring
being taught to hunt in leaves and grass.
Baby birds, so unafraid and trusting, I could easily
bend down to scoop one up, but Big Daddy's
in his attack mode. Do you believe he
does not watch you? He does...
Try taking a step or two
Some of the ducks are partners: languidly
dipping tandem heads beneath the surface, while
just beyond their conjugal float, two geese
in need of flight training skid to a ragged landing--
no Go Slow sign in evidence. Then, later,
when the Boss Goose sounds assembly, they
make roll call, revving up their motors,
taking to the air, honking all the while, making
that magic carpet that carries them home.
All in unison now...
Such community!
You hypocrite! You selfish twit.
You only exist as a counterfeit
to your ancestors dreams. You are unfit.
So you are here. You whip up fear.
You can't resist the odd sneer or a jeer
At those you would rather make disappear.
Their loss is huge. They need refuge.
But when you're asked to help with the deluge
You do your impersonation of Scrooge.
You go to church, a front pew perch.
But if you did just a little research
You'd see God would not leave them in the lurch.
New arrivals, whose survival
Brings out those instincts so vile and tribal.
Maybe you should go reread that bible.
Not the same God? Your logic's flawed.
You are being exposed now as a fraud.
People are people, even from abroad.
Change your thinking. Boats are sinking.
Give to them your charity, unblinking.
This once big world continues it's shrinking.
April 17 2017
it's hard to believe
that baby was me
some fifty years ago
i was that small
and now i'm tall
early days long forgotten
it's hard to see
that little boy was me
some forty years ago
ten years old
and didn't know
where i was or where i was going
it's hard to concieve
the things i believed
some thirty years ago
was i a man
without a plan
or a notion how to know
it's hard to leave
what we once believed
as real life takes it's hold
some twenty years ago
all that glittered wasn't gold
and reaching out for something to hold
it's hard to see
that ten years ago
some ten years ago
that i was already forty
in many cases i was the authority
the duty that comes with seniority
it's hard to believe
this fifty is me
still robust as health as can be
looking forward if i contunue to be
i'll grow old turned elderly