Wrinkled Poems

Makeup

Hello friends, makeup is a skillful art,                                    Do you agree or not, it is real,                                                 You know born babies need no cosmetics,                            He or she is naturally beauty,                                         Teenage girls attract towards the makeup,                       They spend more time before the wall mirror,                   lady of forties sits before a mirror more,                               for doing fine makeup their wrinkled faces,                       They use their skill to create their skin bright,                    The rose powder diminishes their wrinkles,                      Their eyes shown luminous by eyeliner,                          Lipstick changes their chapped lips certainly,                       By makeup fading rose like ladies faces,                           have become an enchanting rose lovely.

Wrinkled Bed

   Why do we make beds?
   Every night I get back in.
   Slide into sheets cool and thin.
   Strech out across the bed,
   Tossing and turning,
   Even my head.
   My bed is so neat and clean,
   My Momma makes my bed,
   Probably so I can dream.
   Every day I jump right up,
   Ready to leap for joy.

   Except for the day Momma said she would teach me to make my bed!

  Momma said, " Make your bed,
                         So, it's ready when you lay your head."

   I don't get how the sheets do lay,
   How the corners get tucked,
   And stay that way.

   So, waiting until Momma leaves the room,
   Flip sheets and blankets up to the moon.
   Smooth blankets across it all.
   Look from across the hall,
   The wrinkles are covered,
   And out of sight.
   Momma won't see it until tonight.

   Making beds was never my skill,
   Until I learned a new way.
   Gives me such a thrill!

   Simply sleep on top.
   At the break of day,
   Leap up!
   Smooth a few wrinkles out,
   The bed is made for a week or a day!

   Momma was very proud.
   She said I learned fast to make my bed every day!

Song of old age

Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.

This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old skin was once never crinkled.

These eyes, now drooping, dimmed by poor vision,
Once sparkled with allure and shone pretty.
These hands were once fresh, smooth, and not gritty,
Though now shaky with loss of precision.

The mouth, now sunken and full of gnashers,
Was once bright in the glow of real teeth.
A life once like the vibrance of a wreath
Now whispers in the folds of old tatters.

These feet, worn and cracked, trudging so slowly,
Once romped in the bloom of youthful delight.
Though now calloused and bent, aching each night,
They carried dreams and walked them boldly.

A child under wrinkled skin

Monsoon’s mellow air had made my mind to 
Ponder on life’s past, fast backward and forth,
Till sudden lightning with muted thunder
Made me leave chair to look out of window. 
There, resting elbows on a windowsill,  
And bending a bit my old, wrinkled self,
I looked around with my deep-set tired eyes--
The children playing with rain in the street.
Above, under a ledge two lovelorn doves
Fluttering wings whilst enjoying rain bath,
And dancing at the same time all but lost.
The roofs of nearby buildings getting wet,
Rain drops making mottled sounds on their surface.
But what drew me out was the childhood face
Of naked neighbourhood kids’ nude visage--
Bare of any mask of life’s adulthood.
And something made me stretch my shaking hand
Out of the window grills trying to catch 
Some rain drops. Or was it some childhood thrills?
And as if like a mild electric jolt
A wave spread all through my quivering self,
Which, leaving window and aged body,
Ah, out was in the street with dancing kids,
One more kid dancing along in spirit.
_________________________
Musings |27.12.2024| Blank verse. old, child, spirit, rain

Wrinkled Rose

The moon is a wrinkled rose, quenched in quartz tears,
and I taste the citrus scent of russet rain~
from the heart of his crown, embroidered with fears,
while stars weave wishes across the astral plane.
But what if sage streaks of lunar-dusted spheres,
wrap my warm soul with twinkling trinkets in vain?
Would I then find constellations of fireflies,
be the true maiden to gothic ruffled skies?

His Wrinkled Hands

His wrinkled hands, the texture of sand
    creases and grooves line the space of his face
  You notice his gait, a trifle unsteady
    but at 5:00 a.m., he's prayed, for work he's ready

  He's a man of the Torah, in the Land of Israel
    scion of pioneers who drained the swamps,
                                         made the desert flower

  Born on the land, a Jew through and through
    with his loving wife, raised five 'olive shoots'
  tho' only two will work the land in their mud-stained boots

  But that's ok. His strapping saplings will all toil in Torah's well
    A rich man, he: lived a Torah life on the land, the Land of Israel

A Hand In Time

I view my hand. I see an ancient land.
A melanomic crater, deep in the desert,
speaks of greedy sun-soaked days.
Wanton then. Gone now.
Sparse wispy palm trees cluster,
storm ravaged, angled randomly,
now almost invisible,
now silver in the light.
Ravines compressed in lines
symmetrical, as from space,
appearing geometric,
requiring translation,
needing understanding,
awaiting exploration.
Ahead, beyond the fault line,
mountains expand and converge,
blue-edged and rising high
above the sandy plain, sinuous,
majestic, uncharted.
Stretching and contracting 
as wrinkled parchment
in a shoreline breeze,
pointing the way to the long journey’s end.
Translucent and yes still beautiful.
A multitude of moments
has slowly wrought such change.
Soul-stirring eloquence silently tells
of times and deeds long past,
though yet concealing secrets deep,
of silken dreams within a lover’s sleep,
and memories of a sweet caress,

Wrinkled On the Road

My friend had miles of highway
‘Til she’d reach her new abode
So she needed to be up and out
Before a rooster crowed.

To help her get an early start
And not be somehow slowed,
She went to bed already dressed
In all-out travel mode.

I heard about this plan of hers
And my confusion showed.
I told her she’d be wrinkled
And her laughter freely flowed.

I guess no matter what we wear,
We share a certain code,
For age has guaranteed we’re always
Wrinkled on the road.

Wrinkled Birds

There is a cup in your hand, and there is black water like the ocean,
Maybe she will absorb all the sorrows,
  Everything that happened before...
  My tears have dried
A transparent package is like a shroud,
  Thousands of white scarves are buried there, like birds.
They did not fly away, there was no wind
And only eyes in the distance, her gentle hands
Touching an almost dead tree
  A scarlet drop of blood on the trunk,
  As a sign of the death of my soul.

Through the Seasons of Time

wrinkled hands and greying hair
time ages us all
wisdom lies deep within
awaiting requests for advice
	
the beauty we once held
fleeting as it was
was lived, then disappeared
through the seasons of time

Wrinkled

A wrinkled brow adorned his face
His whistle revealed his character's grace
As he walked behind an old worn mule
In the humid heat of that home rule
Memories now surface, why?
Childhood faded, gone, but I descry 

Contest: Bite Size Poem #30
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Written:12-20-21

descry: catch sight of

Fallen Leaves

autumn reflections
wrinkled leaves wrinkled faces
mourning dead leaves

Wrinkled Babe Or Toddler Old Man

Looks like my grandfather fallen over 
Around brown with the sunken Grand 
My visaged tan round 
My hair recedes like in a sounding wave 
As I breathe nostril serenade,
puckered lips
 about stuck out like a fish 
Textured skin rough dries like an oatmeal 
Teary eyes saddened by my brow 
Hopeless cheeks of dimples plants face
With a straight glance tears from eyes race
I mirror myself and I laugh am I a baby or lacking an aged old man 
elderly high stand

9/13/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020

Wrinkled Shirt

My shirt is wrinkled – who will see?
No one but my spouse and me
And grandkids, via FaceTime’s screen;
But hey! At least my clothes are clean.

My bed is made, the sink is bare.
It isn’t like I just don’t care,
Though staying in, it’s quite a job
To stop from living like a slob.

My husband vacuums, I wash clothes.
We’re making do, so I suppose
A wrinkled t-shirt’s no big deal – 
My wrinkled face has less appeal!

Bora, Bora

On the isle of Bora Bora
Ancient are the crafts that lie there.
White beaches beckon those who linger
and those who taste the salty air.

I met a girl there on that island.
Later she became my wife.
Now aged and wrinkled yet still a beauty
my companion for all my life.

Now our grand sons, four moreover
dig sand fleas on that lovely shore.
They play with them a while, then release,
only to hunt, and catch a few more.

My hotel keeps me surviving.
It does more than keep me afloat.
I have time for fun and relaxation
aboard my golf Cart, car or boat.

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