The blue little sky,watching the little bird fly,
stopping a bit to shy ,a great sight to deny!
After a long indeed old memories flew in my mind,
with similar adrenaline rush I don't know what I did find?
Feelings of the past never go away from you,
however far you may be they are still within you.
The same old thoughts and the idiotic dreams,
flashes back in the mind hearing the unknown screams.
Words still don't come out of my bleeding heart,
and she came all over again to make her mark.
The one whom I tried to reach now stands before me,
but still not satisfied don't know what i wanted this to be.
Time never does reverse -wise people stated it as a fact,
but now it's time when past came back!!!
The old bent withered tree had weathered many storms.
At one point, a hollowing out began at its thickest part.
A specific shape took form; the old tree had grown a heart.
For Sijo contest by Rick Parise
I cringe at the thought
of approaching old age,
falling hair, sagging skin,
hideous wrinkles and all
as the reality of mortality
finally beckons.
Yet when I look at old photographs
from my now long gone youth,
I find to my complete horror
a malnourished-looking,
ninety pound scarecrow!
was that really me?
Youth and old age,
one side of the same coin,
neither one preferable to the other.
An old pal of mine standing nigh seven feet tall,
Basks in regal splendor against the wall.
He's well over one hundred and fifty years old.
Could he speak, Oh! The tales to be told!
That old friend that in my home doth dwell,
Is a stately grandfather clock with open well.
Made when craftsmen took pride in their guild,
'Twas crafted from sturdy German oak to build.
The hours are tolled with sonorous tone.
He's seen so many events now bygone.
Holidays, births, deaths, family mirth,
And even several wars upon this earth!
Every so often I oil his wheels and gears.
After all, he's getting along in years!
I need my old friend for succor and ease.
For that reason him I shall ever appease!
He's seen the birth of a new millennium,
And with each arc of his ponderous pendulum,
Is a reminder never to squander time away,
But to live a productive life each passing day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The old year is gone
You say
Dead as leaf fallen
Under a barren tree
Dead
And still mulching roots
Of new growing
Things
Dead and still
Nurturing continuities
A breast in the mouth
Of bitter hunger
No hand can remove
How is a thing gone
And yet remain
To corrupt everything
Every new dream is a fruit
Of old ambition
Every ambition
Has a stalk of pain
Nothing dies
Until memory is lost
And memory
Is not the frost
In the sun.
My order is disheveled
Contemplating time
The root
Of all mortality
While I
Like an old year past
Away
And be dead
When no one remembers
For the ash
Without the ember
Is dust in the wind
The forest
Fragile as love again.
The old year is gone
Dead you say
The river flows
And never comes back
In tears or in rain.
We knew love together hand in hand.
Memories are still living.
With are walks upon the sand.
Seashells in a old wooden box.
The oceans spray.
A vanishing form down by the old
docks.
A bottle without a message
comes in with the tide.
Try as I must this pain
I cannot hide.
That old lighthouse stands as
strong as should I.
The tide changes yet never does die.
So you are fifty years old and counting
Your search has begun for the fountain
Perhaps you will find
It is all in the mind
There may be many new chapters unwritten
So you are half a century old and doubting
You have come to a fork in the road
My one wish for you
Which ever path you choose
That you will not be traveling alone
The typewritter the empty page.
Time has forgotten you.
As we worship the talentless in a foreign age.
Cheap **** and a old lush.
Poddle skirts and a highschool crush.
Wornout jeans and a no longer spoke about bands patch.
Sneaking out the window .
Unlocking that old gates latch.
Forbidden lovers and young hearts loving thta first feeling
so very true.
The stars are a midnight canvas.
Rain and beauty reflect the same to old and new.
Coins in a wishing well thrown by a lost
young teenage girl.
Sweet agony and diary pages.
Red lipstick andher hairs natrule curl.
the scent of innocence and regret fill's the air.
Bitter souls loath the foolish
young who reach for a place where only dreamers dare.
Like a mustang down a empty backroad through this life we
blew.
So many feelings it leaves you numb.
As the guard must change from old to new.
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