May we be blessed to understand
across this planet on which we dwell…
there is reason for the way old people and children always get along so well
It’s in what they share with each other
despite one being more in the past…and the other more in the future tense
because old people with the children share their wisdom…
while children with the old people share their innocence.
At a home for the elderly
residents look like they might
have been there for a century.
There’s still hope for involvement
if one still has good eyesight,
looks, and functional “equipment.”
Old age, desire, and strong hormones
never sleep, at least not alone.
Seniors should be
Care for and protected
Not upset and having
To worry about their future
Wondering where they're going to get
Their next meal, how to
Pay for medication or
Even their bills, even Germany
respects and cares for their seniors
Archaic silence reasons with my soul
Not the latest model, and not really a classic
Just a girl who trembles with expectation
When the sun regards my flowers with a smile,
Sending her delicate shafts of hope
Coloring each of my thoughts in beautiful blessings
While the rain seeks to nurture the petals
Who laugh beneath dew and glimmers of light
Breaking through the soundless breeze
Who carries my dreams, roaring into eternity
Old-fashioned, sometimes though – I feel my heartbeat
And mumble to the wind, a song who remembers
What it must be like to stir the old hearts, the souls
Who color my life in yesterday’s glory,
The stories without words, stories that remember
But are never heard, stories in poetic murmurs
Healing the heart and happening, so sure
Reflecting the eternal with each wave of assurance,
A destiny, wrapped in quilts of endless truths
Old age is the one solace from an emptied innocence.
A breeze did slide in under eaves
and stirred inside the air that grieves,
my children grown my dreams have flown,
alone I sit my rocking throne.
My chair in front of window bare,
I look… but husband’s soul elsewhere.
Beneath my feet the floorboards moan,
alone I sit my rocking throne.
Each day I rock the same tic tock
and change not from my sleeping frock.
Once soft my face now turned a crone,
alone I sit my rocking throne.
The length of cobwebs measure time
they speak no secret sing no rhyme,
but air that’s stirred does tend to drone…
alone, I sit my rocking throne.
I pray to rock myself to sleep
as old-age-chains do rust with weep.
These tears from seeds of sorrows sown,
alone I sit my rocking throne.
The run of beads and crucifix
will not unfix life’s mix of tricks.
A rosary my rope and stone,
alone... I sit my rocking throne.
Of God I beg relief from grief,
unbind my mind from mortal sheaf.
This plea endures like sun bleached bone—
alone I sit my rocking throne.
Wrinkles are souvenirs of life’s odyssey,
the joy, the sorrows and its novelty.
Quote - Poets Own
When one’s elderly with an aging face
And you're pondering on where time has gone
Or from where wrinkles suddenly came from
Winging supersonic from outer space.
Thinking back to those carefree sunny days
When one was enjoying youthful glory
One's spectacular historic story
When life was wonderful in many ways.
When falling in love was super splendour
And bliss was found in a loving first kiss
From the only one who'd up your heart skip
Memories that linger in minds harbour.
The wrinkles of
the elderly in
Elmwood squeak
sometimes.
This can't be my age!
I am still young at heart
The life of a party
Though hitting the bed by ten
Gained a few kilos of weight
But can fit into my youthful jeans
Grew sluggish and shorter in height
Although ready for a morning jog
Have to wear glasses now
As the print size has become smaller
A few grays in my hair don't tell my age
Merely a fashion statement
That adds a touch of elegance to my carriage
My knees hurt from the cold not stiffness
The reflection in the mirror shows what I'm not
An elderly haggard lady
With baggy wrinkled eyes and sagging jowls
As my passions still drive me forward
And I am still living my dream
For age is just a number
It's only the spirit that counts.
What I am, what you are not,
what you need and what I want, that you do not have.
The stars above do not pretend,
Their light is truth that will not bend.
But hearts, like mirrors clouded fast,
Reflect a world that cannot last.
I am the quiet, the silken dusk,
You are the fire, the sunlit husk.
Your need is hunger, a ceaseless tide,
While I am the stillness you cannot abide.
Wisdom waits in ancient streams,
Yet innocence burns in fragile dreams.
I sought the peace your waves destroy,
And you chased storms for fleeting joy.
Lost in you, I became the sea,
A tempest wild, no anchor free.
You skimmed my surface, blind to all,
The depths where wisdom's voices call.
Skin to sky and sky to skin,
We met as strangers meet the wind.
The waves betrayed, the skies forgot,
What I am, what you are not.
What I want is neither yours to hold
Nor mine to shed like tarnished gold.
For truth, like water, slips away,
Yet leaves its salt to mark the day.
And so, we drift, both bound and free,
A sky, a wave, eternity.
the walls hum with voices
of a war no one sees.
the dinner plates rattle
as if asking to be smashed,
and the dog hides under the table,
eyes wide,
waiting for the next explosion.
they are lightning
without rain,
fireworks that never fade.
they yell because the silence
has eaten them alive,
a hunger that no bread can cure.
medications sit on the counter
like unspoken prayers,
but the children won't touch them.
they won’t believe in saints,
in gods, in doctors.
they are raw,
howling,
a choir of torn hearts
singing themselves to pieces.
the parents turn to stone,
old wounds stitched to their faces,
waiting for the storm
to blow itself away.
There is a story in her eyes
Listen to her, before she dies
past dreary storms of pain and loss
her soul’s been made whole by His cross
there is a time for gentle words
timeless truths serenade like birds
listen to how the sea can toss
her soul’s been made whole by His cross
there is light in her life and times
her heart a poem that still rhymes
her eyes shine with such sparkling gloss
her soul’s been made whole by His cross
There is a beauty in her tears
Despite so many fears and years
she still kneels before her true boss
her soul’s been made whole by His cross
there’s music that my soul can hear
in her eyes, there’s joy so sincere
He rids her of darkness and dross
her soul’s been made whole by His cross
Overheard a couple elderly gents
Discuss artificial intelligence
One said to the other
If I had my druthers
‘Twould be on the ballot for President
wooden spoon worn smooth
calloused hands’ enduring tool
sleeps in a drawer
His wife dies.
You have seen it all before,
you can tell what will happen next.
He will recline in the home
that she has woven around him.
He will let the ivy
of their long years together
coil around his somnambulant thoughts.
The house grows imperceptivity
into a mausoleum.
Some warmth remains,
within her carpet slippers
and housecoats.
He keeps them close.
The cat will always be
the shadow of her hand.
He is a watcher,
not at the funeral or the cemetery,
but from the other side of a bed.
He arranges ornaments,
puts them back the way they were.
Takes out fading photographs
of them both on vacation,
good times, also
times when heartbreaking rocks
had to be climbed.
He places all those sepia moments
into a shoe box
she has provided,
knowing he would need it.
I know an elderly lady
At her window she sits
She's always there when I go out
watching the world and people about
She waves and I wave back
an exchange of smiles given
I exist and she does too
It's good of her to confirm I do
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