Long Grey haired Poems
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The blacktop is uncovered,
yet the road has a moving face.
Wind-drifts sketch fleet features
then sweeps them away.
Lawns and fields are snow encased
every blade an icy spear;
much is buried, some pierce through.
Spears rattle in the dark robed dawn.
Under parked cars
a grey haired crawl heaps
a dead-eyed silence.
The sky puts on a dull armor
as a submerged sun glints.
A short walk in November
my heart is a chill beat
in a raw breast.
I will get used to this;
become used to the gnaw of winter,
but it will take awhile.
Hot black coffee helps
while I order leather gloves
from a thawing window.
The master of mischief shatters her darling windowpane,
grey-haired ninja lady twists her bulletproof cane.
Oh poor antique walls displeased at this routine,
they groan and wither at what this battle has been.
Granny in her sixties against the kid aged 5 to catch,
the monkey business in this house with none to match.
Broken cups, torn pillows-- souvenirs from February,
they race around this mansion like Tom and Jerry.
The war worsens for TV remote on tranquil summer nights,
none of them ready to surrender to switched off lights.
So one day I gifted them a canvas and new colors to paint,
their eyes lightened up at separate sets for no complaint.
Granny's lonely memories bring symphonies of showers,
she remembers how much she loved painting flowers.
They smile, excited to learn floating in pink and blue,
together, painting masterpieces in a dazzling lilac hue.
Like tendrils of grapes and melons in my garden they grow,
strokes in unison splashed with colors on a single canvas flow.
It wasn't so difficult to guide their enthusiasm so bright,
I sigh playing with my TV remote-- Tom and Jerry at last, unite.
June 18, 2020
Middle aged man in Docs,
vintage leather jacket and
grey haired pubes around his cock.
Ill fitting tour shirts rekindling a hazy past.
Barrowlands, The Bunnymen. Hammersmith Odeon,The Clash.
U2 at University pre Bono crawling up his own ****.
Danced and hugged on stage with Terry Hall,
arrested for d&d outside Bradfords Great Hall,
after watching John Cooper Clarke supporting The Fall.
Life reinvigorated by the post punk explosion,
no longer searching the NME gig guide,
but a Spotify recommendation.
or an even sadder email notification.
A pre gig meal opposed to a walk home pie in a barm.
Ear buds for the tinnitus and Bisoprolol to keep calm.
Heartbreak to watch the talent unrewarded,
by a government devoid of a cultural foresight.
Stifled opportunities
through Tory Brexit lies,
Allowing the corporations of Cowles and the EMI’s to
reap million upon million,
leaving the grassroots unnurtured, venues struggling to stay open.
Our greatest export,
an industry broken.
I remember I saw her
a sturdy grey haired
eighty something woman
with pin point pupils
and vacant looking
coldest grey - blue eyes.
She appeared lost
and yet some fragment of sanity
rendered within.
She waddled purposely
stick in hand across the road,
to the bench next to the bus stop.
Conversing and nodding
on her approach
but there's no-one there.
I got to wondering
if she were unhinged,
out of her mind crazy
what with hospital for such nearby.
Were she one with mental illness?
Was this a State negligence?
Maybe she was disturbed
with some cruel neurosis,
or then did she see beyond a veil
where I could not,
and be thinking
similar thoughts of me?
Non-sensical but I recollect
how an ambulance pulled alongside.
Two got out in a hurry,
three slipped away.
Eons ago, near two flowing rivers in old China
Lived an old, white clothed man ninety-nine years of age
Who glared at two mountains he knew from his long-dead childhood
Who glared at the giants he always had dreams of
The first was a mist covered mountain, where all beasts were blind
With whispers of meaningless legends and theories
The second was a fiery mountain singing in passion
With trees and bushes with golden leaves, but no fruit
Both these mountains trapped the souls of the damned under the dirt
Both buried the light in the damp cyclical tomb
The souls were angels who defended their land from the night
Horsemen who guarded against the Prince of Darkness
The inner soul of light within the old man awakened
The youthful hoopoe bird within chirped for freedom
He began his work, to dig into the mountains themselves
He started to craft a path for all to travel
A wiser old man came up and saw the sweat raining down
And chuckled at the absurdity raining down
“Oh friend, you cannot remove one grey hair from the giants
How in heaven’s name can you crumble these mountains”
The foolish grey-haired man, singing and young in his caged heart
Said these words, roaring with his liberated mind
“My children shall tear the mountains by their blood-covered hand
My grandchildren shall destroy them with their chisels
My offspring will fight as unsleeping armies in the night
My offspring will never surrender their grand fight
The birds of the blue sky will peck the mountains piece by piece
The worms of earth will eat the fortress bit by bit”
These words reached the wise man’s inner heart beating with wonder
These words reached the sun and moon’s delicate bright souls
So the ships of light carried the message to the blue sky
The Infinite Father of Greatness and Lightness
The blue sky ripped apart the revolving grey clouds of might
The expanse of azure blue split all into two
Daylight shone in the highest firmament of dark violet
Daylight shone in the lowest crannies of Sheol
These two mountains vanished as if they were nothing at all
These two watchtowers crumbled in the gentle flames
Leaving no fortresses between the two flowing rivers
Leaving only an untouched garden, eons old
CHRISTMAS IN THE DESERT
The north is frozen over; it’s far too cold for me
The sun is hibernating and it’s much too dark to see
I’m glad I am at Orangewood; such a warm and festive mood
Stretching out our stories and enjoying Christmas food
We’re waiting out the winter, playing games and having fun
Slopping on the suntan oil, in the valley of the sun
The magic of the season, buried deep within our soul
Working on our attitude, to avoid that lump of coal
Its Christmas in the desert, my favorite time of year
Outdoors at our happy hour, enjoying a cup of cheer
We celebrate the season, with lights on every street
Up and down the laneways; a nightly walking treat
There’s a cactus with some lights, a Christmas one I guess
Careful you don’t get too close, you could end up in a mess
Flowers in hanging baskets, fruit on most every tree
Christmas in the desert, is such a pretty sight to see
We’ll gather at the main hall, right on Christmas day
So many grey haired seniors, all-trying to have their say
Who will talk the loudest, who can even hear
We’re celebrating Christmas, my favorite time of year
Where have all my years gone?
there I was a mere young twenty-.one
now in a moment it seems 50 years gone
here grey haired bones ache nothing won
I've no memory of these lost years
they are frozen stiff completely still
I had many desires set to accomplish
but content I shall be, whatever it will
My memory is still alive up till the freeze
there I was my stammer still holding me down
now so far it seems to have gone far away
maybe the ice squashed it without a sound
Frustrations abound about my future
I seem to like poetry for I never did before
where did I get it, not even at school
did the freeze open up some closed door
I now feel a divine presence
never known before, God is here
freeze me anytime for this is nice
hey, my deafness is gone as sounds I hear
Life takes many turns and twists
even ice pins you to its wall
I look back now on life as it was
50 years amiss, You can't win them all
(This is an imaginary story that I was frozen solid in cryogenic
labs at age 21, in 1975.
Now, fifty years later, I have been defrosted and the experiment was a success, except for a few tweaks.)
Zealot of the crazy paving or pavement.
To the short-sighted pensioner a pointless pettifog.
Stoic though not reckless in staccato-like stride.
Cane waving in a fervent frosty, sweep.
Age is neither plight nor hindrance only skewed perception.
Rendez-vous in a roundabout place to spite dementia.
Window flung open by grey haired neighbour without gumption.
Nosey gossip at the cutting edge of rumour.
Condescension from my own breed.
Cheerful wave from care free youth on bike.
Wind borne words of kindness make the early morning chill seem less harrowing.
Tread marks of a different kind await unless we ward them off with stout forbearance.
Intuition, my one and only compass at this point.
At every point.
Be alert.
Mind the icy patch astride the curb.
Ah, there she is, her wrinkled outline in feint colour.
Madam's crutches like my cane, a badge of honour.
Soul mate of a certain vintage.
A date with time
So strange this land, old and yet young.
Where is this place of tall green trees,
and grey-haired men in unknown tongue?
they must have traveled summer's breeze.
Adobe brick quonset "chalets"
mud-soaked roadways in all the blocks.
WACs and wives and waifs everyday
midst hollyhocks and four o'clocks.
Los Alamos*, this place must be.
A land of Oz 'neath bluest sky.
Where science dealt humanity
a fatal blow, then watched it die.
A perfect paradox is this.
How splendid to contrast the two--
a lovely place/a devil's kiss,
and wisdom sprinkled like the dew.
I left quite soon but still recall
the secrets hidden on each page.
The lilac mountains looming tall,
their perfume of fission and sage.
August 5, 2022
"Terra Incognita"
for This or That, Vol. 13, poetry contest
by Edward Ibeth
*Los Alamos Laboratories, New Mexico, are where the atomic bombs were
created then dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan in WWII.
I wander far from the coal-tar smog
and buzzing sounds of the city
to a place where I can smell
fresh-cut hay in a tepid breeze.
I stroll through a woodland path
winding its way along evergreen trees.
Like a silver-lime leaf my heart
settles in Willington waters
I know I belong to the lake.
In distance white butterflies follow
the whistling tunes of an old railway train.
Infront of me set sail long canal boats
Behind me dogs bark,men walk
A grey-haired lady stirs crystals of sugar
in bone-china cups filled with english tetley tea.
The out-stretched arms of dandelions
welcome home foraging honey-bees
A Peak District Chalet in the little mountain village
awaits my return,my forgotten pen
and new sunset dreams
Inspired by my last trip to England.