He was old, so old. Not just old, but archaic, ancient. In his seventies when I was born… and I remember, his face well worn. We shared a feeling, the two of us. A feeling, a family, a faith in our heart. He was old and I was young. Together, we found the wonder of love. Love built on the sharing of ice cream cones. The love built on knowing that chestnuts were best consumed after they’d been roasted in Granny’s old wood stove. A love built on knowing that Granny knew more than she should. And the time would come when we’d feel better on the porch than we could in any room. Together we shared a feeling, a family, a faith. Faith in each other and faith in God’s amazing grace. Faith in the old spring’s water. Faith in the hay God made. Faith in Granny’s garden. Faith in Jesus, the Way. He was old, older than I knew. Him and me found a purpose in planning our days and we’d agree, life would never be the same after he passed away. His light, though, would remain, to brighten the way with truth. The truth that tells me, he was my proof that there is good in this world and there is love, too.
too old to say no
he was a living legend
offering me hope
You are still Mr. PBA,
The game from the start to the end
Is just exciting when you play.
Topic: Birthday of Robert Vincent S. Jaworski (March 08)
Living Legend
When I'm through with it all
And my slippers are cold.
When my pipe is extinguished
And my favourite chair sold.
I wonder if all
Of those moments of life..
Like the picnics and laughter
Or the heart-ache and strife
Will be etched on a wall
For the newbies to find..
Or be words on a page
Of inspirational kind?
Will a shadow be cast
Where I kept out the light?
Or a candle of hope
Lifting spirits at night?
When I'm absent
Unable to fix the worlds wrongs
Will my ears hear the crying
Or grateful heart songs?
It's a tough one to know
As I ponder my fate
But one thing's for sure,
While I'm still here..
It's never too late
Jinjagoliath
20th February 2021
Craggy-bearded, old gent;
cigar in-hand;
faded army fatigues,
thread bare from the years at war.
He sits, on a cold mall stool;
chats away with the passersby.
An old-timer
with more stories to tell,
than he has years left,
to live.
The crowd gathering ‘round him;
all curious-faced and half-smiling;
listen intently
transfixed by his war-memories.
The faces that he makes,
Expressions morphing,
into sadness;
at the relating of exploits
of long-gone comrades.
A frozen-faced,
young boy in the crowd,
absorbed in the old Vet’s memories,
says to him;
“Wow, you’re a real hero!”
Craggy-bearded old soldier
Laughs; points to the, purple heart,
proudly displayed on his chest.
“That’s exactly what they said,
when they gave me this medal, son.”
By: M.L. Kiser
Entered into, "Sketch-A-Character" contest
First Published on Poetry Soup: 10-29-14
The self-proclaimed living legend is here to make a name for himself and that guy is me. I
was brought on God's green Earth for different reasons. And out of these different
reasons, three of them are to become a famous writer, to be a famous Hollywood
story-writer/ producer, and to be one of the famous stars of all time. The greatest thing
about being the self-proclaimed living legend is that I'm wanting to be able to outlive
anyone on this planet and I get to see tomorrow, the next day, and the rest of my life
life, as well. If I'm the self-proclaimed living legend, everybody should become
self-proclaimed living legends in their own right, also. I'm one of those young legends,
I'm living life to the fullest, and pretty soon, everyone will, too. And if there's going
to be a new brand of self-proclaimed living legends for the future, then we will all be
ready for life.
My bro I am joining you thought your tense and glummer
To cross the seas and into to the blue
Into the unknown you go
What a brave and strong soul you are to me
A tear drops so sourly down my harden face
Its dry to these feeling
Across many of mountains that I have crossed
And sooo passed
To sing your song to the cap
Just like I did mine to the green cap
This is one mad song
A secret is no loner one
As its always passed
To at least one
And then another one
Running yes
Hanging out yes
You have full filled me to be just like you
One hard soul
You nutter
Bounjouir
Time will tell as I follow your pain though the mud and guts
Cos that boat is waiting 4 me to cross the path
The very one you took to for see your past
I will be there not as a royal marine
But a French foreign legion
Everyone calls him
the king of rhythm and blues;
and with his electric guitar he plays his music,
strumming those strings with frantic fingers:
singing of his past delusions and unfaithful loves!
Decades ago, he traveled to many countries,
and everywhere he went he brought along
that guitar he named Lucille;
and even today it still emanates his will:
can you hum his most recent song?
A southerner from Mississipi,
uniting folks and making them sing;
and fame he found when he moved to Tennessee,
and who would have thought that he would have
become a living legend?
The flame will not die.
I pursue the path of smoke
the virtue of suffering
gives the pure light.
The book knows my inside truth
and tells no one. I weep for the swallows,
I could not feed.
I lay one white
stone for each death.
You will scatter my ashes,
in the abandoned land
where silence walks
and words lie like microcosm
of contemporary hunger.
Life was a cupful of tears.
The voices always spilled challenging
the fidelity of flowing water.
The living legend turns in grave,
I pray for peace
I promised myself to stand erect
when the quake comes.
I will save the flora
and the grass of dying earth.
I ask for one more life
to clear the debt & bleach my guilt.
SATISH VERMA
After I left you alone in the firelight
I wondered if ever I'd see you again
the day of departure loomed on my horizon
the last time I'd ever have time with my friend,
nobody told you to pack allyour heartstrings
to turn off the future you planned in your head,
nobody warned you of incoming missles
imploding within ,turning everything red.
you sit there in silence to gaze at the embers
humming a tune a piano once played
out on a stage surrounded by angels
oblivious maestro ,you ebb and you fade.
but I see that moment you triumphed in Paris,
white doves all released to welcome the one,
who soared on the notes of ultimate beauty
who carried us up to the fire of the sun.
Dear Phoenix I know you must die in your ashes
before your rebirth can ever take place,
but there in the fireglow I still see the flashes
of genius alive in the light of .your face
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.