Mirror, mirror on the wall
in front of you I stand tall,
evergreen with virgin air,
confident without a care.
In prime of life and freshness,
in state of juvenescence.
I look at my reflection,
my body such perfection.
I'm a mirror in the hall,
tall as hung upon this wall,
show only what's true and fair
self-importance I don't share.
With this ego you possess
I don't see your youthfulness,
disrobing your pretension
reveals your true reflection.
For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of,
notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
He became that most deluded of all beings –
a follower and a seeker.
Fortunately for his sanity,
he became a weaver of words,
a thought painter, an image maker,
a sort of poet.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where sacred symbols were wrought
from alphabet salads.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picked the letters.
and arranged the words
he is certain sure that any concept of
God-game game he played
always pointed back at himself,
and so, he found his truth again.>center>
Life flows in cyclical rhythm
biorhythm
cycles of change
time rearrange
In prime of life what shall we choose?
Wear the best shoes?
Pies in the skies?
Wide open eyes!
Accepting that I'm getting old
my thoughts turn bold
less compromise
I'm in my eyes
A man or woman in the prime of life
who values her husband or he his wife.
A person of strength with a disciplined mind,
One who is courageous, respectful, and kind.
They have great intellect but do not boast.
They love God,their country, and family the most.
The hardships and worries of every citizen
Are important and worthy of their attention.
Great honor and integrity they will possess,
And view the poor and needy with tenderness.
Not slothful or selfish, not weak or uncaring,
Our future and reputation aware that they carry.
Believing everyone has the right to make their own choices,
letting every person speak up, and hearing their voices.
A person of faith but not hypocritical,
They respect opinions, your faith they won't ridicule.
Not racist, not sexist, no contempt for disabled,
Believing all equal, all sit at round tables.
With strength and righteous anger for our enemies,
But able to compromise and all people please.
As much as I wish it, this can't be real, what a joke!
But if they were actual, they'd sure have my vote!
When I was a young lad in the prime of life
Never thought I'd still be around
When my driver's license said, “older than dirt!”
And my mind was no longer sound
But I can get away with a bunch of neat stuff
Rack it up to “he's left the planet!”
“His mental capacity equals that of a wee child”
Gonna take full advantage, run the gamut
Need to pee and dribble now and then
Talk in riddles and scratch my bum
Wipe my boogies on my Sunday clothes
And belch when company comes
Know all the tricks as I giggle to myself
It's a downright lead pipe cinch
Con them till they put me in a old pine box
Mumbling about my belly button lint
when I reached the prime of life
I realized the climax of time,
an uncertainty, a doubt: did I actually live?
That evening trending grayer than the rest
He'd set out for the shore line's last request
Pre-cancer no one ever called him quitter
Prime of Life arrived melanoma bitter
Raise an anthem to them
The torrentuos folks in their prime
Take your pen in hands
Let it flow freely on a book
Write of the bliss and diss
Of youthful ardour for piety
Amidst the daily hectic hustle
In the bustling scuffling heat of day
There lies an inner eager yearns
In every true born Indian yauvan
Gayatri Mantri, Gayatri Mantri
They head straight to their daily prayers
Though the heart do slide (a vile) at time,
The bonds of home do guide it back
With words to remind of karma's pine
And Brahma's doctrine of Samara
The heart again is set aright
The prime of life is set to lie
Om Bhur bhuva swaha
They chant so well their prayers
In all the many lofty hankerings
The youthful yen for love and life,
And the longings of a sense of belonging
Can never with its seeming grandeur
Stray the Indian's prime from faith
~ Faith
For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of.
Notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
carried his soul around as the child of Rumi.
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
At last, at his wits end, he made a promise,
he vowed to be a maker of words,
words that if weaved into poetry would be proof
of God’s life in him.
Words came. Words not wise nor holy,
but ordinary and every day.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where symbols are wrought
from letters and words.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picks the letters,
though he arranges those words,
he is certain sure that God will always be
the supplier of all meanings.
Russian Doll A Paragon Of Sublime Beauty.
.
What lay behind those tawny beguiling eyes
Full of mystery and intrigue
The the mind does ponders
And by her beauty what does one perceive
Does her angelic mesmerising looks hide
A happy smiling heart
Or a heavy one full of tears
And broken deep inside
.
A brief moment captured in time
For prosperity
Of a sweet rare innocent fragrant bloom
Cut down in her prime of life
By evil hands
In an execution room
.
Could such immaculate profound beauty
Ever exist
With romantic heart and virgin lips
Never to be kissed.
.
Peter Dome©2021.
Her face assumed a distant air,
A strong veil of old sadness.
She was relatively still young.
A butterfly in her prime of life.
Yet she felt heaviness of heart
That only age could explain.
She had seen him with other girls,
Younger butterflies than she.
Handsome as he was,
He was an attraction in the town.
Suddenly she realized he was free,
And began to notice her as she walked in the public garden.
He saw her as a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower
But he never stayed long, she was convinced.
She smiled, a sudden change of brightness.
He would realize she was not so old after all.
Her face was smooth, an evanescent of age
And wrinkles. Her eye glimmered with mirth.
Afterall wasn’t she as beautiful as any other butterfly?
Perhaps he would ask her out. Would she accept?
It would not last, she knew him too well.
Too many butterflies for her liking.
So, she’ll decline politely and show him the door.
It did not take him too long to ask her for a date.
Absentmindedly, she gladly accepted.
Today
I heard them say that things were now much better.
That place, which I had founded by God's Grace
And into which my soul was poured
Now has new staff, directors and another board.
It's changed from early years
So when I come to chat, I sign a visit book
And reception sometimes gives a sideways look
To wonder 'who is he?'
All that work, the self's esteem, confined to
Annals on the shelf. It's come, it's gone
And all is now a 'once has been'.
My prime of life is slipping well behind,
A runner slowing in his race and then
Another pack begins to lap and overtake
With faster pace than mine, now fading
Eyes now counting every shortened stride,
Still bright, though, still lifted to the finish line.
Will it be a race well run?
Too late to start from blocks again.
Besides who wants the blows, the knocks
The daily strain. For those who run
Their life race well the finish is a passing line
Another Starter's gun, a new race just begun
And so this final turn upon the track
Though slow, holds promise of a head
Held high, and joyful shouts when passing by:
'Well done! Well done! a race well run!
Now come and place your hand in Mine'
When I was a young lad in the prime of life
Never thought I'd still be around
When my driver's license said, “older than dirt!”
And my mind was no longer sound
But I can get away with a bunch of neat stuff
Rack it up to “he's left the planet!”
“His mental capacity equals that of a wee child”
Gonna take full advantage, run the gamut
Just need to pee myself and dribble now and then
Talk in riddles and scratch my bum
Wipe my boogies on my Sunday best clothes
And belch when company comes
Know all the tricks as I giggle to myself
It's a downright lead-pipe cinch
Con them till they put me in an old pine box
Mumbling about my belly button lint
Pressure to impress, perceived ineptitude, kills
Incapable of King imitation, blame plagued eyes
Publicly pressed to deliver sought after replica
Infiltrated by inescapable history Ben despised
Failed expectation driven prime of life suicide
Hailed Presley descendant, drifted pale ghost
Image Siamesed by status of rock relic
Near half century after legend's last show
Name advantage presented pedestal
Keough's fears disallowed him to use it
Comparisons ping ponged constantly
Admirers did so in Grandad's perusal
Poverty is struggle, earning the right to survive
Power's hunger pressure cooked untimely suicide
A friend is one who sees you not as weak
But in the process of becoming strong
Who listens long and well as others speak
Not judging but encouraging along
Though in the very prime of life, a friend
Thought not of me as old or out-of-style
With genuine affection he'd extend
A laugh, a handshake, hug, or friendly smile
And you, kind sir, were just that friend to me
Although we met not frequently enough
With not a bone of insincerity
You lived as advertised: the real stuff
We spoke of sports, for this was common ground;
Of baseball, football, hoops, and favorite teams
Of quarterbacks or pitchers on the mound
Of Super Bowl, Olympic, World Cup dreams
You're gone too soon; too many words unspoken
Too little water passed under our bridge
Now through my tears I see that bridge is broken
But to have known you was my privilege.
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