Long Aged Poems
Long Aged Poems. Below are the most popular long Aged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aged poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh how troubling to hear the scary sounds of hopelessness!
Even more so from aged ones leaving many questions; no answers.
A 97 year old man speaks and the world with ears open and heads up, listens.
He recently spoke of a cold war unlike any we have ever seen; between parties
Almost evenly matched with economic, military, and technological capacities.
Complex tasks and prior failures flood the vocabulary of experts.
He only predicts possible if not a probable catastrophic disaster.
We listen to him and return to our coffee while buying and selling.
We watch him in the news and resume our texting and taking selfies.
We deem men are wiser today, forgetting that humans rarely change.
We are less wise, but more woeful, more war-like, more self-destructive.
May we dare to be unlike our relatives of Noah's day, who never changed.
050221PS
Proverbs 16:31 (KJV) The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness.
Our time has come to know the grief,
Of losing friends, losing those things – we held onto,
The past, the last hopes, the quiet assurance…
That our time is still in the present, today,
Echoing like silent shadows, abiding…
Youth and dreams, simple plans to continue,
With every strategy, each idea, those many proposals,
Plans the remind us we’re still here, yes – we’re here,
Living those moments, those precious gifts,
From the One who created us to live life, to give
With open hearts, open smiles, open light…
Reflecting the music of His wonderful grace.
Our time has come to know the heartache,
Of our dying pasts, our dying dreams, our dying families,
The ones who linger inside our memories,
Shyly melting away our darkest fears, restoring our faith,
And stirring thoughts of heartfelt beautiful, blessings
Found in the souls of those who believe,
In everlasting joy, everlasting peace, everlasting
In the arms of Jesus’ amazing light, His kindness
Stilling all our darkest storms, quieting despairing hearts.
Our time has come to know the meaning of life – it is…
Shining in the twinkle of a child’s eyes, melting the snowflake,
With a tender touch, inviting the laughter who frees the soul,
To whisper light through the moments of faith, the moments,
Praising the One who lives in the light, never fading – never evading,
He is always, forever, eternal, gifting our hearts with His spirit,
The One who comforts and sings joy to the melody,
Of light, softly flowing, silencing the shadows and remembering,
Even in the worst grief, His beauty sings of peace – His love
Wipes away the need to mourn without relief…
He is the One who inspires me to see through the silence,
The breaking of a heart – into the spirit of His love,
Where there is a beautiful beyond my own hopes, beautiful –
That comes alive in the soul who feels His spirit, His holiness…
Fulfilling, endlessly giving grace that believes – He is alive,
And He is ever with me – He won’t ever leave if you’ll just believe!
Yes. He is everything to me!
"Gothic 17"
provided they are
all story
and no reflection
I’m all for heroines
those coiled springs
minds like vampires
the ones
who
never sleep
sharp teeth
dripping words
that bleed
kissing lips dreaming
lips speaking, punctured
Northanger
North anger
abbey nuns clipped
speaking like demons
novitiates
slipping
on pearls
of kintsugi angst
the wisdom
refrains lifting
ripe mouths
blood red
enchantments
lift chins knowingly
chants kissing
tongues that touch
and speak
like babylon
drifting breezes
feeling something
forever mortal
moist and driven
the loose
long held like gems
in velvet gloves
the forever lost
bewitching, cast in spells
driven to distraction
Austin Kimberley
last day of school
17, '79
books in the bin
for burning
never once looking back
through the gates
collected by aged wisdom
the cat leaves,
doesn’t listen
never once listens
to grizzling whiskers
driving in pajamas
for the love
of it all
the cat is out
on the prowl
Tzuke purrs
racing
against time
still breathing
live wire
crackling
look but don't touch
the touched espouse
heaven can wait
just a little bit longer
heaven can wait
for those who
need you tonight
in the aether
the missing
watch on
by the missed
they are well worn
the lost
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Heavy thoughts stirred his sleep
waiting for him in his limbo
His past drifted away like fleeting clouds
returning vaguely, like lurking shadows
Visions drizzling through his future past
stranded in the abyss of failed dreams
If all could slow a little
If time will go on a gentle walk
then tomorrow might be better
If for a single more day, the light is lighted
The day can yet be saved
At dusk, he cast a glance
For a long time, lasting a long night
Ending a new story,questioning the old one
cascading the entanglement of mirages held on to
Barren Land sings to his lonely night
whispering bars from a loathed day
mimicking the cries of an aged rain
He lost his will to fight.
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
the bittersweet silent story of my life age
fifty and nine automatically rebroadcast
in indelible (yet never washed out) beige
indistinguishably linkedin, when counting
the last three of seventy somber orbitz,
signify torturous custom made cage
whose darkening shades of gray
housed a weakened Harriet Harris,
an ashen corpse lay
no doubt a grown changeling dust play
a cruel trick, and soul of me mum didst slay,
so...tis with great difficulty aye write this poem today
cathartic to brush off self denunciation,
an albatross that dust way
heavily incriminating, ostracizing this mind of mine,
recurring every year comb May fourth a line
codifying, delineating, earmarking,
and doth likened
to elementary school Boyer
as in Henry Kline
no less painful reflection plus unavoidable,
hence this middle aged man lets feelings incline
toward self expression this anniversary
revisiting re: deign
upon memorializing general up beat
defiance at death of thine late mother,
where disease rabidly did eat
ting her til she expired,
this singular married heir
set himself a writing fete
wordlessly mouths never expressed greet
unbeknownst reeders gleaning my sentiments heat
ting recollected adieu bid prior,
whence she angrily wanted to meet
that accursed nemesis
against healthiness and repeat
cherished apothegm,
that existence offers no second act
as she relinquished slipping tenuous weak bract
leave ving ever fainter grip upon cracked
pommel of mortality, an immutable fact
thence black knight denounced, pounced, hijacked
trounced unannounced, vanquished, lacked
motive to rival nixed, extinguished sputtering pact
fast fading joie de vivre unspoken,
where death rattle racked
personal def tone accentuation tracked
subsequent self castigation,
excoriation nearly whacked
me to Timbuktu rebuking extolling bless
sing experienced from
this sole son for thirteen years, aye confess
when the inimitable Harriet Harris
My hair was cut too short today by a middle aged Russian lady.
I get out of the chair, pay her a dollar tip, then walk out into the cool, sunny afternoon.
I know memory colors time, and a shaved head is much like a rebirth.
Even now in my chosen silence (the placeless guilt of an un-greeted roommate now home),
My hibernating darkness (the unworthy desire of sanctuary),
Even here, I seem to fabricate my own grace.
We have stairs, and descend them, down into darkness.
We look back, time after time, making sure we can still see the light
From the door high above.
Down we go in hope that we find what we’re looking for
And that something will bring us running back up with mad joy,
Or a pleasurable stillness of mind,
With the aim to use our new treasure
For the good of outside, the others of our time here.
With lamb-like innocence we play this game
Though the steps are never the same
And the light from upstairs
Is never solved nor snared...
You cut my hairs
And these steps fall away from me.
And the treasure is doubted and
I become new and strange to myself and
Scared and sinless and bare.
Bearing only now, witness,
To God’s true grace.
We find him with nothing.
This being our Arrival.
The desperate cry of salvation
Answered from every corner of the mind.
(Every step left to find.)
Now light, light!
The candles running down these darkened walls!
(They were there the whole time.)
Happy Birthday Sweetheart
To Barb, with all my love, Frank
By Franklin Price
04/23/2020
Happy birthday sweetheart.
I still pledge my love for you.
It has only grown much deeper,
Since the first at twenty-two.
Your first one in our marriage.
Your first birthday, as my wife.
Since then we've aged together,
Traveled down the road of life.
Birthdays, now, are more subdued,
My joy, and love for you, no less.
Still treasure every one of them.
Still want your love, I must confess.
Our anniversary was golden,
As this birthday is with you.
We've enjoyed them all, together,
Since the first at twenty-two.
When Tom was ten he was told,
To give up swimming, outrightly,
‘Cos it would get him nowhere,
But at 12 he swam the Channel.
He has an intellectual disability,
And is in the new class of S14,
Which he embraced 14 aged,
To join the ParalympicGB team.
Commonwealths were his debut,
Glasgow 2014, Tom won bronze,
For the 200m, the freestyle event,
To make quite an entry splash.
And still in Glasgow, the Worlds,
2015, for Tom another bronze,
In the 200 metres freestyle again,
Which he did celebrate totally.
Then 2016 and the Euro Champs,
Took him onto Rio 2016 in Brazil,
Because he secured two medals,
A gold, a bronze: individual, free.
In Rio Tom hit a high silver note,
To take a second placement fair,
In the men’s 100 metres freestyle,
With a time of 1:56:58 minutes.
He comes from Rawtenstall town,
Which is in hilly Lancashire county,
In the furnished Rossendale Valley,
And has set three British records.
54.79 secs for the 100m freestyle,
1.57.27 mins for freestyle 200m,
And in the 200 individual medley,
2.15.65 minutes: all UK records.
EPHEMERAL
Life is short. Power is ephemeral.
Physical beauty is deciduous,
I have seen it in the fiercest of lions.
I have seen it in aged or old people.
No matter how long it exist,
the greatest lion will eventually be extinct.
Miserably, that's the inexorable norm of this life.
At their apex, lions rule, chase their prey,
catch, devour and leave their crumbs for hyenas. But the inevitable, age, comes at last.
The old Lion can't hunt, can't kill or defend itself.
It roams, and roars until it runs out of luck,
then cornered by the insatiable hyenas,
nibbled at or eaten alive by them,
not left to die before being dismembered.
Those who live long enough will become weak
And somewhat vulnerable at some point.
Everything seen on the face of this earth,
despite greatness, is undoubtedly transient.
So why can't we just be humble?
Help the indisposed, the feeble, the vulnerable
And most importantly, never forget:
we will all exit the stage one day.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©? 18th March 2023.