Old Poetry - Poems about Old Poetry

Time Etched in Flesh

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

Old Before New

Every day once a while
I could see the construction of a 
new building going by,
It proceeds slow enough
to make some innocent birds mistake
it for an abandoned shelter;
They have begun building their refuge
on its dusty window sills,
lovingly nurturing it to become 
permanent, giving their everything.

New Year

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

Object

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

Aging Writer

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

Growing Old with Her

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

Got a Minute To Write

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

Nature

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

Poetry Sees Us Green

If we  senesce
                     in plain sight,
                     only poetry sees us green
   

Longing Train

when eld whistle blows
             sleep ghostly train alarming
                infinite longing.

Never Satisfied

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

Caedmon's Face

Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps

Old Harmonica

playing  reveries,
        the childish harmonica
         of the young ancient ...

Concerning Poetics and Reposts

*****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

Old Barn

There’s an old barn down the road from our house. It’s bent and bowed and one windy day away from completely succumbing to its aged disrepair. It’s midsection is stretched and swollen. The barn doors saggy and gaping. The once fresh, beautiful red paint is dull and cracked, even completely stripped clean away in some

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