Long Decrepitude Poems
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A sinkhole, deep as 20 feet,
Collapsed without a warning,
Around the corner from my street
Quite early in the morning.
Repair crews came but no one knows
What caused the sudden sinking.
Decrepitude, some folks suppose,
But not what we were thinking.
Ineptitude’s what we would blame,
For workers have been toiling
On that same block where they became
The source of tempers roiling.
They somehow cannot seem to fix
What underground befuddles,
So residents have had a mix
Of flames, closed streets and puddles.
Our car was parked right down the block
Where that huge hole descended.
It would have come as quite a shock
If that’s how my life ended.
He left this world as he entered, helpless
On the edge of darkness into the unknown
While I soundly slept undisturbed in my bed
Got the call in the dark dead of night
Reasoning to myself it was a relief
Except reason rules the head, not the heart
And I was sorrowed he had passed
That in his final moments he was alone
This song of praise, this burial hymn
Heralds the end of decrepitude and pain
October came and went and you were gone
Under a grey and misty mournful sky
And so you have earned your peaceful rest
Reunited with Jackie - your one true love
To sleep in the hope of the resurrection
Written: March 2015
The elliptical hums its sibylline canticle,
counting aeons in the marrow of my thorax.
Trainer whispers conspiracies;
I vault Himalayan escarpments, breath argent wind,
limbs pendulums of forgotten constellations.
Neon acolytes scroll ephemeral auguries;
mirrors, obsidian tribunals, reflect only decrepitude.
I seize dumbbells—orb of primordial sovereignty;
sweat ignites into microcosmic heliospheres,
celebrating the heresy of vitality
in a sanctum devoted to fragility.
The clipboard combusts in incense of imagined awe;
I pedal, I lift, I breathe—
each motion an imperial edict: mountain, river, comet.
I am venerable, absurd, immortal, human;
my laughter detonates Olympus beneath fluorescent firmaments.
Mausoleum and graves extremely old
They have not withstood test of endless time
Human love and tragedy long grown cold
Lay under protection of pure divine.
Weathered decades obliterated names
So many graves in decrepitude lay
Impetuous nature has claimed domain
Humanities spirit ever holds sway.
Listen carefully restless spirits sigh
Mournful whispers in ancient cedar tree
Seems they are reluctant to say goodbye
Bright future awaits they cannot foresee.
Spirits one day will arise and move on
Gentle Shephard takes charge his flock has gone.
Pixabay image by: MrsBrown
No Vanity Set For This Chap, No Way
(in praise of immortality)
Modesty an understatement,
when eyes chance
to look askew at looking glass,
mine reflection caught at a glance,
an old man's piercing dart
mirrors my blinkered acquaintance
faint recognition communicates
immediate tacit admittance
boyish good looks faded
with morning glory of youth
as senescence didst advance.
Similar to the strikingly handsome
Dorian Gray, this mortal
strictly shares penchant to affiance
a pact with father time, and
devoutly pledge allegiance
to remain forever unaffected
with ill fated biological alliance
even if mandate to pay
with my soul as sole allowance
to stave off the ravages of old age
maintaining glowing ambience
of boyish good looks, or...die...
twill be to late for an ambulance
to rush lifeless body
forthwith to hospital emergency,
an immediate appearance
of rigor mortis, a dead give away.
Cumbersome degradation of
corporeal essence breeds arrogance
born of desperation,
where chronological ascendance
robs cherished commodity,
thus pained angst
to suffer aging accidentally evinced
looking askance
hints of unavoidable assistance
when wracked by incontinence,
thus rendering incumbent orderly attendance,
hence awareness awakened to singular
choice as avoidance,
where vigilance espies silent auction
as decrepitude ousts clutching buoyance
quickly fading steamrolling capacitance
to cling (by the merest thread)
fat or slim chance
against depredations of...
inevitable circumstance trumpeting
"NON FAKE" absent cognizance,
sans horribly wizened wrinkled countenance!
A man who wrote with strokes so bold’ of the
Struggle of humanity.. Long may his excerpts
Be told’ he helped write the American constitution, all his writes are original; and Often Concerned with restitution.. Yet too much
To satan I see he gave, with that line on ruling
A error (most grave!) though he was only human as
Anne Lise put on shaky…Yet effects are far reaching, through many a century..’ As I will
Here put this man’s work on the whole was good’ yet I’d not give a whit to the devil..’ if
I do? Then condemn me, that things may be
That be well understood.’ Consider Joseph in
The Egypt of old, who gathered the grain and
Kept it as gold, slowly he took all the people did
Hold, then put them in usury.. Was God really
Glad? It says much of the world that he”s a
Hero at all. Do we have inbuilt moral decrepitude? What say ye all.?
"...though nothing can bring back
the time of splendor in the grass
of glory in the flower..."
---Wm. Wordsworth
"...in sickness and in health/
'til death do us part..."
Your mortal flesh decays
while mental failings mount
and I, powerless, mourn
your losses, in silent grief --
no slowing of the ravages
and time's neglect --
little chance, now, to correct
the many errors of the past.
I guard your fitful sleep,
remark upon your wrinkled brow
and sparse remaining hair,
hear hesitant, labored breath,
and determine to bear
(for how much longer?)
willful, spiteful actions,
bitter barbs, prompted by
what you really -- really! --
know -- by what we both
cannot accept and
refuse to voice aloud.
It Sits There
It sits there,
like the old Chevy in the driveway,
empty, but for memories
of better days.
Days of running hot
on roads of steaming passion,
squealing tires speeding
the road to fulfillment,
time’s road markers
flashing past
in the dancing headlights
fading into lover’s dust.
It sits there,
just as big, as heavy,
as empty as the Chevy,
this worn out heart
seized by the decrepitude of age
drained of joy’s presence
mired in the melancholy
of the mind’s meanderings.
It sits there
blocking the driveway
of his life.
11/22/2015
submitted to Romantic Poem – poetry contest
sponsor SKAT A
You can take back my adulthood
I don't want it anymore
Please rescind responsibilities
My (horrific) credit score ...
I have no use for maturity
Expectations, "Dreams Come True"
Accomplishments and wisdom
Take back those, (and taxes, too) ...
I've no need for graying follicles
Creaking bones or RX plans
And that horrid label "middle-aged"?
FAR more than I can stand ...
Loss of teeth and twisted digits
Startling bursts of gas, et al
Santa bellies, moles and crow's feet
They're just killing my morale ...
This affliction they call "turkey neck"
Double chins and mem'ries, dry
(Each time I find myself somewhere
I'll be damned if I know why) ...
Losing friends because of politics
Or who takes the better meds
Whose brood is most prolific
(Can we do a count of heads?) ...
This "senior" thing is for the birds
Not worth its weight in gold
So I'd like a refund on my age
I'm damn SICK of getting old ...
Please, I want to be a kid again
With no worries, goals, or bills
I'd rather be tagged "immature"
Than "older than the hills" ...
I have studied this "decrepitude"
How it's changing me and friends
Thus I'm swapping my Life's Story ...
I don't like the way it ends.
The din of darkness,
The cacophony of impostors,
The symphony of ignorance,
The decadence of progress,
Colonial heritage,
The empire of the pharaohs,
The agony of the pyramids,
The ordeal of free men,
The heat of infernal furnaces,
The burden of ancestral tortures,
The cradle of humanities chained to hatred,
The lament of immemorial torments,
The tale of forgotten shadows,
The macabre mass of intertwined destinies,
The accelerated decrepitude of fallen hopes,
The stigmata engraved on the parchment of time,
The funeral howls of a persistent memory,
The sepulchral embrace of an eternal night,
The tumult of trials in the scars of history,
The flashes of an untamed reality,
The epic of souls thirsting for redemption.
Proselytes and orators with fiery ideologies are ready to spark a conflict whose repercussions could shake the very foundations of society.
Land of asylum, sanctuary of xenophobes,
Doors of the chapels of drug addiction,
The reconquest of frustrated nostalgics,
The liberation of supremacist rantings,
The silence of the proletarians,
The promotion of social inequalities,
If monotheism were of divine essence,
Racism, slavery and colonization
Were not going to be sanctified,
In their so-called holy rags.
The conspirators demonize the plots of the marginalized,
The manipulators have an army of fanatical parrots,
The future of the earth is punctuated by catastrophes,
These madmen are already exploring the stars,
There will never be peace on this cursed planet,
The rich need the chaos generated,
Through war, misery, corruption and plunder,
The tombstones pile up,
Taciturn spectators of human tragedy, erected in a landscape devastated by the ravages of ephemeral power and limitless greed.
Political extremists and religious fanatics
Preparing for the final confrontation,
Africa will be the next global battlefield,
Sub-Saharans think they are escaping the horrors of poverty,
By crossing the Sahara on foot and swimming the Mediterranean,
While the multinationals of the new world order take advantage to plunder the natural resources of their subsoil.