Long Aging Poems
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Submerged in our shallow conversation because your beautiful petals intoxicate my existence
You become more beautiful with every waking day and every close of the eyes of night
She has a bouquet of beauty with the scent of forever
And her aura flows through me only to stay like a flowery motif
Every day I gave her a rose because her bloom helped me to grow and it was the least I could do to let her know
Even as your petals start to wilt I will still love you more than the day before and the months before those years
I’m infatuated with floral print because the flowers remind me of you…soft, beautiful, aging like the finest wine, your everlasting bloom
p.s. you are a rose I wish would last forever…
In a movie entitled, Tombstone, Wyatt Earp said to Doc Holliday, "All right. let's finish it". To which Doc Holliday replied, "Indeed sir. The last charge of Wyatt Earp and his immortals". I'd say that Earp's immortals were well equipped to bring about a reckoning against the 'cowboys', but not immortal enough to live forever.
Yes, I believe in immortality, not of the human body, but of the human spirit. The body returns to dust from whence it came. Until God's appointed time, the spirit awaits a spiritual body suited for it to live eternally with The Lord. He who made the first terrestrial body of mortal man knows how and when to give to us a celestial body.
It is interesting to me that angels have the ability to transit in and out of the heavenly realm with their apparently immortal bodies. There is much we do not know, but I take great delight in knowing that a new body awaits me; one that is not subject to sickness, disease, or viruses; one indestructible, whose body parts never need replacement, and never deteriorate by aging.
071821PS
For love cannot abide a troubled soul
Nor hold the trembling hand of aging fear
Lest it succumb as doubt makes it less whole
And yet deny its presence drawing near
For love is not a shallow water dream
It rages ‘neath the calm of surface lie
Its depth the chilling darkness of a scream
That knows its aching fever will not die
Thus, do the lovers dance ‘round fires flame
The heat of endless passion counting coup
Denying that two hearts could be the same
While both the dancing lovers know it’s true
For love is but a word misunderstood
By those who would define it if they could
In my dream-
there is a broken mirror
it is so gorgeous and wood-framed
but is shattered . . .
it stands in an ancient room and is beyond repair
could the mirror be a reminder
of beauty . . .
that is fading, or perhaps a death
oh, it could be grief, decay and withering away
I have plenty of that within my soul
or it could be accepting aging
represented by that ancient room
as nothing is forever in this life . . .
oh, I am afraid of this dream as it is full of unknowns-
let me fly back to my cozy bed
and be a girl sleeping . . .
________________________
December 1, 2016
Poetry/Verse/'The Broken Mirror'
Copyright Protected, ID 12-1226-627-01
All Rights Reserved, 2016, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Select
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.
It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.
I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,
It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.
I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
Charismatic Zoe consistently bears tendancy
of softening strangers into friends
Perhaps resulting from her relocating frequency
Her familiarity with 'all sorts' hones empathy
Inspires trust, apprehension suspends
Fresh town primed to garner aquaintence
In the year charming Zoe turns thirty eight
Uninhibited, curious, built by self reliance
Folks cheerfully offer firm alliance
Her attentiveness ensures it remains
Zoe values conversation vivid vivacious
Exuding nonchalance, ability to laugh at her folly
Fabulous new friendships steadily progress
Synchronisity cements compadre success
Several new girlfriends all in their forties!
Shrinking space separates her from next decade
Stubborn Zoe pictures dowdy entirely optional
Zone of forty hopefully could be allayed
Reality shattered, coming years delayed
Ignorance imagines aging not applicable
She perceives it holds hands with abating energy
Admires dignity older friends can achieve
Surely high spirits dissolve eventually?
Settled staid of middle aged brings lethargy
Lustre of gusto a gown youth beseech
Witty Zoe's process barely outstanding
Timidly turning formidable forty - - - -
Truth had evaded fathomed planning
Age expectations are pure semantics!
Trajectory questions finally sorted
Embracing increasing, relaxed stance decided
Zoe dresses in fearless effervescent
Category defiant, her latitude desirable
Zeal's spirit reveals pleasant surprises
Takes unashamedly from unfolding present
Written for : Time Poem Contest
Sponsored by : Chantelle Anne Cooke
Originated : 9th June 2020
PRINCE NAMOR THE SUB-MARINER
Namor Mckenzie an Atlantean
though your skin pink
ankle wings
the rest of your fellow Atlanteans
skin colors blue
Under water, under sea lives
the creatures who breathe in water
And though your father
Seaman Captain Leonard Mckenzie
Mother is Princess Fen
Some mortals and scientist consider him the first mutant
For most of his life Namor been fighting air/land breathers
Most of the land dwellers fear him
Only one female human he almost loved
A member of the Fantastic 4
Susan Richards the Invisible Girl
Now before her was Atlanteans Princess Lady Dorma
Namor fought New Yorker's even fought the Nazi's in World War two
In one of his fits of rages on the ice glaciers near Antartica
Namor throws a random ice cycle inside was hero frozen in suspended-
animation
Was hero Captain America
All this happen in the 1960's
This none aging Atlantean
What a watery super hero
Once an Invader, Defender on land, sea, or air
Namor Mckenzie an Atlantean
PRINCE NAMOR THE SUB-MARINER
11/21/17
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
from "anthology Heroic Couplets of Marvel Comic by James E. Lee Sr. Vol 1."
a quote from Montaigne: (1533-1592):
"Si on me presse dire pourquoi je l'amais, je sens que
cela ne se peut s'exprimer, qu'en repondant:
'Parce que c'etait lui; parce que c'etait moi."
(translation: "If I am pressed to say why I loved him,
I feel it can only be explained by replying: 'Because it
was he; because it was me.')
We are as contentious as cactus
with little hope of surviving drought;
the evening spreads out, rising on
its ominous great vulture wings.
At the whisper of your name,
your bassoon voice curls upward
and, leaping like a startled platypus
verging toward extinction, it disappears --
the last sad shout of our dying Spring.
We, my aging illusion, are trapped
within this antique crystal globe's cold glow,
where glorious blue spiritual snow swirled
oh so very very long ago.
A silence that sings, that is a constant hum through the leaves.
Cleansed clear throughout the vents and carried around the eaves
As the incessant rain is forbidden to touch, needed silence as I grieve.
A reservoir of infinite elliptical emptiness left inside.
The graying, cold, empty rooms of this home linger as longing grows.
As my aging holds to the sorrow of the stalwart gray figure that slows,
Bows, its touch, and weakens my soul as we dance, as I doze.
To sheer nothingness and immune to the shattering world.
The silence never stops singing as lonely, grieving
Tears fall on the smooth, unlobed edges of the leaves.
It comes not when it's wanted,
because it's never wanted--
who would choose hanging
folds of skin, a face creased
with scores of age lines, feet
speckled with spider veins, an
aging heart that could yell
'Surprise!' any time it chose.
An actress once said, 'Getting old
is not for sissies'-- she was right.
It takes guts to feel the gradual
loosening of a once proud body,
and the brain's slow softening.
There is no glory in getting old:
you are just a survivor of life's
myriad tricks, all its accidents,
illnesses, petty defeats and loss.
And old age does not carry wisdom
with it as you might expect-- there
are many tart in youth still bitter in
their slowing down decades, even
hostile to the joys they might once
have hoped to swim in, carefree....
So why must we get old? What use
is it, other than nature making room
for other beings to replace us? Still,
why can't we live for centuries like
old trees, or those big turtles found
on that island with the funny name?
Perhaps it is a way to teach us, to
cure the young of their solipsism,
to shear them of the innate vanity
that comes of taut bodies and soft
handsome faces-- then to plant the
subtle fears that come with aging:
the vulnerability of unlived dreams,
trashed hopes, perhaps the quiet,
persistent ache of a lost love...
not to mention the fear of falling!
So if you are a young reader
of this old poet, you may ask,
'What? Nothing comes good
of a long life? No hope at all?'
Oh yes, something very good
can come from a long decline,
at least for those who choose
to believe-- anticipation!