I need to say
to rose petals
and soft rain.
     Ain’t never done
me no good
my time out
   looking for ro-man-tic
love like that—
no, it just sucks
        me dry
blood-letting tick,
that fat belly man

The doors that looks could open up
Are padlocked to us now.
The passing years have turned the key
And we are locked outside.
Standing in the icy rain, still trying to get in
Where beauty generates the warmth.

The more bedraggled we appear
The more we disappear.
The paper on the wall becomes
The pattern of our lives.
We arch the brows and paint the lips
And dye the silver strands

But nothing short of neon lights
Will draw attention to our mein.
We see the glance like lighthouse-sweep
Wash over us and then away
As quickly as revolving beams
And we are left here in the dark,

Remembering the longing glance-
The interlocking of the eyes
That told us we had been approved
And freed to move about the sphere
Where all the pretty people were,
And we were added to that sum.

How bittersweet to meet the days
We knew were there but still refused to see
Encamped along our road of life
Like brigands poised to steal the last
Of shimmer from the faces that we wore
And leave us all with masks of wrinkled, sagging age.


I see the handwriting on the wall !  There's no escaping it.
James Dec 7

I see those who speak of their life import
I know that they have never tasted Death
And yet sometimes by that selfsame report
They think they know one day they'll draw no breath
They do not arise, gaze within the mirror
They do not deign to think that they are vain
They hold not deep within bosom the fear
That knows they will soon feel Time's waxing pain
But know we not we are one and the same?
For as we bemoan the youth and their faults,
We realize not we have ourselves to blame.
For even we spent time and all for naught.
Alas, it is too late for those to see
Our youth will not retain its own degree

Sonnet #1

Can you feel it yet-
the ticking?

Have you looked at your eyes
and seen the lines in the corners
that indicate quarter past
unhappy existence, in the mirror

Have you recognized your ceramic veins
and how the movement of your
delicate quartz heart has slowed

Have you missed those minutes lost
to imperceptible error every day
while you try to count
a decreasing amount of carbon-14

Have your hands begun to hesitate
as your metallic mind moves
ever further from numeric resolve

Have you found yourself reminiscing
of the past, lost in time
keeping track of hours between
productivity and reward

Have you begun chiming for
a new jewel to touch
and forgotten your future talking

If you have held your wrist up to your ear
and heard the blood roar
foreshadowing when the tightly wound
spring of youth would lose its bounce

But yet, no matter the state
of your biological clock
I will continue to keep time
by you


I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,

Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
That appellation
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.

Unbelievably at a restaurant a waiter called my 81-year-old mother "Miss." It's disrespectful.
Violet Nov 30

I used to visit the Moon every night
I recall basking in her therapeutic light
Taking shelter in her crevices
I would bear witness to her dance
As she enveloped the sky
Illuminating the shuffling waves below
There was quiet then
A peaceful solitude absent of suffering and strife

That’s where my heart used to reside
Cradled in the Moon’s tender touch
Kept warm by her gentle kisses
Her reassuring whispers
Her bright, caring eyes

My heart is no longer protected
I’ve shed the Moon’s hug
Broken free from my protective shell
Exposed myself to an unforgiving fiery Hell
When I confide
I grasp at night
Pocket my thoughts into the darkness
I fold my heart with layers of  empty air
Watch my words crumble under the weight
Of the Moon’s miserable stare

Her gaze now scalds me
Turns my pink heart ash black
Stabbed back
I welcome the dark
Where my heart now breathes
I welcome the dark
And the Moon no longer grieves

Maura Sare Nov 27

I hope you wrinkle from the laughter we share
The corners of your eyes in twenty years
How sad if no lines are there

a clinger of wear
the snow bed's snooze
will shampoo a cafeteria in Rome
that program starch as foliage
but to absorb fluids in Ascension
what matters are risen
will further witness these true gyrations
and flatulent is a year younger
and will kick up heavenliness
and flit courageously triumphs
and grease tears her grace

a note on xmas
Brent Kincaid Nov 20

Once I disliked having birthdays
But I really don’t mind anymore.
The secret is to enjoy them
And never, ever to keep score.
Don’t bother counting them,
Just enjoy the cake and gifts.
It’s looking back at how old you are.
That is basically the ugly rift.

You’re not getting decrepit,
Not older than dirt, you see.
You have gained credit in life
For wisdom and longevity.
They who say you have aged
Like a fine wine are correct.
So, don’t harp about the years
Like you have a flaw to project.

Instead look forward in life
To what the future will say.
What will you do with it,
This new chance every day?
Will you be that aging statesperson
The world will be glad to know?
As long as you’re still breathing
Let's wait and see how it goes.

So, call all your friends up
And meet them each for a meal
And let them know fears of age
Are not something you find real.
Let them toast your birthday
And sing the traditional song.
Let this be another of many
Happy birthdays to come along.

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