Yellowed Poems | Examples

a page from my life story

  The story of my journey has many pages. 
          I open to a one that is yellowed, old,
  crumbling.  Oh, that park at the end of our street,
               where I would sit on a bench with father.
  We were still, lost in the hues of green,
                     and blue of the river flowing by.

The Dream

In my struggle for life I long
I long to be free
In my struggle for life I feel
I feel like a prisoner
Never to escape this place
With its blackened walls
And destroyed floors
Torture and struggle
I hate this place
With its crumbling rooftop
And its battered doors
I cry
I cry nonstop
I beg for forgiveness
Though I didn't do anything wrong
I still beg
In my life I wake
I wake in my own waste
Can this really be what life is about?
Locked in this damnation of a room
With its yellowed windows 
And its tarnished doorknobs
Why don't they love me?
Why do they hide me?
What did I do to deserve this life?
Who am I?
I despise this place
With its bad memories
Again I cry
I cry for them and for myself
I learned
I learned to be my own everything
I have no one
Locked in this place they call home
I just want to be free

- The Gate Is Open -

    - One must make some choices, 
       even if some may be scary - quote by poet

    Charming ancient cobblestone streets
    Buildings meticulously maintained
    Haunted castles with
    bloody myths and dramatic history
    Pitiful g r o a n i n g in a g o d f o r s a k e n place

    The ghosts date back
    to when the castle was built in the late 13th century
    Teasing ghosts lighting candles in the middle of the night
    G h o s t l y shadows in the yellowed g o s s a m e r
    Restless and g r i e f - s t r i c k e n with echoes of aged stories
    that never quite fade until they are given a worthy g r a v e

CRAPSEY'S AMERICAN CINQUAIN exampled DIDACTIC 2

A. INTRO 

AMERICAN CINQUAINS Adelaide's answer to the Japanese haiku

Poems

in shapely form,

displaying syllables

or stresses in a versatile

refrain.


B.DIDACTIC DISCUSSION

TITLE  completely optional

FORMAT

FIRST LETTER OF LlNE CAPITALISED

line  syllables/stresses

1.                             2 Long days
2.                             4 Of August sun
3.                             6 Where nature blinks and shrinks 
4.                             8 The dying grass,yellowed in sleep-
5.                             2 Held fast




 EXAMPLE OF MINE -TITLED


PASSION

Eyes closed
As lips caressed,
Mouths joined,impassioned
Tongues explore,in our love's embrace,
Time-framed

KEY to this form- note how line 1 & line 5 make a  link couplet  & secondly the  'turn' 'surprise'  from  end of line 4  to 5.

Absence

Though the carpet teemed with costumes, toys and figures, laid orderlessly, it was barren. 
Distant echoes of the battery powered monkey clapped naively through the still air, and its dim LED eyes softly flickered.

A thread of light shifted through the overcast clouds and chipped window pane, placing itself where someone had once been. Each step creaked the empty yellowed racecar bedstead which ached in loneliness, weakly reminiscing. 

Nothing is said, as superheroes lean against the bedframe and villains lay beside them. They  keep their place, perhaps waiting for an end to the silence. I lay beside them, another still figure. Silent. Static. Hoping, foolishly, to escape this hollow world.

Grief Lives Within Silence

A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.

The Family Gathering

Lamentable, the family gathering
on the other side of sunshine,
with possessions no longer bothering,
sans loving cups, draining of wine.

Great-grands, grands, aunts, uncles, cousins and unborn,
one mom, a nephew, memories
their perspectives (only they carry). Torn,
yellowed pages of treasuries.

Climbing steps, silver dollars, and finger gloves,
savory chicken and dumplings,
boat on the lake, seashells on velvet (these loves)
tricks and treats, some were just ducklings.

      Soft hands, warmer heart; silver in corner chair;
      the teaser (he died way too young)
      To each I lift my thoughts - they are laid bare.
       Kindly, ancestors, I’m among.

All, go the byway, to our destination.
What will our progeny recall?
What bouquet of ours sets forth sensation?
Together we’ll be, blessings fall.

Lacrimal vessels are filled - our love, fearsome.
Eyes salty and brightened.
Peace comes after tears, reveling in wisdom.
Capacity to care, heightened.

midnight dancer

midnight dancer
 
the ballerina turned round and round
upon her pointed toes
to the gentle sound of the music box
before the lid was closed

i followed from a distance
watching
as she gathered cigarette butts
and paper napkins

the haze of yellowed streetlights
reflected onto her teeth
when she smiled
through shattered memories

her black wool coat
was more than she needed
and less than she wanted
when the scent of chanel no. 5
tempted her with memories
of wishes 
where old dreams had died

i hated my tears
when i watched her
and yet i knew she would kiss them
if kisses were meant for a prince

i had become a pauper
in the presence of this midnight dancer
poking at empty pockets
where frayed cloth replaced pennies

she sat against bricks and stones
weeping
wondering why the promises of yesterday
were dropped into a bell ringer’s kettle

on a bitter december day
and salvation was non-refundable
leaving her with only cigarette butts
and napkins to unfurl before a king 

tolbert

Last Leaves

“Dead leaves do not cease to exist. They live in another form, may be as nutrient to quicken another life. That way, every death is a doorway to another life”.  ~ By Poet


Last leaves of the ancient maple, yellowed and frayed,
Fluttering and dancing silently in mellowed stillness,
Nose dived into the burnt sienna ground below,
To become fodder for the saplings of spring.

Eagle-Eye Girl

You marrow-deep in the bone-dry field,
sprawled like a wishbone snapped wrong-
the ground drinks your weight,
but won't swallow you whole.

wind combs its fingers through the wheat,
a mother's touch turned phantom.
That house- small as a postage stamp,
licked, sealed, and sent too far- 
waits with its back turned.

your arms are bridges to nowhere,
your legs, two broken clock hands,
stuck in a time that does not move.
still, your gaze- sharp as a knife-edge moon-
slices the dance like a butcher's twine.

the land here is a tight-lipped secret,
a locked jaw of yellowed grass,
a lungful of dust that never exhales. 
you wear silence like a second skin,
but your eyes, keen as a needle bite,
thread the gap between longing and gravity.
eagle-eyed girl, you have the hunters staring,
but the hunted bones 
tell me- does the sky ever blink first?

Self Analysis

Self Analysis
Miracle man
1/31/2025

I’m like an old book that sits on a shelf,
Dog eared pages reveal things about myself.
my pages are yellowed and worn from my years,
some chapters introduce laughter, some tears.

But just like the book, time’s taken its toll,
life, like the book, has accomplished its goal?
Today few care what either has to say,
you may rest yourself, on some shelf one day.

Same Old Boys

Spaghetti drips from old-fashioned lips
like a cascading waterfall; the pics,
yellowed; and clothes, of three fellows,
sepia-toned. Commonality of hunger
or mere curiosity as directed at the bulb.
Whether eyes, mmm, while closed, open
or scant, the fullness of pleasure of pasta
dripping from their mouth; today’s boy
just shows off all his food on the tongue.

AMERICAN CINQUAIN COLLECTION

How slight
The petal of
A poppy,flowering-
So much like us,beautiful,yet
Fragile

Hurry
Takes its toll as
In our daily stroll,we
From deepest ruts of blind alleys
Quicken

Beauty
free from above
embedded in our heart-
His loving-kindness ..ready to
impart


The warmth
Of love's invite
Encompassed my desire,
In two soft whispered words of love,
Be mine !


Eyes closed
As lips caressed,
Mouths joined,impassioned
Tongues explore,in our love's embrace,
Time-framed


My love
Beguiled me,with
Soft sensuous lips,sleek
Long thighs with rounded hips,twinned heart's
Enlaced

Long days
Of August sun
Where nature blinks and shrinks
The dying grass,yellowed in sleep-
Held fast


Night chills
the aging bones-
blowing on the east wind
flurries fine and dry settle on
new graves.

These be
the keys to life,
faith,hope and agape,
love,the greatest gift of all three-
to thee !

Desire
welled within-
words became a promise
so sublime,to love now and for
all time.


We had
met and conversed,
a rapport on first sight-
a chance meeting to a life's time
delight

Autumn Dance

Autumn Dance

Yellowed leaves paint the walkway, the path of our marriage to our wedding
Invisible souls walk on this way, the witness is my soul on the hope of a love soul’s way

Oh, life is suffered, but lived, autumn tree leaves’ mood gives the sound of the air
Just dance in the sky called by the old space, just a heartbeat one there, got to me time

Time, but yours our time, oh love, this is the love of life, turn it into yours our natural style
Oh love, my oh love, dear imagined my your kind, lovely autumn lover lady, please stop a life

Teach me to dance on your leaves oh my autumn lady, and just project our designed heart
Live and live together, forever, passed will of your own, just a hand’s touch of to me of yours

Autumn Dance
A love mine
Of yours

Loved 
You are followed
Autumn is on

Gone

His Right Leg

A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.

Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.

The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.

The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.

The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.

• Short Yellowed Poems
• Famous Yellowed Poems
• Best Yellowed Poems
• Read Yellowed Poems
• Long Yellowed Poems
• Yellowed Quotes