I've no memory of my beginning,
A tiny seed, a lowly abandoned weed
Taken for a ride on Mariah's breath
Safe harbor found on a wall,
I barely squeezed between the bricks
and rested there for a while
In the silence of loneliness, I dwelled
No others like me did I see
as I buried myself inside a crevice
Leaves like arms in shades of green
I budded like a wildflower
Despite the odds I survived
I'll be doomed to a lonely life
without a flowery mate...
a lonely weed, never to procreate
A memory ~ I recall being a wispy seed,
with fuzzy siblings at my side
When our white-haired mother withered,
she sent us off without a goodbye
to live or die on our own.
I packed a few belongings in
a knapsack, my journey to begin.
When my mother gave me a goodbye kiss,
I never expected Barovia's mist.
But I didn't think to count the cost,
and now I'm all alone and lost.
I wonder if I'm even missed.
It seems I'm stuck in Barovia's mist.
Often, I look deep inside my being,
but this fog always clouds my seeing.
Do I even really exist
as I languish in Barovia's mist?
Frustration and anger grip my soul
as I struggle to maintain control
and clench my seething fist.
I must escape from Barovia's mist.
Every time I collapse in despair,
wishing I could clear the vapor in the air,
I find I can't resist
the dark powers of Barovia's mist.
One day, my senses were strangely jarred.
A white-haired lady drew a Tarokka card.
Who knew that she was in my midst
as I wallowed in Barovia's mist?
Said she, "You don't know what's in store".
(Lady Eva was the name she bore.)
"You must keep trying and persist.
Don't surrender to Barovia's mist.
For, in this land, we never know,
as Castle Ravenloft, above, and we below,
await an unexpected twist,
in the mysterious Barovian mist."
Cacophony of liquored lips
would underscore the room
That cafe bar that I recall
an adolescent’s doom
Yet not of age to then partake
of alcohol’s delight
For pizza, I remember well
indulgence of the night
My friend and I would wait inside
for carry-out to go
We’d sneak a look at follied fun
at things we’d come to know
And while we sat as patient boys
piano banged the eve
A white haired gal of eighty three
would play until we’d leave
She’d ragtime with a mighty blow
her keyboard full of cheer
We’d see her timely reach around
to grab her stein of beer
Then off with pizza undertow
Leone’s special taste
To watch the TV “Monster Fest”
with not a bite to waste
To Sir,
or Whoever Runs the Universe:
I’m here to say
your vision appears flawed
your choices bewildering and sad,
The pure besmirched,
The good disparaged as but fools,
and the precious,
oh so precious,
Young of youth, lying dead,
captured in war-for-profit
Fallen amidst a distant country’s
ruin.
Please explain,
Explain, please, Please do:
Those white-haired plastic men
ego-triumph-ant, contests winning won,
with cameras flashing on wide smiles,
reporters reporting them.
Men who step quite meticulous and careful
over smoldering city ruins
dodging honor love faith and grief.
Grief spilled upon ground
stained dark red
spilled and soiled deep
deep very deep
upon the earth upon mothers’ hearts.
Your vision Sir,
perhaps opaque?
Your foresight limited in dim light?
Or, perhaps a game bizarre you play,
with rules chameleon drawn?
Oh pray, Sirrr,
pray please do tell,
keep not silent
do tell do tell
Why men forget to be
What once
they promised truly true…
Once upon a time
they promised,
but alas, forgot to be.
In charge of the museum store,
She was an ex-New Yorker.
Her hair was white, her glasses black
(Like me!) and yes, a talker.
She spoke of moving to the Cape
And though she missed the city,
She’d learned to love her lifestyle now,
Less hassled and less gritty.
In passing, she remarked about
Her other “Q-Tip” pals.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
She answered, “Older white-haired gals.
I guess we look like Q-Tips,
With our heads of snowy white.”
I laughed ‘cause I’m a Q-Tip, too
And somehow, that’s all right.
Clean old parent home
has not been cleaned
over ten years
In those old days
built the house
put the wooden bridge
carrying the rice bale
on the shoulder
walked around the neighbor roads
now
even a small step
uneasy
Classify the garbage
making the money
the iron products
collect separately
See
through the gap in main door
white haired man
trying to take one or two
hand over
a battle of water
a piece of bread
give
saying thank you
doing it non-stop
gets out of the alleyway
It is going to rain
with the mind of concern
looked upon to the sky
only clouds flow
Among luxury cars
a shabby cart
passing by.
white haired man
coos and gurgles
grandson
For The Massively White-Haired
And comments on it he'd heard:
The ever youthful old,
Who cannot his vexed arms fold;
Could keep wishing to head hide,
As folks troop out for a ride...
For those Nature ate their pie,
Who would soonest breathe a sigh
And they must recover it
Or fall into nearby pit...
One thing to like about Dye:
To Disliked colors Good-Bye;
The fainter ones on garments
That keep igniting laments;
For Grey Hairs and sickly ones
Every strand changing at once...
Dye for seekers to not die
And help their busy roads ply.
ALL, HAVE SIMILAR ENDING
Old, white haired, teeth missing
And what's left are not too good,
Every part of the body hurts
At one time or the other.
So what do you do?
Visit the doctor? No.
Just take it to the Creator
and the Redeemer.
Who I know loves us,
More than men ever could.
He has all the answers,
He counts the hairs on my head,
And I lose them also.
That is what sin has done.
My sin? Yes, and no too,
Sins of my ancestors have
Enfeebled them and me.
The way out is not as
Many men plan or think.
We lost our way, His way.
Yes, the way He intended
Is not the way we are,
Too much of the time.
Can we find our way back?
Yes, we can, if we will change.
If we will heed His voice,
And His written word,
We can find our way back.
Out of of all the confusion,
And mess men have caused,
Listening to their own
Deranged thinking.
Pride and selfishness,
The cause in the beginning.
So let's turn around,
Back space and follow
Him who knows us,
And how we were made.
He can make us to be
What He intended for us,
In the beginning.
And, we can end up
With joy everlasting!
Copyright, Kathryn Search
The beauty
Of
Namatjira
White haired
Bark painter's
Of fish
Wandjina
Feathered man
Full sunset
Corroboree
Pintubi
Dancers
In watercourse
Colours
Of hills
And rangers
Near Henbury
Or was it
Kings canyon
South
Alice springs
Dome like peaks
Of Olga's
Stark landscape
Barren
Barkly
Near Soudan
Where
Dust storms
A common hazard
The faces
Of William Richetts
In the Maelstrom
Those colours
Of time
And day
House Wife's
Bushman
Children of the
Banka, Banka
Old hats
Tin shacks
The Southern Cross
Spinning
Creaking
Just there
In the sky
A Rhyme
To its own time
Wonky
Old water tank
Those proud
Spearman
From
Emily Gap
A shared history
Not us
Them
Just the
Layers of life
Turned sideways
Like
Krichauff Rangers
Somewhere
Out west
Where Echidna
Thorny Devil
( my favourite )
Freshwater tortoises
Swimming
Crocs
Beauty
In birds
Of flowers
Palms
In valleys
Secrets
Of bushman
Ringers
Dreams
Of its people
And fading
Its
Fading
Memories
She looked tame, and the entire breakfast area had men in it.
I sat on a high stool directly across from her; we are in a hotel lobby.
I did not expect her to speak, but she did. “Where are you from?”
I told her Kansas City. She asked why I was here.
My granddaughter’s graduation.
She said “Guess what I made, a pecan waffle."
She jumped down to show it to the table behind me.
There were three couples there – all white haired like her.
I am a burgundy hair; I dye my white out because it makes me look old.
I am old, but do not choose to look it.
She jumped back up across from me and we ate in silence for a bit.
Okay, she ate in silence. I was eating Cheerios, so I was crunching along.
“I am burying my husband today,” she told me.
It was unexpected and startling. “I am sorry,” I told her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t kill him or anything.”
I did not know what to say to this.
“Are you from here?” I asked her.
“I am Sheila, from Tennessee,” she told me.
“I am Caren from Kansas City,” I told her.
“That’s my family behind you,” she told me.
“They are sitting under a vent. It is too cold over there for me.”
I felt cold myself, all of a sudden.
...As the years went by Nick’s playing
came less often, as he wandered,
he just became a vagabond,
going to almshouses in winter.
That’s how he came to Watertown
in the sad last year of his life,
they say he didn’t play at all,
many felt pity at his plight.
There even was a well-dressed man,
white-haired, and getting on in years,
who came looking for Nick Goodall,
and in that sad poorhouse appeared.
They say he took Nick’s violin,
and played it so the notes were heard,
said, “Nick, don’t you remember this?
And how we played it together?”
Nick then took up the violin,
and ones more played beautiful airs,
some say the man was his father,
he was never seen again there.
Why Goodall died, nobody knows,
he was given a pauper’s grave,
some folk looked at his violin
to understand how well he played.
But they found nothing special there,
the viol was a common kind,
the beauty that he’d drawn from it
was born out of his troubled mind.
After he died they raised money,
for a grave, he had been broke, of course,
in local folklore Nick remains:
The Mad Fiddler of the North.
Hunter Retired
David J Walker
For me it was the geese
Returning from Canada
Honking in a grand parade
A promenade from the
Playa lakes to
The nearby grain fields
A sudden reminder that
He would no longer
Be here to feed them
as he had done for
nearly 60 years
Would they look for the
White-haired man living
Behind the lake with
daily scoops of corn
The retired hunter sparing
No expense to feed his prey
Last year
He flew away
And joined them
When Cowardice and Sloth shook hands,
their deal produced a special breed
of thief whose basic low-risk plans
to victimize the ones in need
required no smarts and little speed.
This slacker wouldn’t keep a job.
He’d rather steal than work one day.
He had no conscience; he would rob
an elder of retirement pay
or steal from gardens on his way.
He knew the food bank down the street
had more than food because he’d seen
folks donate cash. Also, some sweet
old ladies ran the place. Some green
he’d gain, for who would intervene?
He donned a mask and swaggered in.
A white-haired lady said, “Hello,
what would you like?” His wicked grin
was followed by, “The CASH! You know,
I’ve got a gun. Girls, don’t be slow!”
Then panic set in—his, not theirs.
They had black belts in martial arts.
“HaYAH!”—They came at him in pairs
and showed him how they treat upstarts
with thieving hands and wicked hearts.
August 10, 2021
entered in the Panic at the Food Bank Contest
received NA August 22, 2021
August 25, 2021
entered in the August 2021 NA's Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Very few really tender moments
in my childhood do I find.
My memories abound
with normal things, and also
with happy celebrations,
failures and successes,
good times and bad.
But I recall one day
visiting a man from church.
Inside his small apartment
my mother took me.
I can’t remember why.
I just recall this elderly white-haired man
waiting on his white-haired wife
with absolute tenderness.
She did not even know him, really.
Alzheimers had claimed her.
But he hovered over her
with the enduring and endearing
patience and love
born from years and years
of companionship and true intimacy
that no disease
can obliterate.
June 14, 2021
For Malabika Ray Choudhury's 'A Tender Moment in Childhood' Contest
Entered July 4 for 'A Brian Strand July 4' Poetry Contest
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