Best Timeold Poems
Once I roamed through the woodlands
With my large old shepherd companion.
We walked fearless, through redwoods and pines,
Through vines and ferns
To the top of the Cross mountain.
There we stood gazing out over the hills
Covered with sage and lavender,
Over the tops of homes cream and salmon,
The tall buildings of cement and glass
On the shores of an emerald bay.
We made our way by the pampas grass
Onto the dunes and sands,
Felt the water spray of the waves
As they hurled onto the shores.
We walked freely then in the world
As only nature’s top predators can.
Gone now into ashes and into ground
My big dog is no more.
For now I have a little dog
Who jumps up anxiously for the treat in my hands.
When worried she barks and bears her teeth,
Or crouches down onto the ground.
No long walks into the forest deep
Or along its mossy paths.
To a coyote or cougar she would appear
As an easy light meal
And I fear I would not be able
To keep them away.
So, no more wandering freely
Through the grandeur of the land.
I no longer walk along the unpredictable sea
Where rogue waves crash and crush;
Where unforgiving and unfeeling forces flow.
So now we stand upon the cliffs
Behind the gray old redwood fence.
Once, I had a big dog and we walked freely
Along the glorious shores.
Now I keep my little dog close
And when a stranger knocks
We stay behind closed doors.
We knew love together hand in hand.
Memories are still living.
With are walks upon the sand.
Seashells in a old wooden box.
The oceans spray.
A vanishing form down by the old
docks.
A bottle without a message
comes in with the tide.
Try as I must this pain
I cannot hide.
That old lighthouse stands as
strong as should I.
The tide changes yet never does die.
The old year is gone
You say
Dead as leaf fallen
Under a barren tree
Dead
And still mulching roots
Of new growing
Things
Dead and still
Nurturing continuities
A breast in the mouth
Of bitter hunger
No hand can remove
How is a thing gone
And yet remain
To corrupt everything
Every new dream is a fruit
Of old ambition
Every ambition
Has a stalk of pain
Nothing dies
Until memory is lost
And memory
Is not the frost
In the sun.
My order is disheveled
Contemplating time
The root
Of all mortality
While I
Like an old year past
Away
And be dead
When no one remembers
For the ash
Without the ember
Is dust in the wind
The forest
Fragile as love again.
The old year is gone
Dead you say
The river flows
And never comes back
In tears or in rain.
I cringe at the thought
of approaching old age,
falling hair, sagging skin,
hideous wrinkles and all
as the reality of mortality
finally beckons.
Yet when I look at old photographs
from my now long gone youth,
I find to my complete horror
a malnourished-looking,
ninety pound scarecrow!
was that really me?
Youth and old age,
one side of the same coin,
neither one preferable to the other.
The old bent withered tree had weathered many storms.
At one point, a hollowing out began at its thickest part.
A specific shape took form; the old tree had grown a heart.
For Sijo contest by Rick Parise
We have an assortment of clocks collected over the years.
Some chime melodically, others are odious to the ears!
Some rest on mantels, others hang upon the walls,
Each emitting their dings, bongs or ear-splitting squalls!
One squawks John Deere tractor motor sounds every hour.
To expunge that raucous din, I removed its AA battery power!
I must admit, I've always been an avid John Deere aficionado,
But the noise was noxious to my ears - 'tis now incommunicado!
I'd like to chat with the feller who invented the cuckoo clock.
Why couldn't he have used a dove's soothing coo to mock!
Above my desk hangs another curious horological wonder.
It plays the Air Force Song on the hour, rending peace asunder!
The old grandfather clock utters a pleasant, mellow gong.
'Tis pleasing to the ear - he's my pal - he can do no wrong!
In contrast, the banjo clock emits a delicate twangy sound,
That is, if I can remember to keep it tightly wound!
Another clock strikes the hour and birds begin to chirp.
'Twas relegated to the garage, since my serenity it did usurp!
Most of my clocks are old friends, 'cept one among the number;
'Tis that doggone alarm clock, that awakes me from my slumber!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The typewritter the empty page.
Time has forgotten you.
As we worship the talentless in a foreign age.
Cheap **** and a old lush.
Poddle skirts and a highschool crush.
Wornout jeans and a no longer spoke about bands patch.
Sneaking out the window .
Unlocking that old gates latch.
Forbidden lovers and young hearts loving thta first feeling
so very true.
The stars are a midnight canvas.
Rain and beauty reflect the same to old and new.
Coins in a wishing well thrown by a lost
young teenage girl.
Sweet agony and diary pages.
Red lipstick andher hairs natrule curl.
the scent of innocence and regret fill's the air.
Bitter souls loath the foolish
young who reach for a place where only dreamers dare.
Like a mustang down a empty backroad through this life we
blew.
So many feelings it leaves you numb.
As the guard must change from old to new.
The blue little sky,watching the little bird fly,
stopping a bit to shy ,a great sight to deny!
After a long indeed old memories flew in my mind,
with similar adrenaline rush I don't know what I did find?
Feelings of the past never go away from you,
however far you may be they are still within you.
The same old thoughts and the idiotic dreams,
flashes back in the mind hearing the unknown screams.
Words still don't come out of my bleeding heart,
and she came all over again to make her mark.
The one whom I tried to reach now stands before me,
but still not satisfied don't know what i wanted this to be.
Time never does reverse -wise people stated it as a fact,
but now it's time when past came back!!!
Some fellers like to sit around and sip bourbon on the rocks.
I prefer to sit around admiring my collection of old clocks.
At last count I reckon they number about seventy-five or so.
Much to my spouse's chagrin the number continues to grow!
I just can't pass up a bargain at the local antique store.
I suppose I'm like that old horse heading for the barn door.
When I spot a lonely beauty displayed there by its self,
I feel sorry for it and take it home to display upon my shelf!
My lair looks like a museum with clocks of every pedigree.
There are wall, mantel and cuckoo clocks staring back at me!
There's a grandfather clock standing against the far wall.
Made of solid oak and rising nearly seven feet tall!
Nigh on forty years ago my interest in old clocks began.
Some are from Germany, England and a few from Japan.
Do they all chime and clang at once you may rightly ask?
No - to keep them all wound would be an onerous task!
The chimes, bongs and cuckoos the old clocks emit,
Could drive one insane I would readily admit!
'Twould be lonely around here, tho', sans those friendly faces,
And their graceful, sweeping hands and elegant wooden cases!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
An old pal of mine standing nigh seven feet tall,
Basks in regal splendor against the wall.
He's well over one hundred and fifty years old.
Could he speak, Oh! The tales to be told!
That old friend that in my home doth dwell,
Is a stately grandfather clock with open well.
Made when craftsmen took pride in their guild,
'Twas crafted from sturdy German oak to build.
The hours are tolled with sonorous tone.
He's seen so many events now bygone.
Holidays, births, deaths, family mirth,
And even several wars upon this earth!
Every so often I oil his wheels and gears.
After all, he's getting along in years!
I need my old friend for succor and ease.
For that reason him I shall ever appease!
He's seen the birth of a new millennium,
And with each arc of his ponderous pendulum,
Is a reminder never to squander time away,
But to live a productive life each passing day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
An errant wind ruffles the
surface of the lake,
disrupting the satin sheen,
quicksilver becomes watered silk.
The breeze caresses the old man
and he looks up in wonder
as he sees the spirit of God
moving across the face of the water.
He loved you always.
The wind is no more than a gentle sigh.
The old man sighs with the wind.
Memories plague his psyche.
Ruefully he smiles, he must protest:
Life is not short, it is interminable.
He loved you always.
A grey cloud scuttles across the horizon.
He rubs a weathered hand across his face.
His heart sits like a stone in his chest.
The lake and the sloping yard and the
ancient trees and the old man long for you,
for the gaze of your eyes,
the touch of your hand,
for your mere presence.
He loved you always.
He ponders the errors he knows he made.
He is wounded by your impatience.
The sky begins to weep as the tears
run down the old man's face.
The surface of the lake pings as the
old man rises wearily.
The sky is shattered.
He loved you always.
He slowly makes his way up
the broken path,
laid with such great love
so long ago, hardly able
to bear the weight of
his memories.
He was once your resident hero.
He loved you always.
So you are fifty years old and counting
Your search has begun for the fountain
Perhaps you will find
It is all in the mind
There may be many new chapters unwritten
So you are half a century old and doubting
You have come to a fork in the road
My one wish for you
Which ever path you choose
That you will not be traveling alone