Unlock your heart, ample gords/gourds played mellifluously across the acoustic line of tumble-down fields where each blade of wholesome grass, a gaslit fire of musically driven promenades, so reaching that one forgets to look, they look back to find a field of woe, a curtain of rain, a line of poetry beneath an oak tree, it withers and died in those hands a thousand times before it was written on a page, and I would look at you for a thousand years.
the topic of conversation
always ends up the same
it seems we've become
the experts on
ailments, aches and pains
which type of treatment
works for what
which drugs work best
for this or that
which ones leaves
us constipated
which ones will make
us splat
the when, where and what
of pooping
some say it's a science
some say an art
which foods
give us gas
and how bad
it makes us fart
the one subject
that is guaranteed
of this there is no doubt
the person
not at the gathering
is the one the gossip
will be about
Now that I’ve reached
a certain age
I’m afraid
every ring of the phone
every knock on the door,
Might be telling me
someone ain’t on this earth
no more.
Dropped stone cold dead
while lying on the couch
watching reruns of NCIS.
Cops rummaging through,
the mess. Looking for clues,
of who did what and,
who knew who.
But a bit excited too
that maybe one of the kids
or the neighbor or
a stranger selling bibles,
Dropped by
just to say hi
and I end up
having an hour-long
talk
About how
my warranty has expired
or why I’m always
so tired anymore
The rustling of leaves interplays with the ocean breeze,
as traces of moonlight escape through blackout curtains hanging from steel rods.
Bolts of illumination highlight stacks of books caked in dust,
while a man, decrepit with age, sits on a worn auburn-coloured leather chair.
His balding hair is grey from years of turmoil.
Wrinkles lay heavy, nestled deep within his face,
exposing the fragility in his demeanor.
Placed before him: stark white paper and a singular obsidian pen.
Removing his wire-thin spectacles, he wipes them gingerly with his nightshirt
and returns them safely to perch on his sunken cheeks.
Ruminating words flood through his mind
as he picks up the pen with his slender fingers.
The grandfather clock approaches three in the morning to the left of him,
reminding him that time is not on his side.
Scribbling fragments of what he can remember on the paper,
his last will and testament begins to unfold—
final wishes interwoven with untold life stories.
Loneliness weighs heavy in his heart
as the wavering flames of his existence extinguish
with his concluding pen strokes.
It’s New Years on Poetry Soup
With all the rhythm and rhyme
And all the poets as a motley crew
Tapping their feet in time
Remembering what was
Looking forward to something new
Weaving words, courting pages
Like as to a pseudo-sage’s review
The simplicity of love
Things written and rhymed from this group
Love lost down below, not up above
Tropes expressed by this troop
These just a few things you’ll find
As the new one is new
And the last one’s behind
Here on Poetry Soup
[A blessed New Year to all]
They touch me inside and out
They twist and turn me all around
I feel locked in
And trapped out
I can be small Or large
I can be pressed and barged
I have no space
And i'm stuck in one place
I break when were robbed
im a door knob
In these dark and desolate times
I have discovered I'm out of rhymes
The messages are lame
And so many poems the same
But it's a struggle to find new words
Just fighting to be heard
I'm not proud of everything I write
But I'm proud of the effort to do it right
And how I started with limericks
I found a lifelong passion that sticks
Always afraid I ran out of words I surprise myself
Every time I add a new poem to the shelf
But see I'm selfish because I write for me
Because it is what sets my mind free
And the joy of verbal vacation
Is what fuels my heart with elation
It's so cathartic to write how I truly feel
When my heart is bleeding emotion it's real
But time continues to match on
And it's true that one day I'll be gone
I just want to leave a legacy that lives forever
So for now I'll keep on with the endeavor
Hoping even if the rhymes are the same
Nobody would say my effort is lame
The age has bloomed on my face, from the alternate timelines I play
Inside my head hoping that 1% chance comes true
Some lines come from the joy that floods my face and leaves a specific residue that shows growth
Some lines come from the stress leaking out my body that quickly gets dried up with my tears
My mind is constantly running as if I'm training for a marathon
Maybe if I stop running from myself I could settle down in this timeline
Only thing is I want to be in the same universe as you
So, my wrinkled life lines can slowly move to the art of you
p.s. I always love when we match...
Could I have written novels
How about short stories...
Perhaps non-fiction could have been my forte
True adventures, riveting biographies...
Really, I don't think so; I'm getting old
I wouldn't succeed at those genres, truth be told
Given my shrinking attention span
It's poetry or naught for this 'minuteman'
Standing on a cliff, it feels as if you are a cloud, high above the world.
Lush forests can be seen, full of every creature and plant.
Rivers flow, winding through the valleys, bringing life in the form of water.
Vast fields lay in the open air, covering both hills and plains.
The sheer beauty of it all is captivating, drawing you in.
The only thing better than the sights are the sounds.
Crickets play their sweet melodies, as if inspired by the muses themselves.
The constant rushing of the water soothes the soul.
The wind rustling through the grass is peaceful beyond measure.
This is the world you escape to, the one you wish never to leave behind.
Standing there, you can all but hear the lovely harmonies of the muses,
Those beautiful daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne.
Little can bring more joy than the pleasant music they inspire;
Song and verse, hymn and rhyme, all bring pleasure to the ears and to the heart.
The tranquility of music out in the open is the best thing known to man.
Younger wanting to be older
Older wanting to be young
Child wishing to be bigger
Bigger wishing to be thinner
Teen wanting a clearer face
Clearer face wanting a better body
People lamenting bad hair days
Bad hair days replaced with no hair days. . .
We diss what we have
Wish for what we lack
When what we have is gone
Oh, what we'd give to have it back!
Youthful desires for future yearning
Future bearing down like a train
Elders' memories of past unnerving
Hit by a train never the same
*****I've decided to repost some older poems and provide some background and poetics, or my mindset of why I wrote these poems or perhaps what inspired me to write some of them. Many of these older poems were overlooked or were lost in the speedway of poetry submissions here. For new Soupers or new readers it might be a welcomed 'new' read as well, or long time Supers who missed some of these works*****
Not Today
When memories begin to fade
when I break promises I’ve made
and life no longer seems so gay
I shall be old, but not today.
For I have children I must hold
and many stories to be told
and much to see along the way.
I shall be old, but not today.
When I no longer care to write
of all life’s wonder and delight
or take the time to kneel and pray,
I shall be old, but not today.
For there is much that I must do
poems to write, at least a few
and so much more I have to say.
I shall be old, but not today.
When love can’t make my spirit glow
and I care not if roses grow
it’s then and only then I’ll say
I shall be old, but not today.
For in my gardens, love has grown
in all the seeds that I have sown
and never may it wilt away.
I shall be old, but not today.
When I care not how others feel
and life no longer offers thrill,
when hopes and dreams all fade away
I shall be old, but not today.
For I must not accept defeat
for life is short and oh, so sweet
and there’s no time to waste away.
I shall be old, but not today...
Your lovely name will sink into oblivion
Your pretty face will lose its charm
And all your moves and gestures that were accurate
Would be uncomfident and clumsy
You were the reason of human death
They sold their souls for hearing your voice
You were a siren, who took their last breath
You were the greatest creature of Nyx
People compared your body to the art
They tagged along without a word
They called you Seducer, Sweetheart, the God
But no one could see your wrenched wings
Heart o Silver, doth thou dither?
About the stars, or planets blither?
O grateful gods, become so weary,
Heart o silver, hast left thee teary.
Glaciated by wind and storm,
Nevermore, thy heart be warm.
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