Best Wrinkles Poems
mist rises across the mountain’s wrinkles
painting the hills in His silent embrace
rain, His blessing, gently falls in sprinkles
mist rises across the mountain's wrinkles
laughing, singing, glistening with twinkles
pausing to pray for His abiding grace
mist rises across the mountain's wrinkles
painting the hills in His silent embrace
Will you still love me…when my lustrous black hair your fingers are ever drawn to,
turns thin and dull and gray?
When that youthful glow and my rosy cheeks wrinkle and my beauty fades?
Will you still love me…When you no longer recognize the sultry sway of my hips?
The sparkle in my eyes goes flat, along with the full pout of my lips?
Will you still love me…When the smile you love is lost, one by one…when all you see when I grin at thee, is my pink, and toothless gums?
Yes, but will you really still love me…When my lovely figure deflates like a balloon? When all my rounded curves dry up, as well as my once fertile womb?
Will you still love me…if my thoughts become lost in time? My once sharp wit grows dull, and disease invades my mind?
Will you still love me…When my youth is gone and time has taken its toll?
For I know I'll still love you,my dear…because I love your soul.
WRINKLES*
Wrinkles:
Wondrous memorials
Masterfully engraved
By
Graceful Age
For
Commemorating the victories of self
Over
The afflictions of life!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 NOVEMBER 2013
*Having read Andrea’s Dietrich: The Wrinkles Justifier, I commented that
I might be inspired to write on Wrinkles. I kept my word! Thank you Andrea!
*Dedicated to all my fellow aging, young friends!
Old guys
don’t look cool in jeans
with frayed fabric
and faded seams
So I’ve developed
my own unique style
with colourful clothing
accessorized with a smile
For this old guy
a stylish cap is my choice
I have a twinkle in my eye
and a kind gentle voice
It’s true I don’t wear
a younger man’s clothes
It would make me look silly
and I’m not one to pose
So no fashion from Paris
Italy or France
But if you play me some music
I’ll ask you to dance
So even though Old Guys
don’t look cool in jeans
We’re cool in our own way
still living our dreams
Wrinkles and twinkles
A smile and a wink
Colourful clothes with a cap
happy to join you for a drink.
"Crumbling is not an instant act..."
Emily Dickinson
Why do we find old buildings beautiful,
books, whose pages are crumbling to dust;
weatherworn wooden doors once dutiful,
old cars' magnificent sheen turned to rust?
What calls us to treasure the ruins of life?
Is it memories we hope we might find?
We search on steadily with sieve and knife,
as centuries slowly sift through our minds.
Yet we find no beauty in aging man:
wrinkles, balding head, the hesitant step.
Forgetting the youth that once was at hand
before battles of life, tears that were wept.
Beauty is wisdom verdant in aged minds.
Beauty a desk made from long-ago pines.
Today she lives on memories
Morsels of her past
Betrayed by time and left to die
Death's shadow has been cast
The wrinkles on her lonely face
Tell stories of joys and pains
A map of sorts, of who she was
Is all that now remains
She has no need for future things
No need to understand
Living now because she must
Beyond the things she'd planned
No one to tell her stories to
They start to fade away
She sadly waits her time to die
While living in yesterday
Trapped between this life and death
Her tears begin to speak
Another memory, she won't share
Running down her cheek
She's now become invisible
It's like she don't exist
But when she's gone, it won't be long
Until she's truly missed
She had so much to offer us
Wisdom, that we refused
Silently, slipping through the cracks
A treasure, that we abused
She paid the dues that life demands
Then quietly disappears
Left alone, she fades away
The wrinkles and the tears
Like bookends, Grandma and Grandpa —
those smiles — only one wears the apron
and the music, classical and gypsy
I was glowing in their eyes, growing
only for one who kept her pride of me,
when for the longest time, inferiority.
Blessing of a Hungarian household
we left just in time for the drama to build
there was rifts, crashes and death
and in one Poughkeepsie starter home
no Christmas tree to be found in 1962
Did we feel the sudden sadness —
my dad’s heart imploding — his dad’s
book closed, forever...forever stretches out
reality is a sudden blowout
only now in his wrinkled years
can he leak information from his tears
1/17/2021
i sit in silence
taking stock of this novel
that is my face its ruffled corners
and frayed pages written line by line
a faded cover aged and worn out in spots
old-fashioned dedication to the human race
some pages tattered wrinkled some even torn
but a worthwhile read perhaps for whomever
is willing to take a bit of time to look inside
the invitation’s there laying unopened
a story behind each tiny wrinkle
earned year after year
outrunning
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
with
charm
as well
as grace
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 11, 2020 for contest STRAND SELECT M sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Not all my faults were mine
See, if you follow every line,
Cracked yearly by life's quakes
After every turn she takes
What did not fall apart
Was recycled, to restart,
Not knowing now or then
She'd fractured, yet again
Basking on bone and skin
A wrinkle forms, o, so thin,
A crevice I cannot erase
From neither body or face
Find me as I am today
Scattered, every which way,
Debris making up my shell
Altogether, a story do tell
From their beginnings humble
To ending all a jumble,
I, not smooth nor fine
Not all my faults were mine.
Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…
Couldn't you have found some other place ?
What made you furrow between my eyes ?
And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….
When I look in the mirror, all I can see…
Is a silver haired person staring back at me….
Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…
Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….
Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?
Is nature playing a trick on me ?
Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?
It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…
So simple..so free……
Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…
And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….
But it should would be nice if I could just see…
Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..
Soon will turn eighty, that's over the hill
But the Highland Fling, I'm able to do still
As my kilt flips up
One can see I'm no pup
With wrinkles on my wrinkles I'm heading downhill
© Jack Ellison 2015
Time has erased her
The vibrant young woman
With lines around eyes
©2015 by Regina Riddle
GRANDPA'S WRINKLES
====================
I sat beside my grandpa in the verandah,
And watched him gazing in the sky.
Suddenly he smiled and I noticed
His wrinkles too smiled with him
I asked,
Grandpa, why your face is full of wrinkles
Because I am an old man dear,
Said he.
He smiled again and I could not see his eyes,
His eyes covered with wrinkles.
Grandpa, are you there?
Yes dear, he shook his head,
Wrinkles look nice on you grandpa
I said.
Yes, I earned them through hard work over the years
Said he with a hearty laugh
if they can speak they will tell you great stories
He said.
I saw sadness mingled with joy in his face
can't you speak on their behalf
I asked.
Yes dear, but my memory has left me,
leaving these wrinkles as my memory
Said he.
Sent from my iPad
Just lately I’ve been spending so much time
on re-arranging words upon my page,
correcting meter, finding perfect rhyme-
I swear it’s this that’s causing me to age.
You see, I never rest until it’s done,
a half completed write won’t let me sleep
throughout the darkest hours, until the sun
casts out his rays that through my windows seep.
I wonder, if I change my form to free,
just let the feelings tumble from my mind,
then maybe I would have more time for me
to sleep, to my complexion be more kind.
Perhaps though it’s the sacrifice for art,
ne’er fair of face, but beautiful at heart.
Past, present, future
Children of earth back to earth
Leaving our thumbprint