Jobira 5d

Daisies and tulips
Like the wild dandelions,
Age in Fall and Spring
Winter and Summer seasons.
They'll wilt in maturity

Beauty fades away in time.
Porto 5d

'I'll do anything to hold back myself'
She said, hand in the youth bottle
I tried anything to disbelieve
I thought, eyes watching the lines on my face

The grass waved around me as I lay on a knoll,
Bemused by wonder as it caressed my soul.

Free.

Free to run, free to jump, free to  skip, and soar.
Watching the clouds, I didn’t want anything more.

Did I feel a man then
Innocent and dreamy eyed me?
Then, I barely even cared.

Time flows on, ceaseless, changing as the tide.
Ever ever on, trees bud, shade, shed, and hide.

Free.

Free to run, free to hide, free to cry and be alone.
Yet there it was, His name etched in the stone.

Did I feel a man then?
Fearful and lonely me?
Then, I barely felt anything.

I had to act, basking in an immense wave of duty.
The corpse of my childhood was a thing of beauty.

Free.

Free to grow, free to mature, free to finally measure up.
As I turned away I thought I felt as my heart close up.

Did I feel a man then?
Treasonous and cold me?
Then, I barely felt human.

Here I sit, with gray streaks coloring silver hair.
Wistful, gazing back, back when I didn’t care.

Free.

Free to sleep, free to rest, free to go back and never return.
Before I go give the hourglass one last turn.

How is a man measured?
Power? Wisdom? Actions?
Or is it the things he treasured?

Growing up is never easy, what we do, how we do it, these elements can decide who you become.

I wish people aged with experience,
not time.

imagine how much easier it would be to find people you connect with
Jobira 7d

I was stout in youth
Time was running, too fast then
I went through a wall
No roses last bloom
Today I'm afraid to fall

Life as we know it decades over time. We're not who we used to be, and do what we used to do...
In time we just stand on the edges and wait...

We keep reaching up
Young fingertips touch it
For a moment
Never able to grasp it
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
Flailing in futility
Tired fingertips yearn
Wishing to reach higher
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
But look down
Feet planted firmly in the ground
Cold fingertips stagnate
Before it slips away

We want to reach up
As it slips away

The eyes are such an important gift that have lately been ignored,
Oh its mighty power to us has been given by the lord.
Seeing is not the same as observing,
Just like touching is not the same as feeling.
“Oh what is this mighty gift of which you speak of ?”
It is the power of true sight,
The differing factor that separates darkness from light.
“I am so glad that blind I am not”
That is indeed funny… chuckles
For that is not what the blind man thought.
“What do you mean wise sir?”
I mean what I say,
And I say what I mean.
Look at the grand trees,
Don’t they seem so green?
Your dark mind is brighter than you think,
The knowledge you have is infinite.
Yet you lead by what your eyes can only reach.
So look into these kaleidoscope eyes and tell me what you see.
“I see… ash grey, fog… a condensed mirror!
Sir are you blind?
How is it that you can see the trees?
Oh sir, I am so sorry, for you I grieve”
Why now young man, don’t be sorry.
“But my visible ability causes your invisibility.
My eyes can see and yours can’t!”
Oh… but you are wrong,
For did you see that ant?
“But sir she is so small”
Ah, see how limited your vision is?
It cannot see all.
I can acknowledge her pin like legs upon my old sunburned skin.
They tickle yet prick,
Like the cacti sharp pins.
I can smell the welcoming scent of the honeysuckle flowers,
And feel the embrace of the crisp cold wind at all hours.
I can hear the birds chirping like the most delicate and soulful song.
I enjoy my life a lot although I will not be here for long.
I experience it all,
Spring, Summer, And Winter.
But my most favorite is Fall.
I see the world through my sense
For me those are my lenses.
Dear young man,
It is for you that I feel sorry.
For it is you who is blind within your mind.
However it seems that you don't mind,
Am I right?
“Well I never thought about it that way.
I never thought about the way in which trees sway”
Ah, young man,
I may have lost the commodity of my eyes but you've lost your sight.
Not only left and right,
But deep inside...
Do you now “see”?
That you need no eyes to truly see?

The poems is about 2 men: a physically blind old man and a spiritually blind young man. The young man is taught a lesson about what it means to really see the world in ways much more superior to what only reaches the eye.
James Jun 16

In the depths of my mind
I sit behind
a desk of smoky glass.
And in it, I see
a reflection of me,
drifting through my withered past.
The smile is gone
and the lines are clear
they point to my troubled soul--
The eyes are gray
with a ghostly haze,
no trace of the blue they hold--
The hair that is there
is not the same
as my once dark and thickly mane.
It's lighter and thinner
with streaks of winters
gone so long ago.
I sit and I stare
at the face, that is there
and I wonder is anything left.
I'm tired and I'm scared
because I never cared
about where the road would end;
so I traveled through
with nothing to lose
searching for salvation around the bend.
Now I face the world at a pace
that is much too fast for me.
I really want to slow it all down
so I can change the face I see.

I keep revising this, so here it is again.
tamia Jun 14

the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.

JAC Jun 14

(A poem over a few thousand miles)
by JAC and JAB

We never age in memories,
But in stories, we do.
Our words mature with us,
So our stories do too.

Our days grow older
And our pages unfold,
Until we become the author
Living a story untold.

Italics by JAB.
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