Those of us who’ve reached the age
Of “senior” status know
That many things are different from
The days of long ago.
Yet we remember how it felt
To be a child or teen
Or young adult or middle-aged
And all the years between.
For looking back is easy; we had
Energy to spare,
Youthful bodies, unlined faces
And a head of healthy hair.
Those of younger age, however,
Cannot ever comprehend
That they’ll lose the version of themselves
On which they now depend.
They are rooted in denial,
Thinking they won’t ever be
Someone looking in a mirror
And not liking what they see.
So the “wisdom” of the old, then,
Is you can’t avoid your fate.
Aging’s guaranteed to happen;
Don’t believe it? Just you wait!
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
We know all insecure men tend to fail abysmally at coping with suffering.
Their misogyny is boundless and they wonder why we view them with disdain.
It’s senseless for men to even bother innocent women shopping at the store.
Their mothers should’ve just walked through those abortion clinic doors.
Note: This poem is about incels, a population of violent young adult men that I will never respect.
In Andres City where my feet grew up
Old street lamps draped nights gently flicking,
I trace childhood with pangs of reminiscences
Where shadow games turned into flamed delight:
Strange, guava trees now ripped by huge skylines--
And Manila founts with blooming shrubs...gone?
I recall pastimes deigned for carousal
Mimicking summers of Roxas Bay's glow.
Etching the ancient plaza of teenage bliss
My shoes roam, this scene now a memory;
Trimmed with fiestas-- folk dances I rerun,
Embracing the girl and young adult in me.
I look and absorb, for the moon will blush
Never exactly as it hangs fair tonight...
And though my heart sinks, it will not forget
Each moment which lives within--ever graced!
9th Peace Premiere
This in- between phase of manhood
gripped me. You , lost in a dimension
between late teen and young adult,
the burden of confidence weighing
taut years and tears down as life's truths
hid that face from free thought.
I was afraid of holding you strongly
in fragile screams come midnight.
Let me help you heal now.
I will do me in three verses of rhyme
(each verse with three lines.) I was once in my prime,
but now I just feel the fleeing of time.
I had many dreams a long time ago.
I was then simply a young adult though.
Now I keep writing of how fast years go.
Since the September morn on which I was born,
multi-colored hats of different styles I've worn.
In some ways I think that I am like a unicorn.
y Way - - His Way
Memory often takes me back
When I recall childhood days
As a loner, I had little competition
I could do things, - - my way
Teenage years - - somewhat the same
Just more work, but less play
I felt that I was doing fine
I could still do things, - - my way
As a young adult, I began to question
Was there perhaps, a need to pray
Was there something more in life
Than doing things, - - my way
Reading God's Word, revealed to me
My body, was nothing more than clay
His Spirit, helped me realize
Perhaps I should consider, - - His way
As conviction drew me to His side
I knew His Word, was more than a cliche
I knew it was best that I surrender
And let Him have, - - His way
As I reflect back or'e the years
I rejoice that I still can say
The greatest choice I ever made
Was letting Him have, - - His way
Colan L Hiatt = 02-23-20
I made a mistake was young and stupid
I had no guidance as a young adult
Found myself pregnant thanks to Cupid
felt strangely this woman was in a cult
She invited me to bible study
When I got there I felt unsure
It was in a private home
And everyone seemed overly invested
They wanted to pray over me
They locked arms making a circle
It felt weird but I couldn’t leave
Because the lady was my ride
I was in the center of the circle
They wanted to touch my belly
My feeling was that this could be bad
I started to feel strange
My inner voice told me to go
But trapped by lack of transportation
I decided to go with the flow
Trust that God would keep me safe
When I got home I called my grandmother
Explained the prayer circle and feeling trapped
She said that it sounded like a cult
Urged me to never go back
My inner voice told me
Something was wrong
But I just couldn’t leave
But God kept me all along
For the sake of my baby
Embryonic Stage
So comfy and warm
Not feeling a hint of harm
Oh, what’s happening
Birth
Good grief, it’s so cold
O’er and o’er again was told
“Beautiful baby”
Child Age
Play sports, make good grades
Life’s full of adventure days
Hates vegetables
Teen Years
It’s an awkward age
Parents struggle through this stage
Just stay sane through it
Young Adult Years
Leaving home first time
Into unknown, a steep climb
Where will it all end
Middle Adult Years
Work and family
Agony and ecstasy
Stalwart day by day
Older Adult Years
Body , soul, and mind
Seeking peace of special kind
Beyond ever known
Parents if you hinder
Your young adult or adult child
All their life, and don’t show
Them the right way
While you’re still alive
Don’t expect your
Other kids to take on
The responsibility
After your dead and gone
Because they have to live
Their lives to
homecoming
I was back in my village
had a plastic bag in my hand
looking for a bin to throw the bag away
in the house I once lived
An officious-looking young adult
I knew when he was a boy
told me I couldn't leave the bag there
I walked past a group of women
they saw me and whispered
since no one called my name, I walked on
at the old part of the village
I saw a café that looked like a living room
I asked for a glass of wine
A pleasant-looking old lady brought
a bottle, she called young wine
bottled a few days ago
The wine was wonderful
Sit here as long as you want
I have to leave
It's a good thing I still had the plastic bag
An excerpt from my new short story:
After Adolf received Alois' final inheritance in 1913, he moved to Munich, Germany. During his Vienna years living in squalor, Adolf was keenly interested in the makeup of Vienna's multicultural society. Those living in the upper class were a mixture of cultures. Mostly made up of Jews. However, at that time, negativity stemmed from all the races. During his last years in Vienna, now as a young adult, the dark lord remained diligent. Adolf had a circle of friends who were Anti- Semitics.
National Socialist German Workers Party, better known as the Nazi Party. The dark lord's student has advanced himself towards a teacher's status. He is still on the ropes but is ripening from green. He has exceptionally distinguished himself as a notoriety. His prospectus holds assurances. Hope builds a future as evil takes the lead and lays down the foundation.
Sammy’s parents wanted a baby.
He thought it would be a good thing also
until they got a baby.
A wrinkled up old-man-looking screaming wailing baby.
The one they got was a girl, they named it Sheila.
She cried all the time.
At first she sounded like a whimpering mewing baby alley cat.
Her crying got louder, more desperate, and shrill over time
More urgent, more desperate.
People in the grocery store gave them mean looks
that said “Why can’t you keep that thing quiet?”
Sammy wanted them to send it back.
“Babies are never labelled return to sender.”
He was forced to listen to a couple of years of this insane crying.
Why doesn’t she just tell us what she wants?
Why does she always have to CRY about it?
Babies don’t have words yet, his parents told Sammy.
Sammy thought about this for a long time.
When he was a young adult he worked in a daycare center.
He taught the babies sign languages for milk, eat, sleepy, and bored.
After the babies learned the sign, they were less frustrated.
Thus, there was less crying, and the workers had less frazzled nerves.
A little child once hopped round a hoop.
The child tried it once and it felt like the best thing.
The child went back everyday hopping around the hoop with smiles and no care in the world.
Everything that happened before that hoop didn't matter.
The hoop was the only thing that didn't change in the child's world.
The child went again and came back a young adult.
This time, walked around the hoop muttering words to pass the time,
Reminiscing on how long she had been around the hoop.
What exactly about the hoop made her happy?
At least the little child was happy.
The little child came back a young adult that got tired of walking around the hoop.
The young adult who hoped to be able to free themselves from the hoop, stood blank, and spaced out.
Right at the centre of the hoop, she stood, thinking of what exactly drew the little child to this same routine.
A young adult who sought happiness like the little child stood right there thinking of how to leave the hoop happy and not come back.
In my foolish young adult years,
three good men came along,
but their eyes brimmed with tears.
God must of sent them,
offering me love's redemption.
Not realizing they were gifts to me,
like mystic trains sent away to
wend on another journey.
The summer moon's love bathes me
in her eternal silvered glow,
upon my bed dreaming of happiness
I let go.
I do long for youth again,
to say I'm sorry for wounding them.
Was I rejecting love or myself,
placing their hearts on a shelf.
Forgive me, please,
as I age with unease.
Three good men with souls of gold,
I hope with wives who cherish them
as they grow old. ~
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