Best Yellowed Poems
I sure miss the old hymns of ages past.
With tattered edges their message still lasts.
Those five stanza’d jewels I know by heart--
“The Sweet By and By” and “How Great Thou Art!”
And “Count Your Blessings,” I love that one, too.
And “This World’s Not My Home, I’m Just Passing Through.”
But when I’ve done wrong and need to get right,
There’s “Just As I Am” and “Why Not Tonight.”
I swear I can hear my folks who have gone,
on “Vict’ry in Jesus,” they sing along.
Someday all the saints will stand and join in
As Heaven’s choir sings those songs once again.
Those old, yellowed pages worn soft by tears—
Oh how I miss the songs of yesteryear.
August 22, 2022
Categories:
yellowed, christian, heaven, song,
Form:
Sonnet
Shadowed in the silent room, the daylight's nearly gone
Dusk climbs in through window glass, with one last ray of sun
I start the task, climb on a chair, reach up to shelves so high
to mother's boxes neatly stacked, and dust gets in my eyes
I take one down, to look inside and sit upon a chair
I find some musty linens, laces needing some repair
Discovering old photographs, the year was '42
Her face was smooth as porcelain, unblemished, young and new
Old documents and letters, a history unveiled
Her letters, torn and yellowed, such stories they would tell
The next box held small china cups, so lovingly embellished
And then I found a book of verse, inscribed with poems she relished
Some dresses stained and wrinkled, their fabric thin and tattered
Were once a thing of beauty, as if they really mattered
Her jewelry, gold and silver, some lovely rings and brooches
A warm sensation circles me, her presence now approaches
I sense a change come over me, and fleeting leave of gloom
The darkness of the evening lifts, as sunlight fills the room
She wraps her warmth around me, her fragrance in the air
My loneliness is free to go, I know that she is there
Among these things, I find the last, the smallest box of all
Inside it are the baby clothes, I wore when I was small
A letter there to tell me that she knows the tears I've cried
Her words of love that never died, they fill me up inside
These treasures speak her words to me, and now that I am grown
She wants to tell her story, those parts I've never known
I've heard her voice, while sitting here, among her china flowers
I"ve found such peace, she's next to me, to spend these quiet hours
____________________________________________________________
Written 6/8/2008
Submitted to Contest: "Old Jewelry or Just Old Things or Old,
Old Poems/Poetry Contest "
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Categories:
yellowed, loss, love, me, mother,
Form:
Rhyme
spring wakens my tree -
a bejeweled perfumed bride. . . .
love birds make their nest
summer’s yellowed lawn
beneath my tree’s sombrero. . . .
grass breathes sweet relief
fall’s quick change artist -
from green to gold to crimson. . . .
disrobed, my tree naps
Categories:
yellowed, tree,
Form:
Haiku
SUMMER’S END *
Down her meadow’s sweetness
By name of Summer’s End
This smallish thatch work cottage
With it’s proper artful sign
Hung at eaves with slightest tilt
By portal in decline
Should some young and searching pair
Choose certain bend of woods
And come upon the scene by chance
Imagine now their fond surprise
That first adoring glance
She’s not so much sad longing
As a fixed point of warmth
Her leaves but yellowed barely
Far distant hills all purplish glaze
It’s Summer’s End for keeping
Till a good life’s end of days
Dave Austin
* Correction - thatch work cottage. Thanks to Keith Logan for the correction
Categories:
yellowed, summer,
Form:
Free verse
Around midnight, in the library I found myself drawn,
to these shelves haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
as a rare, late October storm brews beyond the pane,
bringing life back to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker.
To these shelves, haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
my fingers grasp a book from under the dust and webs,
bringing life back, to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker,
it's well-worn, leather spine just waiting to chill my own.
My fingers grasp a book, from under the dust and webs,
while autumn winds rustle leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
it's well-worn leather spine, just waiting, to chill my own,
my head, sinking further back into the velvet-lined chair.
While autumn winds rustle, leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
candlelight flickers dimly across the tattered old pages,
my head sinking further, back into the velvet-lined chair,
where the ghosts of Irving and Dickens will not let me sleep.
Candlelight flickers dimly, across the tattered, old pages,
I, unable to recline, with the shadows thrown by the fire,
where the ghosts, of Irving and Dickens, will not let me sleep,
residents of the dark welcome, and wait to be revisited.
I, unable to recline with the shadows, thrown by the fire,
as a rare, late October storm brews, beyond the pane,
residents of the dark, welcome and wait, to be revisited,
around midnight, in the library, I found myself... drawn.
Categories:
yellowed, books, night, october, repetition,
Form:
Pantoum
You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged
(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)
You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day
(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)
You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,
leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.
You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain
(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)
You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward
Where minds silently unhinge (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe (for a moment)
When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.
And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.
Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.
Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence
... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.
Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner
Categories:
yellowed, allegory, analogy, beauty, deep,
Form:
Romanticism
As I sit upon these old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards, that shake with every wind
These creaks and groans, the flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand
I have come to some conclusion,,,
I've come to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat, the shape, the size,
the warps, the cracks, ...each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ... I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs. I have a few
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache. too.
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two,... sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.
Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
_____________________________________________________________
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF4GCLqf9_o
Categories:
yellowed, family, grandfather,
Form:
Free verse
It seems that time...is calling out my name
As raindrops beat ..upon the windowpanes
While scanning through the pages...of my life
In a book...where empty pages...still remain
What, I ask?...will be the final ending
So many pages...so in need...of mending
Now...with so little time to write the wrongs
And find a title...for a cover pending
Tattered pages...the story of my life
A beaten trail...of harmony and strife
A tale...more strange then fiction...in reflection
With paper pages...cutting deeper...than a knife
So many pages...yellowed by the years
Words lost in faded ink...and salty tears
As I read...and re-read...each page again
With voices...from the past...ringing in my ears
For years...I put these pages...on a shelf
This endless quest for truth...to know myself
Went on to write...so many poems of love
And a book for children...all about an elf
The past...I thought...I'd finally put to rest
Thought I'd finally sent those demons...to their death
But a restless wind...keeps calling out my name
To write the ending...before my dying breath
Categories:
yellowed, writing,
Form:
Rubaiyat
I've written of great longing while my teardrops flare
Rhyming lines of sorrow that were nested in my mind
Tomes of poetry that exposed the depth of my despair
Now, my heart lies withered; to its fate I am resigned.
My sonnets are all testaments to the love, now haunted,
decaying on yellowed pages, they make my heart bleed.
It languishes with pitiful sighs, ignored and unwanted
like my dust-laden poetry that I will never again read.
Verses were woven tapestries, a lovingly stitched story,
Remnants of us left threadbare, colors dull and faded.
Time cannot repair moldered love to it's former glory.
Ours lies buried in a grave; rotting because it's jaded.
Love spills its final drop as I gasp for another breath.
From this mortal wound, my afflicted soul is bereaving.
I've one last poem to pen, in refrain before my death
about the broken part of me, still mournfully grieving.
September 22, 2020
Quatrain Writing Challenge - Decay
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Categories:
yellowed, lost love,
Form:
Quatrain
By chance, I found them, there...
Three pressed leaves, with brittle veins of delicacy
Tucked between the pages
Of a tattered book of poems
Overlooked and gathering dust,
A cover worn, with broken spine
It had your names, an autumn date,
With script inside, a faded time...
Caressed in yellowed tissue, these three from ancient trees
Discarded long ago from russet crowns
A memory, kept, of time, so keen,
Of a long ago, brisk autumn day?
Where leaves had fallen so bold and gay, then twirled on down
From breezes that gently made the Sycamores sway
A place you walked and held his hand, and knew forever your love would be
Perhaps beneath those trees you made a plan for me
When winter's chill and stolen years had not yet come
Where fragrance of fall and new young love was found
From soft carpets of scarlet, red and brown
You chose these three from all the rustling hordes that grew
A tree had finished using them, in remembrance of you
They were yours for awhile...for your love, perhaps a lover's bed
now....here in my hands they lay....
They are mine to to keep, pressed leaves,
To keep for now, close to my heart instead...
Categories:
yellowed, devotion, father, motherautumn, autumn,
Form:
Free verse
The Empty Academy Schoolhouse
It stands on a vast green lot,
No trees to shelter it from heavy, gray clouds
on the rolling foothill horizon.
Its thin coat of white paint peels,
revealing bare, dry-rotted wood.
The rickety porch boards,
once sturdy under children’s energetic steps,
look about to collapse at the slightest wind gust.
What’s it like inside?
Puddles of water from the last rain?
Rat’s nest in the woodstove?
Any desks or yellowed books, pencils,
love notes left behind?
A soiled ribbon slid off some girl’s braid?
A chalkboard with spelling words
or arithmetic problems still on it?
What songs, prayers, or memorized poems
still echo off faded, white-washed walls?
When was the first day of school?
When was the last?
What became of all the children,
who once ran around laughing
all over this green meadow?
What happened to ball players,
clover-chain weavers,
kids who picked lupines and fiddlenecks
for their teacher?
Did they leave Academy,
or do they lie in the cemetery on a nearby hill?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
This old school house is in the tiny pioneer town of Academy, just outside of Fresno, California, near the Sierra Nevada foothills. Some of the descendants of the pioneer families still remain in the area.
Categories:
yellowed, history, nostalgia, school,
Form:
Free verse
It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow
both day and night,
hovered over
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem
a part of the
overgrown landscape,
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.
It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all
and no one knew
and no one asked.
It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.
I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.
I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles
and mystery.
I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
Categories:
yellowed, halloween, house, mystery, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
I open the book of time once more and again,
where pages are engraved in my mind;
the worn old pages- all tattered and yellow,
oh, here is the house of my childhood;
and my memories come twirling . . .
The smell of old wood and the stained glass,
the french doors and the long curved staircase;
my little room overlooking the garden,
and the big claw foot bathtub- a lake to a child;
the kitchen old and cozy with wonderful smells,
mom humming as she cooks . . .
A little girl (me) playing quietly on the front porch,
with long hair in tangles and rosy cheeks;
and grandma rocking and rocking and knitting,
and I hear dad busy in his workshop;
my baby brother in his stroller sleeping,
oh, the happiness . . .
A child's table set for tea and dolls sitting pretty,
a real teapot and some china cups (a gift from grandma);
my kitty cat Snowball asleep on one chair . . .
I walk up the shady street of my memory,
up that big hill where I rode my bike;
to the end of our quiet dappled street,
and into a park lush green and full of songs;
oh yes, the water lilies float on the pond,
and white swans and ducks drift . . .
Further down the street and up a hill,
is an old church with big ornate doors;
I enter the gloom in my mind remembering,
pungent the smell of candles flickering;
and the memories flood back . . .
The worn withered pages of my childhood,
all the pages tattered and yellowed with time;
then slowly- I close tight this book of time,
until the next time . . .
_______________________
July 7, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Withered Pages of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1164-783-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Childhood Memories
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
Categories:
yellowed, childhood,
Form:
Verse
I find myself
In this room
Where flames of passion
Dance
Within a hearth
That steels my heart
With just a single glance
Where from a glowing
Candle a bra
Set in tiers of three
I see reflections
Of a thousand
Crystal memories
As it stands upon
A shawl of antique lace
Draped across the shoulder
Of the Grand that waits
With a rose of ruby red
Laid across her waiting bed
Of keys of ebony and ivory
Waiting for the hands
That with love
will understand
The ink spots
On the yellowed sheets.
Inspired by a painting by J. Gibson
that hangs above my desk where I write.
I have spent many hours in this painting.
It is a place I go for peace and comfort.
Placed 3rd in Brian Strand's Ekphrasis contest
Categories:
yellowed, art
Form:
Rhyme
The sky is a Luciferian estuary
rolling and roaring in crimson flames,
a twisted design of detonated debris,
like splitting sighs
from internal implosions,
raining fragments of the past:
matchbox memories
piercing through suffocating silence
as time tortures the mind
with flashbacks of floating fragility…
O invisible moonlight,
pour me a purple potion
to erase the pain behind
perplexed pupils.
I no longer desire to be
cast in the clamorous clusters,
convicted as the captive ~
a ghost of games
playing on the bones of brokenness,
this cave of shame,
this cell of hellfire,
this emotional shrapnel,
reflecting self-loathing nightmares.
Perhaps I crowned myself
the commander,
leading the devil’s disciples
into a war assembled from fear…
And this heart ~ a metallic maelstrom
mourning in the turmoil of melancholy ~
breaks from the inability
to step beyond wrathful walls
to a landscape of holiness,
to seek the footsteps of pilgrimage.
For I am caught in
the whirling whispers of
spectral regrets,
replicating rectangular ruins,
electrifying the empyrean
with greyed grief
and yellowed yearning.
Pondering ~ am I the blasphemer
in the cross-eyed faces of monsters?
Am I the breath
that trembled ~ disrupting the peace?
Am I the empty spaces
filling the crystalline cracks
between haunting hours,
while darkness devours
treacherous tales
climbing from the
archives of devious agony…
But can love gift this skeletal sorrow
a twilight-kissed cloak of hope?
Will heaven be a witness
to these bleeding carvings
within the tall pillars
of my splintered spirit,
while the dying lamp of life
slowly fades and waves farewell
in faint colors ~ depicting misery
like demons decaying,
shaping a sadistic sanctuary
of malignant madness~
a familiar insanity inked
as a heinous home…
Categories:
yellowed, dark, emotions, gothic,
Form:
Ekphrasis