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Francie Lynch Mar 11
I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."
And that time hasn't come as of yet.
Stalwart Dull Oct 2020
Five.. four..three... A life depends
When the last leaf fell,
His life will end
But one day he was getting well

Two..one.. A heavy rain happened
He asked his friend for the curtain to be opened
The last leaf is still there
But the one who made it is not anymore there

One.. it's still one
His life was saved by that old man
That masterpiece changed everything
It saves life because of that painting.
Inspired by the story: The last leaf
Glenn Currier Aug 2020
His ample graying beard
nearly covers crinkled flesh
his eyes focus on the stars
that surround him
his hat with its spangled band
bent slightly down in front
seems to say: I am traveler of Earth.

I wonder what transcendence
dances behind those eyes
slowly moving like Zorba,
arms out gently waving,
an eagle in flight.

Like the old man
I want to bear witness to the universe
in the wave of my mind
to give flight to words
infiltrate, expand and release them
and maybe figure out my small part
in the great mystery.
Author’s Note: I bow to poet, Mark Strand for ideas about a poet’s task. This poem is based on a photocreation by a friend of mine, Garth Mindfeather Hill: https://www.flickr.com/photos/mindfeather/8628345020/in/photolist-BJJtpC-t7KXZr-rZg32Q-qDAQN6-e9swnj-cf92s5-q7VAdi-i5hXm4-cvN7S9-kZRjXk-hc1aP9-ThYpFd-SdDME4-SynjPA-uymERL-f7vaww-hWof1d-rz9v3A-9rkYHz-gPpVND
Amanda Kay Burke Jan 2020
To my fantastic friend Ronnie Lee
For being such good company
I am thankful for compliments you give
Flirtatiousness you ask me to forgive
But I know pick-up lines are all in good fun
****** sense of humor don't bother me none
I get your jokes
You get mine
Find some way to boost my self-esteem each time
A kind word
Wink
Or a "Hey pretty girl"
Instantly brightens my world
I like when you say "Where's my hug?"
Those days we smoke a tasty nug
When you go wish you'd stay longer
Conversation makes our friendship stronger
You do not gossip or start drama
You just want to have fun
If **** goes down you have my back and your gun
You may be old-aged but you're young at heart
Only thing that stinks about you is your farts
I hope this brings smiles to your face
You have proof of my affection (in pen so it can't be erased)
This is to say thanks for being a pal through the years
If you need anything know I am here
It is rare to meet an honest soul in this world of pretend
You are a one-of-a-kind friend!
To a family friend who is elderly but a real hoot to have around
JaxSpade Jul 2019
Old man
Old heart

Stuck in his old ways
Losing his good days

Old man it's too late
to be loved

Olden
Golden

Youth has stolen
Your daze
Your eyes are blurry
Old and worried

While wrinkles cover your face

Old man turning gray
Old heart slowing pace
She'll never love your gray

Old man it's too late
To be loved

Old man
Old hands

Time has taken away
Any chance for your past...


To change -


Stuck in your old ways
Losing your good days

Old man
It's too late

To be loved
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
Sitting on a throne of stacks made of poems,
He rules, or thinks he does, up on his mountain.
He hates a rhyme more than
The buzzing of a fly or scuttle of a rat.
They remind him of his paucity of skill.
He rolls a magazine tight
Swings it at the rhyme, “****, ****!”
He shouts.

Up on the throne, he rambles onto paper
Vers libre, je crois.
Looking down, he sees thousands of admirers,
Coming to hear him read
His old poems of war and death, and lost love.
Only a daughter, who is “hot”, for him to ogle.
They pick up girls and eat chicken.

The past is a patchwork quilt to him,
Ragged, frayed and faded.
He screeches out memories!
Then doodles them onto the cloud,
He loves to brag
About his computers, his awards and his printed stuff.
It is all he has.

Old man staring out at the oil rigs
Of Bakersfield, he can’t rhyme about that,
The run-down houses and cracked streets.
Browned like toast by the driest air!
But he has been places, studied things,
Allegedly—what does he remember?
So he is proud, insolent in his old age.
Who can tell him what to write?
Only his publisher.
Inspired by a poet I recently met. We clashed over Form Poetry vs. Free Verse, over writing for oneself vs. publishing. He is old and set in his ways.
mark john junor Sep 2017
news paper pages
scatter along a ***** wind
some caught in fences separating
some free to climb into the forever of
deep blue sky pure sunshine
washed clean of the sins printed on its page
only photographs remain
a black & white image of the old man
feeding pigeons along the empty path
that lead him there

news paper pages
forever silently burning in a collapse of worlds
so old the smoke has died away
pages with masterful words written
never finding lips to uncage their meaning
a beauty of phrase that has never faded
a chain link barrier between what its
long dead author spoke eloquently
and the world disguised by years of dead dust
only photographs remain
a faded image of an old man
walking the sunset
a scattering of bread crumb's
stretching back along his trail
leading not into the living sky
forever shifting between dark and light
but into the dusty caverns of twilight
forever twilight

by candle light
he will pour over the things he never spoke
wishing only for a voice once more
a way to tell her
about all those yesterdays ago
the why's and whatnot's
that he fiddles with
like wooden toys ever more finely crafted
never to knowing play
never to escape the gathering dust

here he sits
in his comfy chair
tea and biscuits gone cold
and his lips ****** with gentle care
words written on discarded news paper pages
like bread crumbs scattered for
birds that never come
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved
Percy Order Dec 2016
Now there he is, dying
In old age he suffers
from liver damage he dies
Though he suffers

He smiles.

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
This is the night she dies
He cries
She smiles

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a day
The day of their anniversary
It was there last
Though he know
He smiles

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
The night his son
Had a son
He is very happy
He smiles

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There was once a day
The day of a wedding
The wedding of his child
He smiles

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
The night his son
Goes to college
He is sad

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a day
The day his son
Have gone to school
He is proud

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
A Night like no other
The birth of his son
He smiles

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a day
They knew
He is a father
He have a son

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
A sad night
They fought
A misunderstanding

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a day
The best of his days
The day of their wedding
He is very joyful

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a night
The night he proposed
She said yes
He remembers

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There once a day
The day they met
She was beautiful
She still is

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles

There are more memories
He could not remember
But in his heart
It stays forever

His quiet thoughts
He thinks
He remembers
He smiles
He dies in peace
Jeremy Cothron Oct 2016
Before I knew it the sun had come,
I had been outside before it decided to arise;
I watched the blue bird.

The blue bird was up before everything else
Rose before the sun,
It pecked at the ground as I sipped my tea

It pulled out a worm and went away
I went inside and thought,
“I wish I could be a bird. So free and elegant, a nomad of the sky.”

Before I knew it, I was up before the sun,
I went on my way with my instincts leading me,
I went to a grassy area and stood there.
I watched an odd man take a sip from his cup.
I pecked the ground and punctured the dirt. I found the worm that was buried inside.
The man looked at me with disappointment in his eyes.

I flew away to my branch and thought,
“I wish I was human, so powerful, they never have to worry about food,
Or a place to live. They get to stay in one spot and never have to leave.”
This poem is about perspective, this piece reminds me of Richard Cory in a way.
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