Long Old woman Poems
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The jaws sing
As the drip, drip, drip,
Of the petroleum chorus
Dances across
The inverted aluminum
And the hissing starts
And the hissing stays
Its smell a warning
A final omen
Like the last rose
Of summer
Or the fragrance she wore
For that final goodbye
The teeth tear inward
Like the regret for today
And the regret for yesterday
And the lament for tomorrow
Its promise broken
And your khakis red
And baptized
A stigmata
To self infliction
As the music plays constant
And the rushing you feel
An emptying of sorrow
Onto the crushed ceiling
Of a dream in reverse
Of all life in reverse
Until two arms grab you
And you fall from the sky
And you fall from the sky
Waiting
For the ground
To coronate the outcome
And for one more answer
To a 'why' unquestioned
And to love you one more time
But the lights are now dim
And the voices muffled
As an organ can be heard
And store bought flowers smelled
And an old woman cries…
As a young woman cries…
And a stranger pronounces
What you feared the most
They didn’t know you
And couldn’t know you
The exit sign flashing
But there is no door
“There is no door”
—and then the music stops
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
A day of weary mind and body,
She found herself in a comfy bed,
So soft and relaxing, she lay back.
Then both eyes started to rest, while
hands were together on top of her stomach.
So comfortable feeling, she started to snore.
Sign of tired and stressful days she absorbed.
She began to sleep so deep and dream suddenly occur.
Her soul started walking a long narrow pathway.
Taking slow motion and feet couldn't move so fast.
There's a tiny light shining in a passage.
She can barely move and reach the end of the road.
She saw an old woman waiting for her at the end.
The very familiar face she longed to touch and kiss again.
"She's my mom!" she shouted aloud.
"Mom, wait for me! I wanna be where you are."
But the image suddenly disappeared.
So she tried to run as fast as she can.
When she reached the end, she felt a cold hand on her shoulder.
A voice of a young lady saying,"Ma'am, wake up!"
"Are you gonna take this bed?"
"Is it for cash or thru credit card?"
She stood up hurriedly and blushed.
"No. Thank you! Your bed is soft and comfy, but I should go back."
And her rest was over, now full recharged.
Hidden curse of fibromyalgia - the invisible disease
I have been suffering
from the mysterious illness
fibromalygia
fibromalygia is a hidden disease
many people
think it is all in one’s head
that there is nothing real
about the fake pain
that afflicts us
that we are maligners
backsliders
not seriously ill at all
and most people
think that it is disease
of middle age and old woman
than men don’t get it
and that is one
of the most pernicious effects
of this disease
I have been suffering
in silence for decades
the disease is real
for me
I have pain
everywhere
all the time
it come and goes
but is always there
and no matter
what I do
I have not had
a day without pain
for decades now
and will probably
just endure
until the day I die
that is the curse
of this damn fibromalygia
real pain in the real world
but a hidden disease
from the rest of the world
Monday April 27, 2020
I pay attention.
I see the sadness in a young schoolgirl’s eyes
When she has been cruelly ridiculed and ostracized.
For what? She doesn’t look the same
As others; too tall, too fat, too blonde.
Does she have the wrong last name?
I pay attention.
I see the old woman setting alone on her sunny porch
Accompanied by lush green plants silently watching her.
Caressed by the purring of contented multicolored cats,
Alone, but herself content to be out of the race.
I see satisfaction and relief on her calm, but weathered face.
I pay attention:
I see the fast-paced hustle of the young entrepreneur,
So excited, but anxious, rushing to be the first there,
Where his efforts and sacrifice finally make the grade.
He’s given his all to elevate his life and pave a new way.
He is reaping sweet rewards his own hands have made.
I pay attention:
I see the patterns and the interconnected revelations
As a host of humanity marches through my life.
Leaving their own special nuances and inspiration,
I reflect the collage of their unintended influences.
I wonder what my own contribution will be.
Will someone, someday, pay attention to me?
Copyright Chula Schlesinger-Fleming © 10/10/2024
~
O’er this frail valley, darkness doth eclipse
Winter fans death, o’ lonely wishes fall
Blood of weakened flesh, high mountaintop drips
Puddles reflect forms, shadow’d mourners call
Beasties lurk, sin collects damaged wages
Curtains drawn project shadowed silhouettes
Horseback ministers breach chain fastened cages
Slashing victims falling, blade n’er forgets
Deafened screams echo cries o’ tortured souls
Ashen flames smother, breaths exhaling fear
Baptized dreams drown midst shallow murky shoals
Sanity evades, crusades disappear
Sunrise, smoke filters, blue skies unaware
An old woman weeps, hunched in sad despair
~
English Sonnet
I just wanted to try one
Obituary pages
Check on old friends;
Another bites the dust
~~~~~~~~~
Too bad
So sad;
Too late
~~~~~~~~~
Book of poems
Cryptic TS Eliot;
Madness stirs blur
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo garden
May shadows play;
Butterfly lovers
~~~~~~~~~
Odd venture
Quaint adventure;
Fuzzy gestures
~~~~~~~~~
Hospital visit
Antiseptic fragrance;
Recovery sleeps
~~~~~~~~~
Old man sits
Park bench conversations;
Talks to himself
~~~~~~~~~
Old woman grumbles
Talks to an unseen friend;
Not quite alone
~~~~~~~~~~
TV mini-series
Couch potato addiction;
Reel-life feels good
~~~~~~~~~
Words on rice paper
Not much today;
Haiku path trip
~~~~~~~~~
Sorrow speaks
Joy listens;
Different views
~~~~~~~~~
My dearest sighs
Detects dessert;
Stressed reversed
~~~~~~~~~
Word outburst
Too much to follow;
Ignorance sleeps
~~~~~~~~~
Word for word
Messy business;
Vacant strains
~~~~~~~~~
Lots to do
Go to sleep;
Bedtime stories
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
11 May 2015
Singapore
FLECKS OF GOLD
Klimt flutes,
flecks of gold,
a champagne kiss.
flutes clink,
on special days,
holding stems.
Klimt holds my solid gaze:
“Woman in Gold”
beguiling...
the lover lives on canvas,
ashamed of habitation —
yearning to be reclaimed.
an old woman and a lawyer
bring her back to life —
resuscitate the woman’s aunt.
a war keepsake,
spoils returned —
to the defiant niece.
as I view
the movie rerun...
i recall
the treasured duet
in my curio cabinet
— i peruse
flutes in finery,
strong — not
feckless.
flecks of gold,
attach to silver hands,
forming a bond — they kiss.
11/26/2017
Klimt Contest
Sponsor Anthony Slausen
The troll was delighted when a wrinkled up crone wandered in.
She had an unassuming air about her, and a giant wart upon her chin.
I can pop her in my oven he thought; I bet her flesh is mighty tasty.
If he had understood Broom Hilda, he would not have been so hasty.
BH was sizing him up. She could practically taste his thighs and hips.
She had taken down trolls bigger than him, some as big as battle ships.
She took out her bag of magic, and pulled out her wand of choice.
It was a beautiful dragon-scaled beauty from her cousin Ugly Joyce.
Troll was making plans to choke her when she gave her wand a swish.
He landed on his petootsie surprising his dog, crow, and fighting fish.
What is happening? They wondered as the old woman gave a jump.
She began to bash and kick him, turning him into a fleshy clay lump.
He was easy to put into the oven, but she had no idea how to turn it on.
He crawled out an hour later and asked his pets, is that old lady gone?
She had wandered into the village that was way down a cobbled hill.
The troll thinks of her often, for he has PTSD and nightmares still.
Again she sees those vibrant sleeves of green
And hears those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Alone beneath a willow lost in dreams
An old woman reflects through misty eyes
To see her now so deeply scarred by time
A beauty once now buried in the folds
Upon that road of passion left behind
The bitter price she paid for growing old
The park where they first met is much the same
Where those two hearts she sees again entwined
Engraved upon the stone that bears his name
Upon her soul forever in her mind
A barren stone awaits her by his side
Beneath those gentle whispers and soft sighs
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Author's note:
The title is from a quote of Shakespear which
inspired this sonnet.
The child is always first currency.
Before the ink dries,
before the courtroom coffee cools,
before the television woman folds her careful face into concern,
someone has already counted what the suffering is worth.
The girl with her backpack split open on the evening pavement,
the boy with the shaking hands,
the mother filling out forms
while her mouth tastes like pennies—
their pain moves through offices like electricity.
A man in a tie eats salmon under dim light while speaking softly about liability.
Somewhere else, another man prints flyers, another signs contracts, another builds a campaign speech out of a frightened family’s photograph.
Even mercy has invoices now.
The prison counts bodies at dawn like a farmer counting cattle before weather.
The news anchor smooths her hair and says tragedy with the same mouth that sells mattresses after commercial break.
And the innocent—
God, the innocent— they stand there blinking under fluorescent lighting,
still believing truth is a living animal someone will eventually feed.
I have watched them:
the quiet man at the bus stop,
the old woman translating forms she cannot fully read,
the son who says I didn’t do what they say in a voice
already apologizing for existing.
There are industries built entirely from human fear.
A frightened country is profitable.
A lonely country is profitable.
A divided country is profitable beyond measure.
The innocent do not know this at first.
They think the world is a courtroom,
that evidence matters,
that adults tell the truth once enough damage is done.
Then they learn:
there are people who would bottle another person’s grief
and place it on a shelf if the market were strong enough.
Still, every now and then, someone refuses payment.
A public defender staying late.
A stranger telling the truth when silence would be safer.
A woman placing her hand on another woman’s shaking back in the hallway outside court.
No profit there.
Only the terrible, unmarketable cost of remaining human.
In a world
where humanity is worth nothing at all.