Aging
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NO, it is NOT good to suffer...
When one is wee one young...
For that can scar a person unto death...
And make one not wish to breathe their very next breath.
But it IS good to suffer...
When daybreak comes and I no longer care
to listen for the mourning doves first cry,
anticipate the sunrise in the sky
or smell the apple blossoms in the air
my passion to write poetry will die.
Gently touch her, gently care,For the day may come — swiftly whenThat endless cruel knockingon doors bolted from the insideDies down and turns intogray silence.
HOW DO YOU PAINT THE TWILIGHT
How do you paint the twilight
The time between the day and night
The dark surround of diminishing light
I hope I’m 17 in Heaven
Rock’n Van Halen, sneaking into bars
Living for the night and hanging in the sun.
Sure hope I’m 17 in Heaven when my breathin’ days are done.
My dreams are brightfeather lightat nightconditions rightCarefreeMind freeLife's challengesto be wonFeeling warmthfrom noonday sun.I dream of waterfloatingboating
Six decades ago – an athlete;
five decades ago – a proud Marine;
present day – shattered pride!!
Visiting family for weekend stay, and
i still remember the jar of cookies
you hid behind the picture frames
the sweet buttery smell that wafted out everytime you cracked it open,
"shhhh" you whispered with a sly grin on your face
our little secret
i lost a little more of you today
there must be a wormhole in the bathroom
because when you walked out
you couldn't remember who i was
i showed you the television
F a r a w a y m o o nas a young childI could see your smiletaste your cheesesee your old mantouch you with my finger.
Confused, unbalanced, scared --
The control is gone -
What is my fare?
Milestone hit -- little achieved.
What to do - where to go...
Define passion... define relieved...
Confused, unbalanced, scared --
The control is gone -
What is my fare?
Milestone hit -- little achieved.
What to do - where to go...
Define passion... define relieved...
And who is it that cares to think
anymore as to whatever became
of the former femme fatales-
yesterday's darling divas?
Those once glittering beauties
from the barrios of Denver and L.A.
And what fault, mine
that my thoughts
form poetry
and this,
from
childhood onward?
That they've served as a shield,
a comforting cloak
warm,
against cruety's cold.
And although
Funny-
yet in an odd
sort of way,
how men
liken women and cars
to fruit-
of all things.
And we've all heard
the expressions
" She's a peach,"
and-
" It's in cherry condition."
GROWING OLD(ER)
~ By Debi Lyn
I feel so sad right now. For one, I've gotten as fat as a cow!
Being a child seems so WiLD
As time consumes that CHiLD, you become more MiLD
Being a TeeN seems so MeaN
That TeeN is always in BeTWeeN
Being an aDuLT seems so much like an iNSuLT
growing was slow, then sudden
like tectonic plates drawing near,
then clicking together,
leaving a trail of collapsed buildings in its wake-
My mother always measured aging
by
the spots on her hands.
These came from the sun.
Sometimes I look at my hands to find my marks,
to see if the sun has left any
kisses on my skin.
I remember deciding I was awesome, and that
was all that mattered.
I remember thinking others were bossy,
Crying because I was called the same.
growth: forced, quick, and sudden.
The first born; I am made to showcase
possibility,
hope,
and opportunity.
Not smiling at smiling me from the DMV.
Not watching an R without all of the PG.
Not even checking the squares of democracy.
As we mature and lose
Softness
Of face, of spirit
Seeing
With an honesty of our own
Self
Under the angular, unforgiving glare
I have always been afraid of aging
This fear often has left me raging
Funerals have always left me scared
They left me with the burden to bare
What is it to be seventeen
And grow up wishing
For abstract things
What is it to be seventeen
To not know who you are
But know who you’re not
What is it to be seventeen
Time won’t stop running.
My bed remains unmade,
the freckles around my eyes still move when I talk.
My heart still aches during love songs,
And my eyes slide shut with the sound of rain.
What we once fully embraced on our young skin
Is now what we retract from at first contact.
What we once tipped our heads to the heavens above for
We now bow our heads down as if in a prayer.
Every time I write
I just want to find a way
To tell you the same thing
With words that are new
Every time I write
I hope this time someone will hear me differently
Every time I write
Dear Grandpa,
I have from you a stack of letters.
Nobody else does it better.
Each word written drenched in love,
Creasing me softly like a dove.
These letters mean a lot to me.
Age seems a treacherous monster
You bargain with her as she lays her hands on your neck
She tells you nothing’s going to happen for a while
And the very next day, your hair’s gone gray
The love’s gone away
dear you
things never really went wrong
if you consider that we're still together
I know it hurt when she found out
when she kicked you out
over me
but you told me it would have to end
I thought I was safe here,
So far from the truth,
I see myself lying,
To escape my own youth.
A fragile thing,
In the grass up on a hill
Outside the city, I see you
Dear empty onion house
Peeling and the feeling I get
Unwrapping you
For brighter insides, scrap the outsides
Dear Juvenility,
If only, only when
Could I have returned to your restful face
Could I, being you
protect you from the troubling journey of Adulthood.
Protect you, holding you
I'm not sure how it happened, but
I woke up one day to realize
I haven't aged in a very long time
These bodies don't define who we are
I reach down and take your hand in mine
And it is cold but still comforting
As we look down from this hill
Together
We can stay here, if you want
At least until kindergarten
my Mind was young, innocent, and hopeful
the prospects of Life shone brightly in front of me
but
Tragedy struck; rapidly, abruptly
This spring is dry
It’s cold on a summers day
The leaves are still
Although they are not here to stay,
Humanity dipped in grey dye
My alarm clock goes off, time to wake up.
Before, waking up was difficult but, now its time to wake up.
Image: Aging Hourglass by Muskan Srivastava
She is cold on the ground, I think.
Her body has not reached decomposition, yet
And that is good for the funeral director.
As a kid I often picked dandelions
Because I loved to watch them fly away.
As an adult I always picked the pretty girl
Oh, Ode to heels and the height they offer. Ode to my four inch stilts underneath me. But, in my four inch stilts, A struggle to create movement exists; Even as they raise a giant in their wake. My four inches have becom
The rhythm of my heart is no rival
For the movement of your wandering eye.
Her lithe figure signals her arrival
My cadence lulls, watching, undignified
All I need is someone to take care of me.
Someone to be patient with me.
Someone to hold me, feed me, and change me.
Someone to teach me and play with me.
All I need is a bicycle!
O wait! Is it real?
I am looking at the mirror, is it real?
O my life, what did you from me steal?
O wait! Is it real?
My soul, my love, or even myself. What is in me real?
"Flight of the Impatient Snowflake" by Naomi Wallerson
Snowflakes fall outside the windowRacing each other to the groundBecoming one as they reach the endThe end of their flight from the sky to the ground
Fleetingly she flies
Leaving us in her wake
She hears nothing of our cries
and pleads to brake
For continue she must
and turn us all back into dust
Yet she bears no blame
for Time is her name
existence is fragile
every moment is fleeting
I can not help thinking
this will all be over soon
days pass so slow
but one day you will look in the rearview
everything's behind you
We play simple games
These days it's just simple
From Monopoly to Candy Land
And Scrabble, too
Stratego, Risk, you name it
We play simple games
We get older, and the games go away
I gaze into the mirror, wait that isn't me
Someone else is looking back at me
An eldery man, clean shaven with striking brown eyes
I then realize, they are mine.
Sunken cheekbones of slow death
If life is like an open book,
My pages are made of glass.
As I carefully make each turn,
Time continues to pass.
A rip is like a crack,
In the story of my life.
Any kind of peril,
The legend of the koi fish goes that if the koi fish swims up the waterfall
it one day it will become a dragon.
Since I was little,
I'm my own mind,thoughts, and process
Creating thoeries from my past
Asking why did I turn out the way I am
Thinking sullenly like the dark clouds in the sky
The streets are collecting dust
and so are my friends, and
I just don't see the silver lining anymore
on these wretched, sunless days.
All I see are silver hairs, and
people too rigid to change.
she points to her old teeth.
she asks me if she should get them all pulled out,
all at once, or one by one, a process.
partial dentures? full dentures? not yet sure.
my slimy tongue slides around
Candles multiply,
like a fire spreading in our hearts.
A fire of passion, a passion for life,
that keeps on growing, as we keep on going.
It simmers down after a certain year,
Did I grow too fast?
Was it suposed to be this way?
Youth is a state of mind.
Yet we dwell on the physical.
We are an embodiment of the costant reminder that we are nil.
Angel hands with long and nimble fingers
Smoothed with age, paths of wisdom along pale skin
They comfort and soothe
I used to be in love
Now I'm not
He used to be so sweet
Now he isn't
We used to be so young
Now we're old
Eighteen is old
When your heart died
At fifteen
Sometimes I still dream
Of the days
When my hair was the color of Straw
When my cheeks were
Red
Because the blood still ran
I dream of days when I was a Child
Wished my life away,
Now I’m trying to live back my days,
I use to wish I was taller,
Now I get that I should have shut my mouth.
I wanted to be smarter,
But sometimes you need a little doubt.
Look down at the pocket watch
Time slips past.
From boy to man,
Much too fast.
With swash buckling books,
You dreamt once
Of distant islands
Filled with mountains,
Author's note: While Power Poetry covers a multitude of causes, I've noticed that there are two in particular that are largely avoided--elder care and death.
I am the freshness that takes everything up.
I am the delta of barks that carries a life source.
I am the clear blue horizon.
I am the green that protects every step you take.
I was once everywhere and everything.
I tied lavender teabagsto my whittled whitefingers and pretendedI was Virginia Woolf.However, Virginia sankinto the River Ouseand I,into my bathtub.I wanted to sleepand sink
It is she….The quiet one who isn’t necessarily muteHer mind is loud, and I wonder how she does it.How does she maintain such a typical face?Yet her mind is circulating with all of these negative thoughts…. It is she….That girl who is self-deprecat
Young with conditions.
Hands all over
anchoring our dreams.
Up all night,
laughing with magnetic hope.
Gymnastics is coaches
That are strict and precise.
Gymnastics is warm ups
That make you drip with sweat.
Gymnastics is ropes
When my Great Grandmother was near death in the hospital
I was curious to see what an old person's butt looks like,
so I kept standing on my tippie toes to catch a see
soft fur
fat cat
from twenty pounds
to ten
at twelve years old
and still a fat cat
in my mind
with baggy skin
who can't eat
and softer fur
protuding bones
watery eyes
The sun above me sings a lullaby,
The rain mimics the tune,
Roses dance,
Glitter strikes from each and every beat,
Here I amand there I was.When dress up was just a game,Ambitions a dreams coursed through my veins,And even light bright couldn't measure upto the surreal ambience that encompassed my life.
As I crawled from beneath the jagged shards of my dreams
I wallowed in their fragments just to remind me why I bleed
Temptations of a shallow soul
Break to the surface of my self control
Step into a new life.Emerge into darkness,walk into the chill, unknown underpass.Quickly, lights and color whirl by,gigantic masses begin to take form.
Clock
As the tail drops,
I listen quietly yet sadly.
How well it flows.
What makes the time go?
The sound of footsteps
tells me people are coming.
What does time hint?
What is it that comes?
Mom’s hand vices around tiny fingers,
because tiny toes should not tread
into traffic.
But Mom’s grip slackens
as yours tightens around a wheel
that steers you
onto the turnpike.
Like the spring flowers blossom in,
so shall our lives begin.
We are born innocent of violence and suffering,
and from all the screams that the world is thundering.
But from these ignorant, feeble minds,
College is coming oh me oh my
I have no idea what I'll do tonight
Applications, Dead Lines and Work
When in doubt I should just twerk
No that won't help me get in college
Maybe I should just quote hamlet
forward roll-the promise of more
cartwheel clumsy around
hope to never fall down!
cause life is a backbend
round off now,
warmer, stronger.
independence on beams-
seems life is a backbend
a finite beauty;
youth is giving way.
the diaphanous spirit
does not remain
naive, tender, passionate.
Time erases the smiles
and etches a crease between the brow.
