Best White Haired Poems
The evening is set out before me
on the threshold of night,
the hazy lights teeming
and glazed, webby-cold ----
bright with a white-haired curiosity;
What good honesty can bring,
observing reckonings and episodes
of spring stretching into the sky,
and many a mile on they who walk by,
Of faces rosy-red with frosty wiles;
wild eyes of winter,
(who stop for awhile)
They are gone, these frozen months,
the long cold sleep....
the chilled sheets,
heat with rebirth, melted snow neath
grins with spring;
glazed pines, tinkling water drains....
the sun soothes nearer its smile
The forests are roaring with song on the wind,
of spring,
And all things warm with renewal,
spring,
stretching into the sheet of the sky....
My teeth have gotten crooked.
My eyes sport puffy bags.
My lashes lost their lushness
And my neck, once taut, now sags.
My wrinkles now have cousins
Come to line my washed-out skin,
But it isn’t any mirror that
Reveals the shape I’m in.
For that white-haired older lady,
Peering back across the room,
Is the way the whole world sees me
When I’m on the screen on Zoom.
I took my four year old one time to a July fourth parade
We found a place that offered us a little bit of shade
Sitting there close by to us was a white haired older man
His eyes were fixed on something as the parading soon began
My son was fascinated by the old man’s intense stare
And soon we saw he was looking at the flag waving in the air
It was the first thing passing by us as the parade began to start
And the old man struggled to his feet with his cap across his heart
As we stood next to this gentleman my young son asked me why
The older man was shaking and had a tear forming in his eye
Once we all were seated and the parade went on its way
We spoke with the older gentleman and proudly did he say
That he had served in the Marine Corps during World War Two
And he was very proud he’d served the red, white, and the blue
He said he’d lost his brother and his very dearest friend
But it had been an honor to have this country to defend
The older man then said he’d lost his son in Vietnam
And he said I couldn’t tell you just how proud of him I am
I hope that some will think about the sacrifice he made
So that we can all be here to watch this beautiful parade
The old man then put his hand on my son’s tiny head
And he gently ruffled up his hair as quietly he said
My son’s name was James but we always called him Jim
And seeing you here with your Dad it makes me think of him
My son sat very quietly moving next to the old chap
And reached into the bag we’d brought to get his baseball cap
He put the cap upon his head as we watched a marching band
And slowly he reached up and took the old man by the hand
Soon another flag passed by and I was quick to realize
The old man wasn’t the only one with a tear forming in his eyes
My own eyes started misting as I stood there most impressed
As my son stood with a proud marine with his cap across his chest
Poetry is... Art
by Amy Swanson
Poetry comes in all
shapes
sizes
colors
surprises
varieties
lengths
flavors
styles
About all kinds of
feelings
thoughts
emotions
moods
people
foods
societies
animals
nature
It can be
long
short
rhyme
prose
haiku
quatrain
free verse
narrative
sonnet
footle
senryu
tanka
epulaeryu
.... and so many more-!
Poetry's authors are
from everywhere
all ethnicities
women
men
girls
boys
young
old
adults
kids
tall
short
thin
heavy
average
brunette
redhead
blonde
raven-haired
white-haired
gray-haired
or even no-haired
Poetry is
abstract
or
concrete
playful
or
serious
light-hearted
or
strongly stated.
It is about
anything
everything
nothing
and in-between.
It is
word art
from the heart.
It can make you
happy
sad
thoughtful
mad
excited
or even goo-goo eyed!
Poetry ... just is.
There is only one thing
Poetry is not ...
cookie-cutter
same-old-all-the-time-heard-it-all-before
cookie-cutter.
Each verse as unique
as the heart that wrote it
Each line as unique
as the soul that felt it.
And so
simply said:
Poetry is... art.
My known, soothing landscapes,
grown from my own hues and shapes,
somehow vanquished their view.
Just one more sore blister of news
to aid my staid mind’s gist of confused.
My angered fist punched tears in their wake
before my shock shakily jot them on a list
of all my heart sought to restore propped.
Truth and I both awoke the first day of last September.
Coffee bound, then mumming around, it was not
long before I felt scared and anxiety provoked ~
?? ... the kitchen was in disorder,
nothing in its place * as I thought it over, I
realized all rooms were oddly rearranged *
back in my room, I paled at a stranger's
face in the mirror, a white-haired woman
wearing my face * the scales said I had
lost 20 pounds some place ... ??
I sagged to the floor from facts scored.
Should I wake my sleeping man to
answer my questions and more?
My fear decided I should hide
inside ignorance while I had the
chance. I was scared once truth made
up my bed, my life might fully
deplete under my own sheets.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Though details are clouded, I have surely been rerouted.
I try but fail to decipher what all determined this matter.
Prime pieces of me were clearly scattered blind-battered
by forces cemented to time-tatter my mind demented.
It feels as though I have been divorced from myself
by means of some unleashed, bruiser intruder.
I lack all recall of three times three hundred and sixty-five days.
My doctor cannot explain what dementia did to my brain.
Who was this white haired Claus
With rabbit teeth?
Carrying a ton of peanuts
For all to eat.
Dragged in a sleigh pulled
By Agnew and Nixon,
Who ran right beside
Donnar and Blitzen?
He circled Camp David,
A fast fly by;
With lox and bagels for
the Jewish guys.
A carpenters’ pencil
Was poised by his ear,
And boxes of nails dangled,
From the gear in the rear.
Why! Its Jolly Ole Carter Claus
Draped in menorahs.
Handing out home plans to
the Arab before us.
Visions of world peace
Danced in his head;
As, he flew straight to Afghanistan
‘Fore noggin hit bed.
When down from the sky
In the form of deer dung,
Fell fruit tree seeds
Too be sown in the sun.
And, as CarterClaus’ whip cracked
O’er Nixon's ear,
As Agnew blanched,
His eyes filling with tears.
Droplets hit sand with
A plop and a splatter
’Pon the fruit tree seeds with
Nary a clatter.
The desert grew green;
Trees sprouted and grew;
Hearts filled with wonder,
Bellies with stew.
Homes were rebuilt,
as before the fall,
Cook fires were lit.
Children grew tall.
And Ole Carter Claus
Flew home in a daze.
Passing out sandwiches
That Roslyn had made.
He sat on the bench
Watching the snow fall.
His snow white hair blending
Together with the snowflakes.
Wings stretched from his back.
They were the shape of a bird’s and had white feathers.
He closed his eyes, letting the snow fall on his face.
Enchanting, though no one could see.
Not the old lady who walked her small dog
Or the children who played in the snow drift.
But one boy did notice him.
This boy locked onto him with ruby red eyes.
His hair was black as night and bat wings stretched from his back.
He walked over to the other boy and sat next to him on the bench.
Peace.
Darkness.
They represent each other as their hands find each other.
Their fingers entwine, linking them.
Both close their eyes.
Their wings seem to cover each other.
The boy with white hair reached up and stroke the other’s wing.
Blue eyes shining, despite the sadness.
He wanted this moment to last for eternity.
Longing.
Aching.
But it would do no good.
They both knew at the end of the day
They would have to leave each other.
One would return to darkness
While the other returned to light.
Light
And
Dark.
Counterparts forever.
“I will miss you when I leave”, the white haired boy said.
Tears flooding down his cheeks.
The other boy smiled sadly and wiped his tears.
“Despite the darkness around me, I will look to you as my light.”
Demon.
Angel.
World’s apart and yet still so in love.
Very few really tender moments
in my childhood do I find.
My memories abound
with normal things, and also
with happy celebrations,
failures and successes,
good times and bad.
But I recall one day
visiting a man from church.
Inside his small apartment
my mother took me.
I can’t remember why.
I just recall this elderly white-haired man
waiting on his white-haired wife
with absolute tenderness.
She did not even know him, really.
Alzheimers had claimed her.
But he hovered over her
with the enduring and endearing
patience and love
born from years and years
of companionship and true intimacy
that no disease
can obliterate.
June 14, 2021
For Malabika Ray Choudhury's 'A Tender Moment in Childhood' Contest
Entered July 4 for 'A Brian Strand July 4' Poetry Contest
Five gray, silver, and white haired crones
Navigated slimy green stones
Like tight rope walkers
Having been summoned by the wind talkers
They crossed a shallow creek
Each feeble and weak
They entered consecrated woods
Wearing cloaks and hoods
Upon awareness of being pursued
Their minds were filled with frantic thoughts of how to delude
The shadow of death
With quickened pulse and breath
One step ahead of the reaper
With soothing thoughts of being embraced by the time keeper
Five naked, old women swayed hand in hand around a fire
As the flames got higher and higher
They called the watchtowers of East, South, West, and North
And owl, bat, and snake to guard the circle as they issued forth
All while chanting hail and glory
To the goddess of folklore and story
Hecate-protector of witches
Grantor of youth, abundance, and riches
Torch and key bearing Lady of the crossroads
Divine matriarch of ancient wisdom and hallowed codes
The crones mixed a cauldron brew of aconite, mandrake, and myrrh
Intoxicated by the fumes-their vision began to blur
They drank their potion from a dragon engraved silver chalice
Upon the wings of ecstasy they ascended to Hecate’s palace
With the matron’s touch their third eye was opened to sight
The could see all that was once concealed and interpret at the speed of light
They began passing through life fast forward then reverse
Five old women joined together to avoid life’s inevitable curse
They danced and chanted from midnight to dawn
Wrinkles and sagging-fading-then gone
Eyes locked, stumbling, and entranced
Being transformed and enhanced
Gifted with immortality
Enlightened by the superior mentality
They Rhode the lightening back to the earth realm
To walk forever in the shade of the witches elm
Five blonde, red, and brown haired ladies
Escaped from the brink of Hades
Departing from the Goddess’ embrace
Five youthful women left their Divine Mother’s sacred, secluded place
With her guidance, they strolled out of the woods, and jumped a shallow creek
No longer feeble and weak
They returned to civilization
Disguising themselves and their realization
For they would be persecuted and walk through the flame
For bearing Hecate’s name
But one day upon hearing the Lady’s command
They shall rise up and once again take her hand
Ama you are a father
Father my father
Whose basket of fishes
Sweetened my mother’s dishes
Whose naked feet danced
The jungle drum you drummed.
I remember
Father I still remember
Those joyous days
When like brooding hens
You employed your hands
To shield the offsprings
Those several bodies
O! the little bodies
That clung to your bare wide chest
Like the eaglets unto their nest!
I remember
The sun-burnt days of the hunted panther
When the full moon-light chimed
The rhythms of jungle drum drummed
Rhyming with the story told
By the white-haired.
Then your roaring march
Along the prime paths of the forest
Then your rustic touch
Touching the weapon-hilt
Making carcasses of beasts
Making fresh clan feasts.
I still remember
The raw feasts of the drummer
Which strewed this universe
Like young Mbari warriors
Taking the spear from several clans
Turning their crowns into tributes!
Ama, you are the drummer
Whose communal tongue echoed
From the hidden chambers of the Niger
The drum of your conquests echoed
Everywhere in the universe
Like the gusto of the Sheik
Confiscating my land from the Sahara
In her eternal desiccation.
You are the royal father
Whose royal eyes woo the moon
Whose black hairs detain the sun
Like Joshua at Gibeon
Even in the deep valleys of Ajalon
Bringing the heavens to abrupt halts
When their course possesses progress.
O, Ama! you are a noble father
And like the gold-laying eagle my Africa
Your natural pocket flowers gold
Which fills the coffers of the household.
O Ama! you are our race
The clan greets her farmer
The tiller of my earth
The earth of the ancients
The ancients of my blood
The blood of my race.
The clan is still drumming
On the drum that now is a mere echo
Of the eternal rhythm of your drum
Ama, you are still our clan’s song;
O, you are my song
The song my jungle
The jungle of my blood
The blood of my race:
A race
Waiting
Now and ever
In a forlorn clan
Awaiting
A return of the drum?
Barcelona looked like a church
as I walked down La Rambla
in search of a vacant room
on that warm morning.
The balconies of the flanking
high-rise apartments were pews
festooned with holy day
football flags and bedsheets.
The white haired flower seller
sat silently with his serrated scissors
and buckets of sugar water
as if listening to a confession.
People who passed me
on that righteous path
became parishioners
with detailed back stories.
The mustachioed man walking
his dog near the grass
was a lapsed Catholic
and Spanish novelist
taking a break from
the tapping of the typewriter.
The chubby middle-aged lady
in high heels and a skirt,
who carried folders and puffed
on a quick thin cigarette,
was a museum secretary
with the curator's copies
and a mother who cooked up
fish and paella for her children
every Friday during Lent.
The invisible clouds that
wafted from the restaurants
smelling of grilled seafood
and lemons and garlic
were like the prayers that a
priest's incense personified.
I later spent a humble evening
in a small rented room
washing my socks and
shorts in the white sink
and reading the boxscores
and baseball epistles
from a day old New York Times.
I studied batting averages
as my underclothes slowly dried
on the back of a wooden chair
with the help of an electric fan.
What a sad day
No more Easter bunny
I don't mean to laugh
But some tales are funny
I think in the end
It's really his fault
you would never guess
Who was locked in his vault
The bunny was Jealous
Of jolly old Saint Nick
He felt like second fiddle
To a jolly white haired prick
So when the vault door opened
He pushed old Nick inside
He thought to himself
I'll take his sleigh for a ride
Before he got going
He loaded eggs in the back
Each one carefully packed
In poor Santa's red sack
On Donner on Blitzen
They flew up in the sky
An inexperienced flyer
Is now a very dead guy
His tiny bunny body
Was bounced out from the sled
Rudolph tossed him out
So now the Bunny's dead
March 9th, 2013
Clue contest
White-haired witch of winter whipping
icy blades cutting paths into the face.
A million flakes glaze a blue iced brain
the heart writhes about as if on fire.
Where does the glow of youth reside
beneath a ton of blue rippled sun.
but this is no time to quilt- to grow stiff
it is a time to water flowers of the mind.
Build a crown of bloom around the soul
to melt these endless-hellish snows.
TWO CURIOUS MINDS
1
TWO CURIOUS minds entwined with the
mind of God
Einstein and Bohr
The debate was difficult
and more
tipsy from decades of argument
their friendship soared
2
determinism an evil force if
to be believed by?
refutes all claims of an
eternal spirit that decides
external scapegoats lay blame
says those without souls
3
and through the window of a
prestigious institute
a wildly white-haired man
peered across the campus
and noted a beautiful
garden next door
4
it belonged to those who had lost
their mind in ways similar to
all those who -- like him tried.
the lunatic asylum could be
his home if not more
5
back to the blackboard with weapon
in hand, the equation for his madness;
unified field theory
fleeing all sensible manner it hid
as a wolf in his den
6
not a weak heart so his bold heart
worked and labored
shredding chalk and sweating drops
of intuition
variables came and left as Mistresses
in his mind
7
the gravity of this situation was to
marry such forces
his ill-born child, not just his own--
cried in his arms
papa Einstein fed his baby but would
never put it to bed.
:: ~ ::
*recite to Night Before Christmas
Who was this white haired Claus
with buck-rabbit teeth?
Carrying a ton of peanuts
for everyone to eat.
Dragged in a sleigh
pulled by Agnew and Nixon,
who ran right beside
old Donnar and Blitzen?
He circled Camp David,
A fast fly by;
with lox and bagels
for Jewish guys.
A carpenters’ pencil
was poised by his ear,
and boxes of nails dangled,
from the gear in the rear.
Why! It's Jolly Ole Carter Claus
draped in menorahs.
Handing out home plans to
the Arab before us.
Visions of world peace
danced in his head;
as, he flew to Afghanistan
‘Fore noggin hit bed.
When down from the sky
in the form of deer dung,
fell fruit tree seeds
to be sown in the sun.
And, as Carter Claus’ whip
cracked O’er Nixon's ear,
as Agnew blanched,
his eyes filling with tears.
Droplets hit sand with
a plop and a splatter
’pon the fruit tree seeds with
nary a clatter.
The desert grew green.
Trees sprouted and grew.
Hearts filled with wonder
bellies with stew.
Homes were rebuilt,
as before the fall.
Cook fires were lit.
Children grew tall.
And Ole Carter Claus
flew home in a daze,
passing out sandwiches
that Roslyn had made.