Long Yellowed Poems
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Unfinished Nightmare
Mouth agape
trash can lid arches limply
its hinged spine
like that of partial paragraphs
clinging
broken
yet refusing to let go
How gauze-like
the yellowed reflection
staring back from shattered temper-enhanced mirror
clinging also
defying decayed adhesive
refusing like me to accept
the dry erosion of once anchored purpose
I gaze
deep into the opened sanctuary
a place where discarded failure finds solace
glaring back at me
it continues its vigil
reminding the writer has produced but throwaway
Open-mouthed gluttony
grins patiently
crumpled pages like meatless bones
fantasy feast
mere table scraps
drop willingly to appease
if not satiate
Shrill words retch forth
pleading to be more than just letters in free fall
find air void of oxygen
fall leaden
but empty
condors and sparrows without wings
Unfinished manuscripts cry to live
to know
to hear
created epiphanies
read and embraced
The involuntary voice shouting back at my muse
rides triumphantly atop the wrinkled failure of drunken words
falls seductively past the gaping mouth
sliding between the sheets of other near misses
continuing the downward vortex
sending shivers of nourishment to
one’s abyss of failure
where no one
patiently waits
abides
understands
smiles
A bible rests upon the desk, the spine is worn, brown hide
Bearing lists of names of noble men, and dates within a clan
Contained between two pages, hides a letter from a man
Designed to be for one, alone, declaring love that died
Etched with swirls, in ink, a poem, a link to words of love
Foretelling someone's future, that could never bloom in full
Garnished words of lover's gold, a story, never told
Held in arms of fate that knew this love could never grow
Interred, nearby a grave , a girl, as ancient stories go
Just as love, the blossom died, before it could unfold
Kept confined, quite ill in bed with a what had seemed a cold
Lily Rose would die and chance of love would die as well
Many eyes have seen this yellowed letter that I hold
Never meant for eyes besides the gentle Lily Rose
Odd that it comes by light of day, to me their story told
Passed down to me, the ages waned, a place it shouldn't be
Questions we will seek today, are tossed against the wind
Rising once again, as the brittle page is turned
Some stars are burned, and die too young, and not for us to own
Tales of love have flown too far, to shine among the stars
Underneath the light that shines into my lonely room
Voices in the dark of night, are voices of the moon
Whispered words of love unveiled, had fate been not so cruel
Xanadu holds captive all the secrets and the clues
Yesterday has come and gone, the stars will say goodbye
Zealous love has come and gone, but love can never die
___________________________________________________
7/8/15 For Contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the third shelf down,
where dust performs its quiet ballet,
a shoebox coughs up Polaroids
of someone else’s honeymoon.
The wallpaper remembers~
peels itself back slowly,
revealing the yellowed teeth
of old pencil marks:
Jesse + Sam, 1992,
now just graffiti for termites.
A single glove, left-handed,
curls into a fist around nothing.
The clock, stopped at 3:17,
swallows its own ticking.
Even the ghosts here
are forgetting why they linger.
But sometimes,
when the wind shoulders through
a cracked window,
the whole place exhales~
and for a breath,
every lost thing
remembers its name.
We shall return one day, to the golden age of silences,
Where we once dreamt, and time has woven legends in waiting.
We will pass through memories where the violin broke its voice,
As a sweet-blue wound, haunting the lost echoes.
We will return like rivers to the sea of clouds that steals our voice,
Under trembling chords in the prolonged twilight of nostalgia.
There we will find ourselves, where our souls remained petrified,
Weaving old longings into the silence's majestic and sad choir.
That day I will walk paths erased by memories that ache,
Strangers nearby will not see us among the unknown shadows.
We will add to the present and future, our past's discrete thread,
In a dance of destiny, rewritten between the yellowed pages.
Like a smoke lost in the wind, carrying news of an era that faded,
We will intertwine the old with the new, in a waltz of shadows and lights.
In our chests, we will carry the memory of yesterdays and the promise of tomorrows,
As the source travels restlessly, bringing us the song of wanderings.
We will sneak back with our loves into a changed world,
Singing in silence, with old verses, from soul to soul.
From afar we will return, with our ancient spirit,
Among dreams and wounds, hidden in hearts beating under the curse of oblivion.
We will return in tears and caresses, in harsh pain,
In a world that will love and bleed, as yesterday, an eternal wait.
We shall rise again one day, finding the root of time,
With our stories in soul, to write one final poem.
I've been musing lately about things that really make a home complete.
One thing for sure - a happy home is one with laughter and love replete!
'Twill be a place with affectionate parents who dearly love each other,
And blessed by a couple of kids - a little sister and her big brother!
A home ain't a home unless you have a faithful dog and inscrutable cat,
And a stoop on which to greet folks whereon lies a welcoming mat!
A grandfather clock to intone the inexorable march of time is needed,
And a fireplace with a cozy fire by which to reminisce unimpeded!
There'll be a library of classic tales with yellowed and dog-eared pages,
And a Bible that is read, having been handed down through the ages!
Displayed on the fireplace mantel will be pictures of folks from the past -
Folks from the family tree who set standards for honor unsurpassed!
There'll be a white picket fence and a trellis with climbing yellow roses,
And a huge front porch with a swing on which to enjoy pleasant dozes!
At the kitchen table, the family dines, discusses the day and grace is said.
Later the kids say nightly prayers before being tucked in their featherbed!
Marks to measure the kid's height mar the wall nigh the kitchen door.
Happy holidays and birthdays are celebrated that will add to family lore!
Though the dog and kids may create havoc as about the house they roam,
If I may quote Edgar Guest, "It takes a heap o' livin' to make a house a home!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Summer Place
A song crept into my soul today riding on the summer wind
Then peeked into my summer place closed for many seasons -
Windows shuttered standing on a grassy knoll
Whitewashed in the morning melody at the waters edge -
Waiting - held in time - face unchanging;
I forgot how I loved to sit
Upon the wysteriaed porch in wicker chairs painted white
To smell the elfin roses reaching for the trellis tops
As summer heavy hangs upon the railing
While a frisky breeze
Hop skips
Across the harbor leaving diamonds in it's footsteps
On the waters
And opens up the wide front door,
Decorated with a flowered wreath,
Inviting welcome to my summer place,
Warmed by summer's enduring caress;
The wide front room filled with bits of yellowed lace,
A fragile nautilus,
Daphne pressed between old diary pages,
Haunting songs of summers past, antique keys
And faded photographs;
I take the album in my hands sitting upon the fragrant porch,
Arms around my knees, tabby kitten by my side,
To watch the games and songs
And friends
Unfold their images across the lawn -
Children playing in the sand at the waters edge,
Voices lifted in the sunlight -
Here, I can touch their hands again,
Look into their eyes
And see our laughter fill the afternoon;
We return from play
Young women,
Dressed in cool white linen,
Sun touched hair bound in flowing ribbons
Enfolded in the breezy twilight on the porch
To feast on summer peaches and gaze across the water
With eyes enchanted by the gathering lights
Twinkling in the dusk -
The first bright stars of evening rising on the darkened air
Whispering of the future borning,
Blessed by the crickets chirping serenade -,
Till I would stand
Alone
Upon the empty porch tightly holding in my arms
Roses,
Red and white
Pink and lavender,
Yellow, crimson, orange and ivory and blue,
Their new perfume ever filling
The quiet rooms of my summer place
Until the golden moon slowly closes the white front door
Putting the key into its place,
Leading me upon the sandy path
To morning
Painting blush upon the sky,
When the summer wind
Whispers
Of a summer place.
So did the poet write on fading dawns
words to float across the pond as swans
white stanza a-dance against blue sky
ivory wings defy the wind and fly.
Dewdrop diamonds hung among tall brush
eerie voices whispering in dusk’s hush
scribble truth upon the shapeless mist
inviting passersby to listening‘s tryst.
Sunset’s solemn setting set ablaze
a look, a touch, a kiss become a craze
soft moons adrift across an age
painted words upon an unread page.
Darkness cannot obscure this light
left dormant on the shelves of night
yellowed corners of crumpled dawn
await silent prick of bloodless thorn.
©4/9/2018
submitted to – New Poems Only – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Emile Pinet
"Fading photographs remind me of moments, of memories,
of people, lost in time trying desperately to hold onto forever."
Quote by_Constance
inherited boxes of old photographs (among other things)
from my mom, grandma and great-grandma
some are colored ... but
a lot are in black and white of my family
and some are vintage old
yellowed, tattered and fading away
love them all
though some of the people
are unknown to me
adore all those fading babies so much
and wish that I knew their names
would love to know who those mothers were
found tons of photographs of my mom
as a baby and little girl
riding her horse and just playing
doing silly things
and some of her as a beautiful young woman
dad said she was the most beautiful girl in the world
my most treasured is mom as a mother
holding me in her arms
have framed that one
dad, gosh, he was nice looking
have none of him as a baby or child
just that handsome guy mom fell in love with
and him doing stuff as the years passed
grandma and grandpa photographs are precious to me
from both sides of my family
and all those beloved uncles and aunts in black and white
at Christmas, Thanksgivings, baby showers
and weddings ... I will never forget you
I hold to my heart images of my brothers and sisters
damaged from when our house burned down
those are footprints on my heart
forever
but, it is the vintage, fading images
that haunt me when I look at them
those smiles frozen in time
those people part of my family but unknown to me
if you are watching from heaven, my dears
my promise to you all is that I will restore
each fading photogragh no matter the cost
or how long it takes ...
Golden leaves, scores written by the hand of unforgiving time,
Fall in the slow rhythm of years slipping away like sand in an hourglass.
We are violins tuned to the melancholic tone of the eternal autumn,
Playing the ephemeral melody of life on the fragile strings of existence.
The mirror of the lake reflects the leaden sky of memory,
Ripples of water intersect with the wrinkles of time on the face of aged nature.
Memories dance in swirling winds like ghosts of the past,
Like dried leaves from the bygone summers of our lost youth.
The scent of ripe apples and burning wood drifts in the air of nostalgia,
The last symphony of nature before the long sleep of life's winter.
Every note is more precious than the gold of our dreams of yore,
In the final concert of seasons that relentlessly succeed toward infinity.
Trees, people deeply rooted in the fertile soil of the past,
Some still green with hope, others bare of illusions, all whispering untold stories.
We are wanderers lost in the park of collective and personal memory,
Gathering yellowed leaves from the album of life that thins with each passing day.
Spring once deceived us with sweet dreams of eternal youth,
Summer intoxicated us with the bright mirage of a promised eternity.
But autumn, sincere in its golden and rusty melancholy,
Teaches us, with gentleness and firmness, the beautiful and cruel lesson of passing.
We are but fleeting notes on the cosmic staff of existence,
Meant to resonate for a moment and then fall silent in the great silence.
But in this fleeting and fragile melody of our limited existence,
We find the heartbreaking beauty of the moment that shines before it fades.
Each autumn is an invaluable gift in the crown of the dwindling years,
An elegant invitation to the last dance with life that still pulses within us.
We gather precious moments like golden fruits from an enchanted garden,
From the orchard of time that shrinks but grows sweeter and more intense.
We breathe deeply the cool, fresh air of autumn that embraces us,
Feeling how we become one with nature in its eternal cycle of birth and death.
We vow in the violet silence of dusk to live each autumn with intensity,
As if it were our last symphony in the grand orchestra of the universe.
A. INTRO
AMERICAN CINQUAINS Adelaide's answer to the Japanese haiku
Poems
in shapely form,
displaying syllables
or stresses in a versatile
refrain.
B.DIDACTIC DISCUSSION
TITLE completely optional
FORMAT
FIRST LETTER OF LlNE CAPITALISED
line syllables/stresses
1. 2 Long days
2. 4 Of August sun
3. 6 Where nature blinks and shrinks
4. 8 The dying grass,yellowed in sleep-
5. 2 Held fast
EXAMPLE OF MINE -TITLED
PASSION
Eyes closed
As lips caressed,
Mouths joined,impassioned
Tongues explore,in our love's embrace,
Time-framed
KEY to this form- note how line 1 & line 5 make a link couplet & secondly the 'turn' 'surprise' from end of line 4 to 5.