I took root in a stand of golden aspen trees
My bark resembled dark eyes all over me.
I am the oldest of the ancients in my grove,
spared thus far from the fires of a stove.
Every fall I'm forced to forfeit my dense leaves.
They're taken by the wind, and my heart grieves
but nature has to obey and follow its course...
for there's no escaping its incredible force.
My Spring clothing turned into golden dresses
that appear to be sheered as if they were tresses
upon my branches and limbs, curved and bent,
Another season passes me by; another year spent.
I'll have to face another Winter, arms laid bare
for my leaves were taken, and none were spared
to keep me warm on those cold January nights
but I will dream of Spring instead of my plights.
I didn’t choose the role,?but it settled on me early.?Before I knew what I was doing,?I was already responsible?for more than myself.
I learned to carry things?that weren’t mine?small things at first:?a bottle, a backpack,?a sibling’s tears.?Then bigger things:?disappointment,?expectations,?the silence between questions?no one wanted to ask.
They said I was “mature,”?as if that were praise.?But all I wanted?was to be little?a little longer.
No one saw me?as someone who could fall apart.
someone who could break?Only as the one?who holds it together?for everyone else.
I was the first to know better,?the one who had to lead,?even when I didn’t know the way.?I became a blueprint?and a warning.
Sometimes I wonder?what I would have been?if I had been allowed to just be.
Not the example.?Not the helper.?Not the second parent?with the same last name.
Still, I love deeply.?I protect quietly.?I show up—always.
Even if no one remembers?who taught them how.
I don’t remember my childhood?Not really, anyway.?Just flashes,?Like static on a screen?Or dreams you lose by midday.
I remember the shift?The hush before the baby came.?Suddenly, I was older,?Not by age,?But by what they asked me to claim.
I remember doing my own hair,?Tiny hands fumbling with combs and clips,?No one to say, “Let me help you,”?Only quiet expectations?And sealed lips.
I remember making my own lunch,?Crumbs of independence?Scattered across plastic bags,?While other kids had notes and napkins,?I had duty tucked in my backpack.
I wish I stayed little longer.?I wish growing up wasn’t a race.?Wish I’d been one of the children,?Not a mirror of their face.
I wish I wasn't the in-between?Too small to carry so much weight,?Yet too big to need comforting.?I wish I had more time?To just play.
Maybe then I’d remember it.?Maybe then,?I’d call it mine.
luxuriousness
sleeping during the daytime
babies and oldsters
complete peacefulness
daily doing what we want
having little fits
The world's oldest profession
is considered a crime
yet only the females therein engaged
are arrested fined or serve time
to all concerned
it's a business transaction
ain't nobody's but their own
providing satisfaction
money's the motive
with payment surrendered
and they have the means
for services rendered
but altho' the women may not have been kissed
if all involved are consenting adults
a victim here does not exist
The ancient path
Comes into being
Awareness of one's being
The older days
Comes into a past
Recollection of memories
The fruitfulness of a soul,
Flexibility of a mind
Leads to discoveries
The upliftment of the sea floor
Productivity of a seed
Modifies the tradition
The memorandum of a culture
A mystery of a future,
The ancient ways
Comes into resources
Fluctuation of ideas
The oldest man
Comes into a present moment
The seasons of a soul.
It’s the same old story
Written on a prayer
The wind and the rain know her
Wistful & unburdened by, Yesterday’s song…
Still the pain… oh, but the pain
Its all such a shame… But, I know One who will reign
Have you fallen into the oldest of traps, before?
(A lone voice whispers)
Be Illuminated.
Don't be like the many and fall into a readers' mindset, and believe everything you read is true.
Be sophisticated and ingenious.
And when reading poetry, be conveniently adventurous.
Don't always think it personally relates to the author:
For that trap is the oldest of the old.
Going back to poetry's first beginnings.
Poets do sometimes relate their stories to be told, but generally, perhaps:
They're really creating secret escapes.
Imagery, emotions and landscapes, for those seeking shelter.
From the cold, unforgiving, light of just living.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
:??
The oldest child.
Or the second parent.
The one that everyone relies on, the one who's need to be the model for the youngest siblings.
Who have dreams but soon turned into nightmares. Childhood? No, the oldest child doesn’t really have one, taking care or the youngest siblings were childhood for them.
Is the one who get blamed one for mistakes that youngest siblings have did, clean the mes from other, doesn't earn the respect they truly deserve.
Need to be successful to make their parents proud, carrying the weight of endless expectations on their shoulders, put on fake smiles too make everyone happy but who makes the oldest child happy?
They live were already written before they even existed and forced to grow with it.
Never heard the words" I am so proud of you" buts words that they were used to hear as"Why couldn't you be more like you cousin/friend)
They try their best, but somehow their best is never enough.
But you may ask" How do you know if all of that is true?"
..well I am an oldest child too, sad right..?
I am the oldest daughter,
But that isn’t just privilege.
I am the oldest daughter,
And I have no more to salvage.
I am praised for my good behavior,
And it teaches me to be perfect.
Nothing less is acceptable,
No excuse can be my savior.
I make a single mistake,
And it’s the end of the world,
But really the bar is too high.
I’m sitting in the corner all curled.
Held in one spot,
But I’m told to get up and walk.
I am asked to speak,
But I open my mouth and am told not to talk.
I am the oldest daughter,
And I was born imperfect.
Why am I the oldest daughter,
When I can’t do what they expect?
I wasn’t made to be the best child,
I was made to bring out the best in others.
All that it seems to do,
Is bring more judgment from my mother.
I can choose to cry,
But they will only give me more reason to.
If I shouldn’t cry or hold it back,
What am I supposed to do?
After all,
I am the oldest daughter.
So much pressure weighs
on the shoulders
of the oldest child.
She tries to hold it
but can’t grip on
and it all falls apart.
The life she wields
No longer can deal
With all the pressure
Of a family of five.
the merely bourgeois, so-called collective Western world:
dysfunctional political economy, broken system w/ a
population neither able to solve the problem, nor willing to solve it.
The world's oldest surviving toy, dating back to the Chalcolithic Period, approximately 7500 years old, is exhibited at the Mardin Museum in Turkey.
the world oldest toy
about seven thousands years
car made of good wood
She's the oldest living treasure that the world has ever seen;
A creator of arts, with her canvas, the human skin.
Her beauty outshines many younger generations.
Her charm could be the greatest among all her possessions.
She's a glimmer of the island of the far east, from the north.
She's a pleasant scene being craved, of tempting sort.
May it be someone from the west or the east,
everyone gladly comes to gather for her feast.
*For Apo Whang-Od, the oldest living tattoo artist in the world at 106, a living treasure, in celebration of my 500th poem in Soup.*
April 1, 2023
The Cowboys hands are strong and still as tough as leather but soft enough to touch a humming bird's wings. Always cowboy enough to not show his pain, he's been through every thing.Yet I his mother can feel all his accomplishments and his heart. And knows that he carries God with him everyday.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.