I had mourned my youth with a thousand hearts, yet I had embraced my maturity with a thousand hands!

Hussein Dekmak
Brent Kincaid Jan 19
He’s got wrinkles instead of pimples,
That’s the way the story goes.
He’s outgrown growing
Except for his nose.
His memory works fine for things
That happened years ago
But what he ate yesterday
He doesn’t seem to know.

He used to sing and dance a bit
And now he just walks
For a couple of miles a day,
As he passes by folks
He stops and talks.
He catches up on how they are
And what is new with them.
But for what they said
His memory grows dim.

It’s not important to store the tales
They tell him of their lives
Of children’s accomplishments
And the health of their wives.
The important thing to him is more
To not be alone that day.
He passes time and smiles,
And enjoys life that way.

His hair has gone almost to white,
Without nearly as much pep,
His voice has gotten reedy
There’s a halt to his step.
But he has time for people and life
And he still writes his stories
That he tells to his friends
Who care to hear his glories.
The wrinkles sink low into my brow,
and I am still as the morning dew on the grass.
Knowing so little of this mystery we call life,
I have yet quaffed love's perfume in some of its corners.

Taking aim at life, I find I've already missed:
there are too many tomorrows for this heart to take––
for though yesterday, getting dressed was a victory,
today, the sun’s warm lips are kissing my cold skin.

And that's just fine with me.
Some days are good days. Some days are bad ones. Trying to make everyday a good one is an impossible task for me. That's part of life's mystery, I guess. Wrinkles signify aging, perhaps maturity; the morning dew is the daily continuity of life.
CEFord Jan 4
It’s that time of year
when the air is unseasonably warm,
summer’s last push,
last bounce
on the trampoline,
before the street lights
come on
and her mother
tells her it’s time
to come inside.  

I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to drive me elsewhere,
back to the river streets
and cobblestone houses
of South Georgia
where my journey began.

The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing
and nostalgia
more than smoke,
and for a split second,
I’m there:

With the crickets singing,
and the salty spray of the ocean
from the thunderbolt islands
filling my empty places,
in ways
that no other person
ever could.

And I don’t feel
or powerful,
or even beautiful,
I just feel
in control,
and that’s
enough for

There is no wishing,
no hoping,
no dreaming
for a better tomorrow.

Just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the
that I am going
I wrote a poem, once, called "Passenger Seat" when I was 18 and completely in love with everything around me and the people who were taking me there.

Now, almost 5 years later, that poem has been rewritten. And I have, too.
in baptisms of tequila
are we born again.
swaying -- a second

laughter and tears hysterical.
swaying -- stumbling --
finding our footing.
a hand on the ground in case it disappears

(but every day,
a millimetre
closer to
the tomb)

welcome to life, part ii.
please find enclosed
work, bills, bereavement,
the fear of settling down

...and a chance of freedom

everything we were promised
can be lost in a phone call.
do we trust ourselves to do it right?
will we ever be sure we are?
ambivalent and hopeful and scared of what is to come (two years too early)
DEW Nov 2017
Often, these dreams pierce the veil,
between sadness and bliss.
Armies cross
bliss is defenseless
I wake up cold

My steps feel the weight of the stone floor
out to the window, my dreams take me…
Even awake, dreams command my vision.

The world is blind to me and I am blind to the world.
They do not bear my dreams and I do not know their torment.

If they knew my dreams,
they would carry me forward
hands on my hand
we move the bricks together
sight for sight
blindness for blindness
dreams for truth

The strange warmth of fellowship fades in loneliness,
as if it were antidote… or poison.
Still, the memories linger
yearning to blaze
but they cannot provide warmth
for they are dreams
and fires must feed on flesh.

The armies continue to pour
from somberness into bliss
the fires wink out softly
my eyes dull; my dreams fade.

And for once, I see what they all saw…

So, this poem ends on a dark note, like many of my poems, but it's the type of note that I'm not sure about.
Still, what I am sure of is, the message is about conformity and losing sight of ideals in place of stasis, or regression.
Things like, "I don't give a f**k."
Or, "I can't be bothered."
Even, "F**k you and the horse you rode in on."
These can be funny to consider, especially in a movie.
However, in real life, the tone is different:
it's why "motive" is so important to a police investigation.
If someone cheats on you, is it because you were an asshole,
or was it because the person is an unabashed cheater who lied to you, every, day?
Boo-hoo, right?
That's what I wanted to touch on in this poem.

So, without further ado...

I feel as if
I've acquired all the knowledge
I'm ever gonna' acquire.
What I need to do now
Is try to learn how to cope
With living in a Society
Where the Forces of Economics
Have gone Batshit Crazy.
Actually, Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina said that the REPUBLICAN PARTY has gone "Batshit Crazy"!
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