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Francie Lynch Jan 28
If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.
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."
Present
Going slowly
A good time to explore
Venture toward the unknown
Gently
*notes — The cinquain is a poem form with a strict syllabic count of 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 in five lines. Usually used to express brief thoughts or moments.
n Jan 8
She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
Farts.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.
This one's about my grandmother. She used to be this royal lady and she still is but with deteriorating hearing.
William A Poppen Dec 2018
Old age *

Growing stillness

Know one day at a time

Pound the piano key’s of life

Softly
*notes — The cinquain is a poem form with a strict syllabic count of 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 in five lines. Usually used to express brief thoughts or moments.
William A Poppen Dec 2018
Old Age

What are you for?

Do life at a snail’s pace

Notice the drone of slow breathing

Wither
*notes — The cinquain is a poem form with a strict syllabic count of 2, 4, 6, 8, 2 in five lines. Usually used to express brief thoughts or moments.
Nikos Kyriazis Dec 2018
I touch you
and through you
I experiencing
the reflections
of all Gods

I step out into the void
and amidst the sandstorm
I call out the names
of all i read on your skin

And now
there is no way back
My fate is bounded
to the elderly tokens
that rule these worlds

The ages have stamped
with blood and that was inevitably
From the annihiliation
a flower always sprouts
The sought gates of the Purgatory
will always be inside
our innermost **** for power

Many talked about the aftermath
Who will accumulate the souls?
Who will take over the segragation
between the ''corrupted''
and the ''virtuous''?

Sentries sent by Warlords of yore
often call in to see if i still endure
And i grin at them and
share with my fellow ghosts
the bitterness of truth
Nik Bland Oct 2018
You and I will ***** one day
The smoothness will all go away
And as our hairs fade into grey
Will the love still stay?

We promise love until the dust
But so often forget the rust
Failing frequently to discuss
What happens if nothing happens to us

The porcelain will splinter and chip
Marking, for some, where the veil rips
But my love lasts more than just a stint
Of smooth skin on my fingertips

For if the twilight fades the blue
It replaces it with countless hues
And so will grow my love for you
In seeing, remem’bring what we’ve gone through

You and I will *****, no doubt
But my love will faithfully pour out
To endless bound, in copious amounts
A quenching water from an undying spout
“I believe when I fall in love with you, it will be forever...” -Stevie Wonder

“When I give my heart, it will be completely, or I will never give my heart...” -Nat King Cole

“In time the Rockies may tumble, Gibraltar may crumble, they’re only made of clay. But our love is here to stay...”
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