Long Grow old Poems
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Standing at the pantry
As another year flies by
I take out the same candles
I blew out this time last July
To celebrate your birthday
Another one you've missed
Maybe celebrate is to strong a word
When the death of you brought it all to this
I always bake your favorite cake
Store bought just won't do
You always said you liked the icing best
So I add an extra spoonful or two
The same number of candles from last year
As your years are put on hold
One thing about you not being here
Is you never do grow old
When the party's over
Candles burned a little further than before
I take them off with a lump in my throat
And close back the pantry door
Just thinking of my dad and how much I miss him.
Saturday tour
Fine arts exhibits;
Innovative textures
Meeting here
With art and buffet;
Small talk punctuates
Look deeply now
So much passion;
Well-endowed
Faces in the crowd
I seek you;
Finder's keepers
Now I can see
Your beauty smile;
My heart swells
Surge of rush
Adrenaline flood;
Fight or flight
Listen now
My lover speaks;
Heart to heart
I grow old
Older than time;
Ageless spirit
From booth to booth
We explore beauty;
Facets of delight
Small talk,
Chit-chat waters;
Big deal in small things
Leon Enriquez
12 May 2014
Singapore
If You Live to Get Old
Dedicated to my Father, of
Blessed Memory!
If You Live to Get Old...
Yet, you retain, your youthful
heart,
Zowie~ you have an enormous
start!
Sure, your rooftop may turn
gray.
But to you, each day is but
another chance to truly play!
You do anything you darn well
please.
You are the last to be cleaning
out cabinets on your sore knees.
Sure, you have pain of all kinds,
Comes with the territory, pay it
no mind.
My Father refused to go to the
Doc's! (three cheers,Dad)
He lived long and extended his
life clock.
He always did things for others
No matter the weather.
Bet he's in heaven now~wearing
a smile, and elegant Borsellino
hat with an exquisite feather.
And driving his favorite car, the Cadillac,
with gorgeous,elegant soft leather.
My Father~ a man who loved life,
jokes, family, great music, food and yes~
playing the ponies,
at Arlington Park Race Track.
Later, his granddaughter was the
star and love of his life!
So, if you get to grow old,
Create fun and enjoy it.
Do not be morose, be happy and
outrageously bold!
And always follow Whitman's
advice:
" Resist much; obey, little!
Then, it's a blast, growing old.
June 20,2019
Panagiota Romios
To my darling Alexia Lynn
Please remember where you’ve been
And I hope someday to finally see
The world has become part of your fantasy
And to your older brother ken
You too must remember where you’ve been
Keep in your pocket the coin with two sides
Given to you, when your father died
My two little heirs, with no real ends
Filled with hope and plenty of friends
Always bickering and laughing still
Taught to walk and trudge up hills
Party on but get some rest
For tomorrow brings a whole new test.
For I believe just as you
That some of our wishes will come true
The ones that don’t will keep us aware
Theirs a reason god made stairs
Al tho repetition may not win
life's game does needs a place to begin
and remember you two the younger heirs
the ones who trip while on the stairs
they may slip or even pee
but they are here so leave them be
for if i die and leave all nill
be thanful that you new them still
for orphans your not and will never be
unless you want my history
its not that bad untill you grow old
then the world your in becomes bitterly cold
so do not fear my troubled heirs
you have a lineage full of wares
for your grandpa Robert A
left some coins which you can play
finding them will give you thrills
keeping them will take skill
I ride my horse, I ride it fast, I’ve never known it to complain,
it doesn’t speak, it doesn’t weep, it takes me through the pouring rain.
I give it oats, I brush its coat, I keep it warm in Winter’s days.
close to my home, close to my kids, close to my heart it always stays.
I found a mare, I’ve oats to spare, it now has found its company.
if she is cold, and shies away, it knows its friend is always me.
a year has passed, a colt was born, I watch them all run in the field,
and as I work, as I grow old, my love for them can’t be concealed.
no pulling carts, no pulling plows, nothing but grazing in the grass,
my kids will love each generation, and care for each one when I pass.
I lie on the beach.....caressed by a breeze
the salt from the ocean a constant tease.
Though I repose all day... and watch tumbling waves play
I occupy myself in many other ways .
I warm the feet of passersby,
give rest to the weary... if only for a time.
I build sand castles.....a child's delight
on my heart is imprinted the footprints of time.
I give color to the landcape......and shape to the bay
though the tide doth tease me
only for a while it stays.. then go its merry way.
I bury little ones up to their necks each day
fill their buckets and watch them play.
I tickle the sunbather, get into his towels
his shorts , his shoes , his eyes and nostrils
but I'm catapulted into the breezes
each time he sneezes.
If truth be told......I never grow old
only more beautiful each day
with the wind at my back.....the sun on my face.
Welcoming ,exciting.... I'm a wonderful place.
In large numbers I slip through
the fingers of one hand
Yet I began only as a grain of sand.
The year is two thousand and fifteen.
I have trodden the earth for nearly three decades;
Living life the pompous style of a teen
Unaware of the seasoning throes of age.
It could be a mistake or just some tasty style,
Although either from the other I wont know
Till I’m overrun by age and I grow old and senile
And perhaps rue my folly all the way to the grave.
Admit, I cherish the temporal highs of well-matured booze
And crave the ageless rubbing of delicate thighs;
Not anything of these two sinful natures would I ever refuse:
I leave not a sensuous thigh unrubbed, nor any brown bottle uncorked.
I have not tamed a single appetite of youth,
And with all my cravings let loose on the world
I fear I might have mocked the way of truth,
And feasted on the forbidden fruits of this earth.
Regret is not part of brave-living folks
And thus will not change a turn as years roll,
Even if I was granted to rewind the clocks,
I still would live the same wanton style.
Long lonely ballads sooth my soul,
recounting loves which ne’r grow old.
With tales of lives, of toil and strife
which linger on the sharpest notes.
Laments pining through the key of D.
Songs sung in dissonant harmony.
Scratching, haunting, riddles
Whispering on whistle or fiddle.
And, Oh the maudlin harmony
which makes us all weep free
to know that other people cried
lost their loves yet survived.
So let me slide on glissando
Between the notes with vibrato
Let me heal upon the wail
of ancient memories.
Contest:Soul Tunes
I have nightmares,
not those that visit the sleeper,
but those that know his name.
They enter me with the patience of heirs,
rearrange the furniture of my soul
and sit at the table of my thoughts.
I wake up with several men inside my chest.
One believes he owns my birth,
another claims to know my death,
a third sells my identity
for a few coins of reason.
I let them speak:
I am their country, their border, and their prison.
Since childhood, I have carried a windowless room
where a child continues to grow old.
He gazes at his own hands
the way one gazes at a riddle after it has been solved.
He would like to know who taught him how to become himself,
and why his name always feels borrowed.
I live among things that have lost their innocence:
books sometimes teach submission,
palaces give administrative names to chains,
altars transform fear into virtue,
markets put a price on consciences.
Civilized man knows how to count up to his brother’s price.
I have met peoples inside display cases,
arranged by scholars who claimed to understand them.
Their skulls, their lands, their silences were measured,
then what looked like plunder was called progress.
The century put on a brand-new suit,
while the old hunger kept the same mouth.
I think of the dead whom monuments render docile.
Marble lends them a nobility they perhaps never asked for.
The conquerors carve their phrases into the public squares,
then children learn those phrases like prayers.
Stone becomes a professor,
and ignorance is granted a chair.
I no longer know if I think
or if something thinks through me.
My ideas wear invisible uniforms,
my desires sometimes have the voice of a landlord,
my angers know the borders
that my reason claims to have abolished.
I would like to become a stranger to my own certainties,
to inhabit a second before any belief,
to clear out the inherited furniture from my mind,
to make my consciousness an almost empty room.
But man brings his ancient idols everywhere,
even when he believes he has ceased to believe.
Freedom sometimes appears to me like a lock
for which we forge the key ourselves.
We open a door,
then immediately build another prison.
We call this living,
with that comic gravity of the condemned
who write their own rulebook.
Growing up this is something from his parents he was often told:
If you’re lucky, and this is what you want, you will find a partner
with whom you will grow old.
And if you’re blessed the love and joy and happiness you share will never end
and that same joy and love and happiness will spread out
onto your family and friends.
Today he knows he has been lucky with his partner
with his family…with his friends…
but the wisdom of his parents he loves now to amend…
As he remembers back to when he was a boy
and what, by his parents, he was told…
He knows his luck was finding a partner to grow younger with
as the two of them grow old.