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He turns the page
Of old age
For what was once the rage
Now sits in his cage
It's been a war to wage
This, life's final stage
The pressure gauge
Ticking on so outrage
Ticking by in ménage
For his book's cleavage
Untouched and derange
Year's wasted and disengaged
If only there was no leakage
Or ever such seepage
Life on his barren range
With no panacea to assuage
No wife ever, no cat, no life to engage
Nothing but red read rage
Now in his final chapter, this cage
This cage, death does he part this rampage
A life perched without marriage
For he married to himself backstage
Where his curtain veiled fruitage
In lieu of looking at the skies for dosage
He fell hostage to his hermitage
Yet this, his bottled pilgrimage
Sinking now in raging montage
He does sit beseeched in his passage
And hopes someday to bid bon voyage
With direr hopes of  turning a better page

Logan Robertson

9/27/2018
It's been **** for him. Life was never easy. A solo crossing,
that yearned for a duet but that was not meant to be.
Note-Wow. Read this poem over and over, like looking into a mirror, truly sad.
Steve Oct 2
The laughter has all gone
Days have lost their shine
Twilight marches on
While time commits another crime

The nights are long and dark
Mornings far away
Voices pitched and stark
The skies are low and grey

My fingers clutch the earth
Like a tree past bearing fruit
Holding on for all it's worth
But withered at the root

The leaves are turning brown
Frosty fingers round my throat
Pour me poor me on the ground
Summer smiles while autumn comes to gloat.
A little rework for the fall.
Lilly frost Sep 17
Why worry for youth if in your heart you're forever young
If your joy is kept alive
If your smile is still bright
Why worry for the future of gray hairs and parchment skin
If love is had would it be so bad
To one day sit and reminisce without the threat of immortality
Without the prison of eternal youth
Fun for years
Fun for hours
Decades
Centuries
Eternity towers
Appreciate the world
When the spring in your step has gone sour
Appreciate the season
Stop and smell the flowers
Feel the snow
The cold
The pain that as a youth you were in a rush to rid
What have you to say after your rushing worries have rushed away
What memories can you retain if you speed through to the end
You can sit for years and muse, pretend
Make a plan
Take your time
Life may be short but it's a short long while
Especially to the end
I was far too lost in how beautifully striking they were
Too lost to notice the withered with age
Then cracked when I touched to admire
Morose exhaled the death of these fine flowers
Dried out of love and beauty
They collected dust where hues of livid red and snow white displayed themselves.
A bundle of frail, wrinkled flowers, xeric and unrecognizable
I still felt their beauty through their destitute for the eath and its pure spring
They ate themselves until they were nothing but ash and stems
But I still felt their beauty, as I gathered the remains,
I buried them in the back of my mind
I buried them somewhere
BEAUTIFUL
Dedicated to the old man I never knew -



Mr Van Zyl is dying

When I first step into the cardiac care ward, I don't notice him

Only when the relative I am visiting points him out, do I turn and look at him

He is frail looking and very thin

His hospital gown doesn't cover his right shoulder and when he turns on his side, his back is exposed

There is an odd assortment of items on his bedside table

The most common one being medication

A nurse comes in

Asks him if he wants to eat

He can't talk so after the eternity of a minute he shakes his head

He is not hungry

The nurse sighs and leaves

Mr Van Zyl is alone

No visitors, no nurses

He is alone

The bed next to his unoccupied but a cricket match is on

I leave the ward

As I do, he opens his eyes

They are a pale blue

The colour of a summer sky

I hold his gaze then leave

Mr Van Zyl is dying

And he is alone

So very alone
This is a true story. You'll notice how literally I've written this poem and the reason for that is because I believe that this man deserved a simple poem. Nothing extra. Just raw, unexaggerated emotion. I'm sad to say that a few days after this poem was written, Mr Van Zyl passed away. He was as alone in his death as he was while in the cardiac care unit.

I hope he knows that his memory lives on through this peom.
Her musky, aged, antique smell.
Every wrinkle on her face had a tale to tell.
Cracks on her palms, treasured stories of hardships & struggles.
Walked with a limp, like a boulder on her shoulder back.
Didn't fall even with the deepest toe *****.
I lay my head on her motherly warm lap.
Her silvery smooth flowing hair,
gleamed with pride for her only heir.
She caressed my hair, sent chills down my spine.
Don't you worry grandma, down here everything is (not so) fine.
Wish you were here for me when I need you the most.
I will be there in the stars, will meet you once I'm mighty close.

I miss you, grandma.
Aa Harvey Apr 14
Oft too a flyer.


Thrown to the wolves as lions approach,
Never just left alone.
Kicked out of the club for being too drunk,
The ghosts have stolen your phone.


In this midnight hour a traffic cone,
Is thrown through a greenhouse window, waking up the neighbourhood.
They all see you walking back home;
“He’s up to no good.”


Cans on strings as letters of complaint leap,
Along the local grapevine.
Playing the telephone game, muggle messages,
They all watch and pass a guilty verdict; eye for an eye.
You stand accused of drinking legal beer.
Social complaints against late night cheer.


Revelry is not welcome here,
At the cul-de-sac at the end of the road of fear.
So scared of youth because envy gets old.
So cold to you because you smile like a fool.
So angry!  About nothing.
The rain pours down, feel water proof.
So pointless to have a conversation,
When you are thirty five percent proof.


The drunk is a punk to conservative ways.
They would never be that drunk in their day.


They only ever drank every time they got paid
And every day is now a liquid lunch.
Do you remember an Irish coffee breakfast,
After the after hour’s club?
Now a fine brandy, a sherry or two when visiting;
Or are you so drunk you are still misremembering?


I am righteous!  Pride takes me to church!
To drink the blood and fall asleep
And because whiskey is the only thing that gets you forward,
You lurch!
And stumble over all the pews.
You end with an almighty crash!  


Make up, slapdash,
You landed at the altar and got up to say “I do.”
You got in your car and now you are so sure;
Oh so sure, that you are pure.
You are better than they are…
Really?...
You?


And later as you blow into the straw,
You realise you are not so sure,
That you can see a way out of this.
Why not arrest them!  Instead of me!
Those ****** drunken kids!
They vandalize and disturb my peace!
What about me!  I never did a thing!
I only had a glashh or six (laughs)
And there wasn’t a…er, a lasting damage.


I’m not a drunk!
I think!
I think…

I think I love you…


What place is this...?
Where am I...?
Hey!  
Who are you!  To arrest me!  For being drunk!


The following day, you wake up and say…

What time is it?

Excuse me officer…
What day is this?

It’s Tuesday.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Elicia Hurst Apr 14
Decade and a half ago,
The world still fresh and new,
Good and kind. Air - not what we choked on
Your ray of light flickered
In my careless recollection
Of course, that was once upon a time.

When volumes of infusion is the blood in your veins,
And scenes change day by day, curtains drawn,
You are at the end of the line, spent, and you're
Holding up yours hands in the air, no defiance.
There is sadness in your eyes, even when you smile
"The war is not won." I said.

Bitter taste of medicine
Lingers like diseases on your tongue.
"To be or not to be"
Is a statement, not
A question, not a
Matter of choice.

Excruciation, or maybe ****, in the purest form
Perpetual realization of pain
Of the crystal mind in storm,
Peeling the psyche of it, driving it off to the edge.
But do people still go to ****
When their lives are sheer suffering
Through and through?
Sept 2014
Elicia Hurst Apr 14
She used to hold my hand as she goes,
Cracking serious jokes,
And our hearts locked close.

Her hair the color of a raven's wing,
Glasses on her nose,
Wise and sharp like an owl's they bling.    

Now the years have flown by,
And some stranger guarding by her side,
For her body failed her, she cried.

Long, curly locks no more.
It was summer, then it's cold.
White as snow, to the core.

No words come when we talk.
But the tv's on, which colors
The speechless nature of our dialogue.
Aug 2014
BC Jaime Mar 7
I went to your house today.
You remembered I was coming.
And to take a bath. And eat.
You told me a story that happened
yesterday, not seventy-five years ago.
You didn’t ask the same question
thirteen times. There was no argument
about prescription drugs or bloodwork.
You didn’t slam the door.
But, of course, none of that happened.
How could it?
You are here and
you are
gone.


[Note: This poem was originally published in Cadence Collective's anthology Then & Now: Conversations With Old Friends, available for purchase here: https://sadiegirlpress.com/2015/11/04/then-now-conversations-with-old-friends/]
© BC Jaime 2014 || IG: @B.C.Jaime

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.
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