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 Dec 2024
Francie Lynch
Don't look in the rear view.
It's there, in front of the windshield,
That looks to the immediate future.
I sit between the two,
With the past in the mirror,
And the simultaneous future
Over my hood,
And my wheels spin,
I'm moving.
Trees and people jostle
From front to back, continuously.
Road signs are a blur
As the air pushes the world aside
Like lace curtains,
Like love,
Enduring through unintended consequences.
A simple gesture,
A mustard seed,
Growing.
Like crystals, connecting,
Dissipating into one.
BOX
I found a box in the back of the closet,
wrapped up in brown paper.
I’ve long suspected it was hidden
somewhere in that house-
the house that I grew up in.
It's taped shut and there is
nothing written on it anywhere
but it sounds like maybe there
could be something important inside.
I really do want to open it
even though I’m hoping
my suspicions were mistaken
And there is nothing in the new found box
but a photo of our family.
ljm
Groundwork. Unusual for me.
 Dec 2024
SE Reimer
~

his call to dew
lands on my list;
leaves these
hands a-wringin',
a most sweaty
palm encounter!
the shelves behind
my closet's door yields
not a single rament;
no festive threads
to adorn these
aching bones.
none to hide,
behind or 'neath,
my frail frame
unclothed and bare.
words that once
fell neatly from
these lips, and
prose that flowed
like notes of gold,
a tapestry of hues,
to wrap my soul within,
now lies still, silent.
****** river dammed,
no clothing formed
to dance upon this loom.
but taking the cake,
this lover leaves me
waiting, wanting,
at this counter.
only, just desserts
within my reach;
though none of
choicest choosing.
seems all my friends
are winning,
writers righting
wrongs alighting
alone, am i
the only losing!
my dew list but
a faint mirage.
to this mistress then
i bid adieu!
knowing vastly more
the notes of being,
to do's becoming
but a distant path!

~

post script.

as this feeble frame slowly ages, its output diminished with each passing year, it wants to believe it's only 20, but these bones and joints say otherwise. nowhere is this more evident than in the words that become stuck between synapses and pen.  so when a beloved fellow poet pitched a "call to arms," this was the best this mind was able to muster. here's to hoping it's just a momentary lapse in creativity!!  

cheers to all you aging poets!!  Steve
 Dec 2024
nivek
stalked always
a mind universe

Aliens dressed as Human
trying to buy you a drink

smiles beaming unnatural
white teeth about to crumble

a band playing acid tunes
dancers on their knees

someone offers a smoke
but you gave it up long ago

the mind of a creature
not too sure of its reality.
 Dec 2024
Dark n Beautiful
I was never truly loved by anyone
Only by me and I
and I am not even sure about either one

I love my therapy session with poetry
I can assess myself with self-evaluating
I am at the point in life when I don’t
Give a rat ***, about what others think of me
Retirement has taught me to be a free agent
I am now the captain of my soul
Free from other people's demands and clutches

I have not heard that demanding salutation in the
Morning of Mrs. Lander can you come to the front desk
Or waiting for the clock to strike 3 to make my exit
Time is of the essence, and it means nothing to me these days
I will be there when I get there.
Unless it is boarding time in row 3
To love me is to know me,
as for me to love you it will take
A strong will and endurance in my poetry sessions
I have been there and done that
And will not allow it into my life anymore,
Haven to be humble and being humiliated
I had to endure, haven to question myself
About my love for me, I lamented:



I was never truly loved by anyone, only by myself, and even that I question. Poetry is my therapy, a mirror for self-evaluation. I've reached a point where I don't care what others think. Retirement has made me a free agent, the captain of my soul, free from others' demands. No more morning calls to the front desk, no more waiting for the clock to strike three. Time is now my own, and it means nothing to me.
I'll be there when I get there
unless it's boarding time in row three.
To love me is to know me,
and for me to love you, it takes strength and endurance. I've been there, and done that, and won't allow it into my life anymore.
I've endured humility and humiliation, questioning my love for myself. I lamented:
 Dec 2024
Nat Lipstadt
~inspired by a poem and messages from fellow poets ~
who have ridden beside me here,
for a decade plus,
SE Reimer, & Sally Bayan~

*we take our meds, vitamins and supplements
routinely, faithfully and with a big smile
of self-bemusement at all the times I mocked
those sillys who believed that
hu man
can
override his prescribed
sentencing

record almost every morsel that passes through my portals, reporting quantity and quality to remind me of my human needs, but
more to gauge my wearing weaknesses, and
make confession of
my sins of gourmand commission

and despite this and more, regular checkups, and blah blah blah, No Lies told here, the aging days are upon us, my brow furrowed
by a lengthening To Do list, that is endlessly
refurbished with more additions than
subtractions, ergo, the list grows longer as fast as the days remaining,
grow shorter,
ever faster!

no kidding myself, you feel (really) the cells
slowing their recovery, their fading fastness in every little thing, we squint where we used
to go without trepidation, we twist and turn
to musical utterances and undertones that
are groans and laughter at the old carcass’s
refreshing harmonic epiphany
of time’s passage

and think well,
I’ll do that tomorrow,
handle that later,
deal with that problem surely
eventually,

and the only thing that is attended to almost
instantly, is writing here,
last gasp observations,
that my being demands be issued now!
in time beating to
my slowing heart rate,
or factually,
my rapidly
rising rate,
each a contradictory economic indicator
of the same,
singular portending trend

so here I am ribbing and scribbling myself
before you, prompted by a gorgeously written poem by my friend (1) and the departure of another to a faraway land
where they live, my failure to meet, a shameful delay by an old man’s cautious
fear, that should not be abided…

is this a poem,
a cri de coeur,
a confession -
something of all three, but it is done,
breaths and words rapidly expelled, and for once. I feel like I have, once, now, gambled
against time, and actually

won
 Dec 2024
irinia
yes, it is real, as real as daylight
how history recycles itself
darkness is falling with the speed of thoughts
of certainties, of pathos, of a wounded hope
I feel like screaming, I feel like weeping and
this can change nothing, and I can't find a better metaphor
we hurt each other unwittingly if we stop thinking together
if we stop talking, stop listening to each other
how vulnerable we can be, how deceptive
how potent the unhealed wounds
they write history books

an abstract darkness is near, a concrete darkness
division and such pain in the depth of the living
a darkness without perfume but blind screaming
disguised in a blinding light,
so old that it keeps reinventing
the destruction of saturated worlds
the social body can not survive without a heart
without a multiple mind
 Dec 2024
SE Reimer
~

a gateway approaches,
from just  'round the bend;
in this march of months,
that are nearing the end.
here autumn's shedding,
of its shimmering gown;
from sun-kissed warmth,
under broad leafy boughs;
where in shady spaces,
summer's solace is found!
but now comfort is sought,
in gazing within, and
in harvesting thoughts,
'neath sun-starved skin;
where if we are wise,
care will be taken,
to channel our musing,
into gratitude's music.
carefully shaping,
the sum of our notes;
stringing our lines, in
a score full of hope!
preparing the soul,
for the wintery chill;
compelling the spirit, to
see life through goodwill!
a courageous knowing,
finds a way to be still; in
the altitude of gratitude,
an antidote to winter's pill!
for in the zenith of night,
come the sounds of lullaby;
and in the absence of light,
whispers of a coming cheer.
solitary voices blending,
to the rythmn of a beat;
a heavenly choir singing,
a chorus growing strong;
opening the season's door,
illuminating advent's song!

~

in post script

these musings represent muliple seasons of observations, soul considerations in how to articulate what my heart knows to be true. so with every year that ages this soul, i become more convinced that the season of thanksgiving may in fact be the very greatest antidote for selfishness, a precursor for advent, the season of giving and receiving; and that if approached properly, our hearts are best positioned to embrace the truest meanings of the coming season of light!

sending peace and love to those who embrace these walls as sacred space!
 Dec 2024
Nathan A Brock
I don’t exist
outside the lines
on this page.

The physical has never
been my reality.

We have only circled
each other..

mutually unnoticed..

mutually indifferent..

My world is bigger
than this earth.

Yet… so small.

© Nathan A. Brock
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