Long Lifeold Poems
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Disrespectful in so many ways, times where I almost wished that they knew, so I could
prove that I was just that good. Some guy friends I would let know and we would laugh,
talking that mess, but still on guard, cause my back I felt like they would stab. “Why”,
it was probably their girl I nabbed, old nasty, low down brother, facial glare just like a
glass. Transparent to the naked eye, being so clever, being so sly, corruption of the
easiest minds, almost like leaves blowing in a trail of wind that was flowing like a vine.
All connected in some way, if they all stopped and talked I probably would of been caught,
but man at that time it was a lot of fun at least I thought. Which ends the second stage
of being misguiding.
So destructive in my mentality, using and abusing everything I could get my hands on,
from the bottom of the jar, to the top of the jar. Most nights, were blurred vision,
slurred speech, new freaks, old freaks, dumb freaks, smart freaks, maybe caught an
occasional geek freak. Selfish, overpowering, but not in the sense of taking, persuasive,
so convincing, “hell“, sometimes I believed it myself. A fresh cut mold for everyone,
liven life just having fun, unknown to anyone. Then comes along someone that knows,
immediately throwing salt in the game and letting everyone know. Backtracking and
fabricating, seeming like the easiest why out, I was open like a book, that couldn’t be
closed, extremely exposed by the lies I had told. Defensive in nature is what I turned to,
quick to blame, but sure to lose but what an opportunity for them to prove what I had
really been up to. Naturally proud and confident in swag, I tried to stand strong, but
other players stood and laughed, cause they knew I was about to crash. And crash I did,
as hard as I could fall, face first, just like belly flopping in a pool, when your not in
control, I’ve been pushed. Starting to question myself, “Am I being true”, probably not to
myself or anyone else. I’ve been crumbling inside, far from being right, I might need a
moment in time to collect my thoughts. Convinced this is the end of my misguided thoughts
and the selfish ways, in which I used to walk and talk. Just the end of another bad chapter.
Written by: thegoldenpython aka. Wilfordjy
A Renga for Poetry Soup:
Meander
Time and the river
Endless silver morning
Autumn leaves float by
Shimmering streaming mountains
Pines swaying in constant winds
Morning mirror
Another gray hair
Ah! the wind of time
Spring's last daffodil
Plucked for a dinner paty
Diamond blue fragments
Reflecting off stream waters
Another moonrise
Sunset colors disappear
Shooting stars
Campfire sparks
Fresh fish and conversation
Embracing shadows
How many friends have vanished?
Canyon echoes
Retirement time
Facing all the could-have-beens
Tears in whiskey
Quietly at the gravesite
For her long dead daughter
Rolling ocean waves
At the sunset horizon
A ship disappears
Dry pine needles underfoot
In the distance, tolling bells
The sound of a car
Approaching - disappearing
Sleepless night
Between the windowsill plants
A single moth, dry as dust
Cloud shrouded moon
Moire patterns fill the sky
Wandering ghosts
Great grandfather's photograph
Fading before my eyes
Dried flowers
Holding a spider's web
Sunrise
Children building sandcastles
The sound of waves and laughter
The old phonograph
A song from long ago
A shaft of dust-light
Sitting on a redwood stump
A logger counts his wages
Stopping to listen
An unknown bird's mournful song
Fern embroidery
Seeds on the wind drifting by
Tea kettle whistles
In the dazzling sunlight
Achingly white billow clouds
Ring of blue
A drone of mid-day falling
On the autumn wind meadow
A hawk ascending
Call of triumph echoing
A trout in her talons
Smoke from the hermit's cabin
No one remembers his name
Winter rain
The dry emerald brook
Resurrection
Waking from a flight filled dream
Facing the machine filled day
Watching the moon set
Chaotic starshine appears
Orion's embrace
Singing satellites sparkle
Between the winter branches
River of wonder
Filling the child's eyes
Christmas morning
Bright snow on the open field
Melting in the winter thaw
All that I can find
Of the homesteader's church --
The empty window frame
Spring breeze rustling the old tree
The sound of grass and lilacs
The old woman
Serves herself a cup of tea
With her memories
Forest boulder
April rain
He poured his heart into his work, just his way to ease the pain,
Diagnosed and with a death sentence he decided he didn’t want his last days to be in vain.
He wasn’t the type to just lay down and quit,
And he said this ain’t what I want but it won’t do no good to pitch a fit.
He’d get in his old truck around daylight and return home way after dark,
He’d say I’ll get my rest soon enough so this new calling I must embark.
He had started a mission for the homeless and poor,
He’d bought a whole block of old buildings and was in search for a few more.
This was his hand he extended to many that hard times had so ungraciously picked,
Those whom had fallen from grace and humanity delightfully kicked.
He was trying to make a difference if only for a few,
Some just needed a hand and someone to tell them what they needed to do.
That was his goal to help those that just needed that little start,
He wasn’t trying to look big this was just something he had in his heart.
You’d be surprised at what a hot bath and a new set of clothes would do for ones morale,
He employed only the homeless to renovate the old buildings known only as PAL.
He had bought ten acres right next to the buildings, which he would turn into a farm,
He sat up a night school to help those who were in need, figuring it couldn’t do any harm.
He had been so busy, why he’d missed his last few medical treatments and knew that wasn’t
good.
But to him this was urgent and he’d get by as best he could.
He finally got a break and decided he’d best go get things checked,
And when they were through with the tests the doctors were all perplexed.
They said they were going to send him over to county for their machines all were on the blink,
So to county he went and the results were the same and the doctors didn’t know what to think.
The CANCER is gone it just disappeared not a trace could be found,
The doctors were all baffled but he just smiled and didn’t make a sound.
He had been returning lives to those that had fallen, those who were in dire need,
And apparently someone was watching him and returned the favor for his just and unselfish
deed.
**A Travel East**
We pass the Grand Mesa cruising like lightening at 95mph,
I feel like a passenger on a toy train.
A mountain 11,000 feet above the ground,
auburn colored, rock faced cliffs, complimented
by a spectacular baby blue sky.
Clouds scatter, trying unsuccessfully to cover
the rapid sunrise.
Blue,
Indian orange,
and red mix together well
with the beauty of the cliff face.
Along the base,
the Colorado river
races.
Not quite a rapid,
yet swift enough to scare rafters,
and small animals.
Miniature icebergs travel through a small channel
created in the ice of the once wide river.
A family of coyotes gather on a patch of solid ice.
The young playfully roam,
while the adults relax, lick themselves and watch.
Deer prance across the terrain,
chasing the train.
Detained,
inside a fence,
cattle graze in a group of one hundred or so.
A cottage rests along the perimeter
where children play.
Bundled from head to toe,
Snow,
thick and heavy.
Frosty is created!!
Homeward bound!!
The ride semi-pleasant,
better than the first.
The lavatory still with that distinctive
musky urine scent.
The passenger car seems bigger this time,
more spacious.
Room for my long legs,
and wide enough to accommodate my beer gut.
I hear the rantings of an old married couple
as they bicker about what time dinner should be reserved for.
Beside me,
laying awkwardly,
an old man snores.
Shallow breaths in between,
I can hear his heartbeat.
Pounding like
a heavy percussion solo,
his feet propped on his duffel bag below.
The lobby car when first entered
looked barren.
A few passengers sit with books and laptops,
others watch as the fast moving terrain passes
through the tinted double glass.
My cell phone lost battery life and I
needed the accommodation of electricity.
Occupied,
I wait for my turn.
From my peripheral I saw her,
I could sense her aura.
Smell her aroma of Vanilla Musk.
Dirty blond hair with red highlights,
short but not to short,
with a friendly disposition.
So,
I sparked a conversation,
that helped better this expedition.
Jared Pickett
3/7/08
Asavvy1
1. before 16 but after 14
2. 15 cents is not enough to get a gumball in a 25 cent gumball machine, nor is it the way
to pronounce correctly the name of famous rapper “50 cent”
3. in reference to a 15 year old hispanic girl’s birthday or Fiesta de Quinceañera
4. congrats, you are old enough to have sex in denmark & sweden
5. a crystal anniversary for the rare circumstance that the institution of marriage has
worked (or at least each individual has not been caught cheating yet)
6. in the english language, it is the smallest number to have 7 letters in its name when
spelled out f-i-f-t-e-e-n
7. 15 mph is the average speed that a penguin swims (when not angry or horny, you know how
those penguins can get)
8. “the devil’s card” in a tarot deck (and if you don’t believe in the devil, as i, well
then, for the both of us it is just the 15th card)
9. the amount of men on a dead man’s chest as found in a lyric of a sea shanty in robert
louis stevenson’s novel, Treasure Island
10. the amount of fingers that Li Jinpeng had been born with, prior to his operation at
age 6, which removed 5 of the 15 in late may of 2010
11. 1 ton of number 9 coal less than Tennessee Ernie Ford loaded in his song “sixteen
tons,” still owing his “soul” to the company store
12. if you caught the one-armed-man & you are both standing alone in an elevator on the
way up to book him, this is the number of fingers between the two of you
13. the minimum time a human head stays conscious after being decapitated (15
seconds)---time enough to shout curse your body for letting your head pop off so quick
14. the longest word without repeating a letter contains this amount of letters (english)
15. the amount of seconds it took you to skim this list quickly, decide that it’s not
poetry & get just a teeny-tiny itty-bitty pissed that the actual word wasn’t referenced in
number 14
The house we lived in
Was someone's idea of a castle.
Stone and old cement walls
Ornate ceiling fixtures
A faded marble foyer.
There were no buyers
So it went cheap
My parents were also practical.
There were two apartments
Which meant a monthly income.
We lived upstairs
So as to not hear footsteps at night
Our rooms were small
And the walls retained a coldness
That lasted until summer
In the foyer
Near the door
Was a telephone
Perched on a small table
Big enough to lean on
In case the call
Became a conversation.
The phone itself
Was basic black
Ordinary
And indestructible.
Our TV was in the living room
We watched
The Kennedy/Nixon debates
And witnessed the trauma of Kennedy's assassination
The nation grieved
For the Kennedys
But not for too long
Our attention was diverted
When the Beatles arrived.
It was the sixties
America was anxious
And searching for something new to believe in
And so were we.
Things changed
I left
My sister married
And our little brother
Inherited a room of his own.
Parents didn't change
They spent time
Dwelling on old memories and unpaid debts.
I visit the old place
Now and then
Driving by slowly
Long enough to see that
The new family:
Added an extension
Expanded the garage
Used up most of the back yard
Changes which I can't approve.
I still remember
When I lived there
How I was able to see the New York City skyline at night
Lit up
And full of promises
Then
I would dream
Of being someone else
And somewhere else.
Once passing by the house
I imagined
The front door
Opened
I was tempted to walk in
And saw myself climbing
The long staircase to the top
To look out and see
If the city lights
Still shone brightly
Beckoning me with her spell
If so,
I would ask whatever happened to my dreams?
Some have passion and
Dreams in their hearts
That weave in and out
Beyond the edges
Of small places
Their dreams may be only words to some
But to them they mean everything.
And others,
Just as young,
Run off
With no plans
No ideas
And never a second thought.
The dreamers and the aimless
Eventually meet
In the East Village
Center of the counterculture in New York
Birthplace of artistic movements
Punk rock
The Nuyorican literary movement
Site of protests and riots
A place of coffee shops and smart pubs
Hidden inside tenements and dank basements.
And every corner busy.
The older residents
Are immune to the antics of this place
Living in the neighborhood for decades
They have witnessed its many changes
Speaking a hundred different languages,
Accents from the cold climate
Of Eastern Europe
And warm places in the Islands,
Theirs is a smaller world of
Cheap apartments
And open air markets
Where customers
Still haggle over prices.
In dark places
Painted over decades of neglect
Old Polish ladies silently pray
In empty Catholic Churches
Built over a hundred years ago.
By Fall the last Summer’s batch of young leave
Some with promises
Others with regrets
But if there is a regularity
To the ebb and flow of this place
It is the tide
Always bringing in the new.
On Avenue A,
Just off Tompkins Square Park,
An old Spanish woman sits
In a doorway
Watching the artists, radicals and fashion lovers
Walk by
Anyone who cares to listen
Will hear her sing
An old lullaby
"Close your eyes little ones and sleep
And dream while the angels watch over you
I will hold your hand
And when you wake up in the morning I’ll still be here."
on the wall a framed pistol
red velvet backing
simple wooden frame
sixty years or more old
old as the vinyl record
or a real rootbeer float
maybe the year of the color tv
I imagine it as a day she
might have been hanging clothes
on an old clothesline in the back
and maybe a neighbor across
the fence, some garden club
lady named Eleanor yells
“Your old man has been shot,”
and I could see how she might have
dutifully been worried but silently
felt relief as she slowly made her
way in the old ’49 Ford driven
by the preacher to the hospital
she finds him alive and learns
that his known mistress finally
had enough and shot him
she regrets to learn that his
“woman disease” hasn’t killed
him yet and she watches him
heal up and dreads his return
many nights she thought maybe
the good lord would relieve her
of the beatings caused by that
moonshine and night prowling
she sits on the porch one quiet
night as the crickets sing and the
lightening bugs decorate the
humid summer night
the radio playing “Some enchanted
evening” and she decides she’ll
at least go after a sentiment
the mistress answers the door
with a cigarette decorated with
stains of her red lips and she
offers her hand in a dainty handshake
once their conversation has ended
she smiles and strolls down the walk
with this pistol in her apron pocket
stained with homemade apple pie filling
and fried chicken grease
she waits until his death to frame it
and now at 91, she smiles still
gazing upon it hanging on her wall
karma has no age and that day
it smiled on Mrs. Winnie
HIDDEN YOUTH
Locked inside each oldster,
There's a youngster you will find,
Peering out and looking back,
At all he's left behind.
He's really not so different,
From the youngsters of today,
Though wrinkled now, his eyes are dim,
What hair he has is gray.
He stilllikes a little company,
Enjoys a little fun,
And oh the stories he can tell,
From back when he was young.
He's not as dumb as some will think,
He's wiser now than most,
And you can learn a lot from him,
If you aren't self engrossed.
Most problems that we face today,
He's seen it all before,
You aren't the first to run into,
That self same slamming door.
He has a world of sage advice,
If you will only listen.
He's run that same track once or twice,
And he has hind-sight vision.
He's really not so different,
He laughs and he cries too,
Not just some stuffy old antique,
Inside he's just like you.
Judy Ball
So many people today think once you've passed the Big Five-O life just ends. NOT
SO! For many of us it begins al over again.
We're finally free to pursue all the things we previously set aside to raise our
families. Our brains don't just stop functioning and I've never seen anyone with an
expiration date stamped on their bottom by God at birth.
We still like to have coffee and chat, we still like a good joke, still like to dance, go to
dinner, see a show, etc. Myself I still love the great outdoors and being surrounded
by Nature and my animals.
I'm old I'm not dead.
I'm gonna go full tilt until I just run out of gas and drop one day.
You can do what you want with what's left.
I won't be needing it anymore.
My grandfather
Worked hard all his life
And died
When I was
Away.
I remember him
Sitting in the dark
By the kitchen stove
On cold winter nights
Rubbing his calloused hands
Over and over again
Not saying a word
To anyone
Listening to the voices on the outside
Whistling in the winter wind.
Once I walked
In by mistake
Breaking the silence
I asked what he was thinking about
Nothing he said
The his voice changed
Listen to me son
Everyone has a lesson
To learn in life
You’re young now
But later on
You’ll need to know
When to grab life
In your own two hands
And shake it
Until you get
What you want.
The sudden anger
In his voice
Startled me like a
Short fuse in the night
And I ran from him.
Grandfather didn’t work during winter
It was too cold he said
The need
To work more
To buy more
Never suited him.
What he needed was nearby
A pair of old work boots
A jacket carelessly slung
Over a chair
A pair of cotton twill pants from better days
And a bottle of brandy.
For him, winter was
Meeting old friends
After Sunday Church
Congregating in the park
In small groups
Standing their ground
Against all outsiders
On days when the snows receded
And winter’s end seemed close.
Some rested on canes
Others stood tall
Survivors of another winter
Arguing politics
Talking about this and that
And how well their grown up children were doing.
Life can go on without us
They seemed to say
To the empty park
And the gray skies
We will meet again one day
But for now
We’ll stay here until the sun goes down
And winter returns.