Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Over the decades,
We've worked it out.
No need for a Power of anyone.
If I go blind,
You'll be my sight.
And so on.
I will supply
What you lack;
And you promised,
Should I *****,
To leave me on my back.
The Vault Jul 13
My hair curly and frizzy in the summer heat
But not a speck of sweat touched my young face.  
You looked at me with a sweaty smile as we walked through the heat.  
My frizzy hair blowing in the wind
I wonder what I look like through your eyes.  

Do I look beautiful?  Even in the heat?
You say you will love me no matter what.  
Even when old age hits us both?
And we won't look flawless anymore?
Even when my curves will turn into wrinkles?

But still.  I will have my frizzy hair
And a love for you
That never started with how you looked.
Just random thoughts.
Zywa Jun 2
Why have I suffered
woven all my tapestries
that have been disposed of
after a while
or otherwise, are decaying?

The cherry blossoms are falling
see how early they fall
they snow in the night
I would like to cry

.....Where have the times gone
.....when the tapestries were woven
.....which are decaying?

Comthreads are swimming
across my eyes, my body
aches, I do not want anymore

.....Where have the times gone
.....when the tapestries were woven
.....which are decaying?

I am the elephant
in the middle of my room
never mind, nothing is wrong!

.....Where have the times gone
.....when the tapestries were woven
.....which are decaying?

The children are talking
softly past me, all together
at the same time
Collection “Moons”
Old oak heritage
Ancient tree lingers on
a living relic
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku 80
zero May 1
My memory fails me.
My head cannot contain these
faces anymore.
People tend to look more and more
the same every single day.
Sometimes I don't even recognise myself in
the mirror.
My face sags down at the cheeks.
My lips no longer full or pink.
My eyes grey.
No more green.
Not anymore.

My world is in this room.
The odd ornament brings
me back- I think.
These brown carpets.
These blue dressed nurses.
These white sheets.
This room is no longer my home.
This world is too confusing.

My family don't visit anymore.
Even if they did I wouldn't remember
what they looked like.
What they smelt like.
The way it felt to hold them.
My hands can't touch as well
as before.
They shake and spill.
I cry.
I don't know what's happening to me.

My mind doesn't work anymore.
Once I was lost I turned up here with
a suitcase I didn't pack and
a promise of weekly visits.
They forgot one week.
They forget the next.
They forget the next.
And they forget the next.
I can't remember what it was
like to feel loved anymore.
I can't curl up in bed.
I'm too stiff.
I'm simply too old.
Please visit the elderly. Sometimes being alone is the hardest fight.

Royce Apr 9
Death has found its way inside my dreams
Opening up possibilities that will never be found
As the rain picks at my window.

Youthful lovers rejoice
While the timer ticks down
Before the silent alarm finds you.

"From dust, we came,
And dust we will return"
Silence, nothing, but blowing wind.

Yes, death has found its way inside my dreams
Smothering all hope related to life
And bringing the thunder,  
     I had never known.
Purpose may be crafted out of nothing
Tools & Skills put to other uses

A Poet can write of Life
While searching for whatever amuses

Comfort in ageing is quietness
Inside where the doubts are clamouring

Peace is a mind filled with ripples
After a lifetime's endless hammering

Yes, the vistas of retirement are daunting
Left behind by a purposeful world

The book of one's life still open
But stuck on a page unturned

Sit back though and watch all the faces
Give labels and names to their expressions

See yourself walking beside them
Was that you? Were those your intentions?

It's the Noise I think is the problem
The white hiss that Time is leaking

But that noise is your system balancing
It is fresh air coming in and spring cleaning

Don't be staring ahead, just find a blank sheet
Put your name at the Bottom...
And fill it

This is not your Winter Of Discontent
But the Glorious Harvest of Autumn...
If you will it!
Thank you Lori Jones McCaffery for setting the seeds for this poem.
Such creaking of old
                            clutched hands,
  wrinkles expressed
                               mark transient veins of time.

Logan Robertson

I think as one ages they go up the proverbial creek. The days at the rivers mouth, in it's
longevity, come winding down from the mountain. I see this analogy in nature. I see my hands. The verbage expressed holds two meanings here, regretfully.
Next page