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Ash May 27
Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight  of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal
My grandma is an old woman
With shiny silver hair
Like the queen's hat
I go to visit her on Sundays
Her face lights up like
Night sky from the old moon
She smiles the most gorgeous smile
Her teeth make a little window
To her heart
Love finding its way back
My grandma prepares
All the dishes that make my mouth water
She begins at Saturday morning
And finishes by evening
Slowly, bit by bit
My grandma is aged but
her love is like wine;
The older, the more intense
She feeds me with her fragile, shaky hands
The paneer tastes creamy
The jalebis are like her skin,
Brown and sleak
It has been 6 weeks
Since I have been meeting her
Every Sunday
Today when I checked my weight
The machine pointed at
Sixty four point five
From fifty eight point seven
It is her love that has found home
Within me.
Bhill Mar 2
Drip, Drop, Splash

Drip, drop, splash...
Water, as it finds its final resting place below.
Falling with fellow (drops),
Falling off the cliff side, (drip)
Falling to form very special, beautiful waterfall, (splash).
Coming out into the light.
Waters from storms aged years ago.
Making their way through the tiniest of sandstone cracks.
Having been inside the mountains above for eons.
Not seeing daylight for all those years,
What a surprise, when finding themselves
falling and falling,
to make,
Drip, Drop, Splash...

Brian Hill - 2019
Inspired by Poetry in the Park @ Zions
This was inspired by a storm waterfall in Zions National Park today while going to Poetry in the Park poetry class....
sandy Jan 17
Old women
Old women
Bent over
Or straight
Bony thin women
****** women
Soft but deflated
Old women
Sitting alone
Holding a plate
Of half-eaten food
Of all-shattered prospects
Of blowzier days
Romance and contexts
That never materialized
Or did
But then vanished
Or slipped away
Leaving so many
Silenced and banished
Useless as pennies
Sitting in corners
Under old women shawls
With little to do

But hold onto plates

Old women
Old women
Boarders in
Somebody’s house
Or some institution
On somebody’s orders
Or out on the street
In old woman confusion
Holding a plate
To hold onto something
Old dried up promises
Lingered impressions
Of young women hopes
Things that once mattered
All in the past
Leaving old women tattered
Trying to atone
For young women sins
For whatever they did
To be so alone
Or whatever they didn’t
In those
Rare lucid moments
Old women quicken

Still holding their plates

Old women
Old women
Hide old
Beating hearts
Beneath sour old garments
Old women scarves
Hide old women failings
Hold old women tongues
Against old women wailing
Of things that have gone
With unsteady fingers
Still gripping plates
To show themselves living
To avoid being left
- Tho’ some old women prefer -
For the old women train
Taking old women wherever old women go
To never return
Around an old women curve
The young never see coming
Are never prepared
To face old women shaken
By old bodies broken
Of old women forsaken

Hold onto your plates
A friend of nearing 70 called me one morning, distraught because the world "is getting to be a lot." I spent the rest of the day when I should have been working writing a not particularly symmetrical poem I call "Holding a Plate."
J L James Oct 2018
This fragile body hosts an infinite soul
whose human form may not be whole.
What may appear a tragic rift
is in fact a precious gift
to those whose spirits are attuned.
Extending our own body and soul
to others is what we truly know.
Often outside walls close in
with loneliness and credit cards spread thin,
as advocacy with officialdom weighs in.
But nothing will change what you do,
for this is what carers know.
Each body hosts an infinite soul.
Sally A Bayan Jul 2018
(a cluster of 10w)
daylight glares...melts shadows
revealing those stilled,
and those living
puffs of breath
could signify a desire
to still exist
some breathe erratically
amidst suffocating airs,
unwilling to die
there're those breathing,
but, oblivious of everything,
committed to indifferent homes
left languishing
no longer exhaling gratitude
for, they're considered
what're they thinking,
when they're with that
loneliest faraway look?
while wilting in thoughts
about tomorrow visit them?

....aiming....meaning to defy death?
to again, catch precious breath?


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
  July 31,  2018
Years ago, my group and I visited a facility for the aged.
we brought food, drinks...and did tai chi with them...
There, I first opened my grim realities about homes and family,
and senility.....and other issues regarding old age.
Vexren4000 Jun 2018
Dreamers dreaming,
of days far gone,
Old men ranting,
About days aged away,
War stories and lost times,
Things dissipating,
Into the miasma of the soul.
Lost to the flow of time.

Salmabanu Hatim May 2018
I have aged,
Nearer to the ledge,
Remaining years are bonuses,
No more onuses.
I am grateful,
Life is more peaceful.
My hearing loss,
Is God's Gift of a rose,
My hearing aid I pretend not to wear,
Shrug off, like I don't care.
When I want,I tune out the family,
And be happy,
I frustrate people sometimes,
To repeat themselves many times.
About me what they feel,
Has made me almost change my will.
I now walk with the aid of a walker,
They made me wear a pamper,
In a way good,
No more frequent trips to the loo.
No more errands,or picking kids from school,
Put your legs on a stool,
Watch T.V or doze off.
Life as a high school wallflower served me
without any budding female friendships
until lo…
a gent tulle mandate from my late mother uprooted me
from mine kempf familiar bedrock level road terrain
which venue offered a groundswell
to blossom forth into golden sterling resplendent rod

of natural equipoise (this an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle improvisational swinging motions
unchained from the moors of formality
and lit figurative saint elmo’s sesame street fiery dance

allowing, enabling and providing this shy awkward self
during his young adulthood
to cast away four ever
thy self embroidered handsome

straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzing like a yellow jacket
thus liberating spontaneity that je nais sais quoi joie vivre

clamoring headlong toward venus
from healthy pistil packing overflowing bin
laden well nigh testosterone erupting *****
toward opposite gender

whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally rooted rutting squeal!
Nylee Nov 2017
My wings don't open
when it is time to fly

My hands shiver
before even I try

My mouth stutters
before I can explain why

My head shuts down
as I blink my eyes

I have aged
still I want to cry

nothing works fine
this piece is faulty

there is something seriously
wrong with me.
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