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An older neighbor of mine
did recently confide;

"Reckon I'm gettin' ready to die,
my mind ain't working so smooth
anymore, open my skull and what
might 'ya see, would resemble some
surreal Salvador Dali painted scene.
All melted watches and disjointed ****.

My legs are unreliable at best,
my back continually aches,
blasted headaches refuse to abate.

I shuffle along like some broke
down thing, balance sketchy at best.
My recall comes and goes like a
random weak spray from a garden hose.
Spurts, leaks running here and there,
No continuous steady stream going
anywhere, not unlike when I try to ***.

They took my drivers license,
said I was incapable today and
would be more so tomorrow.

I used to dream of things I'd do,
beautiful girls I'd like to *****.
Now any dreams I can recall
revolve around food and that's
pretty much all.

I wake at 6 AM each day
my body racked with pain,
eat some mush and sit in my chair,
fall asleep and wake 'bout noon.
Repeat some food, return to my chair,
turn on the tube, 20 minutes in feeling
like the world is a hopeless **** mess.
Even todays music ain't fit to hear.
Taking me yet another nap in my chair.

I used to care 'bout lots of things,
now I can't remember why or where.
If these here are my golden years,
I'd rather be young, broke and *****
in the back seat of my '48 Chevy,
lovin' my Cheerleader girlfriend Amy,
now those were the Golden Years."
He has no living family, lives alone,
his dog died last year. He took down
all the clocks in his house, gave away
his granddads pocket watch. He leased
out his farm, got rid of his animals. Sold
off his John Deere tractors to a neighbor.
Uses only two rooms in a big old house
with ten . He is alone as alone gets.
He's 86 uses a cane to steady his steps.
We would need to walk in his shoes
to know his pain, in a few years perhaps
we too will know what he means.
Could this be why young people
avoid old people, I bet it is. They can't
stand looking in their Futures mirror.
lX0st Aug 2014
Please Midas,
Take the golden gun
And shove the golden bullet
Right through my golden skin
And tell me a story about
"All that glitters.."
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in ***** rust brown
scissors chips
fall at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
across the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
for the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return;
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Shofi Ahmed Jul 26
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of The Heaven’s footstep.
That way is graced by
thousands of the prophets of ***!

In the name of Allah she descends
on the Night of the Ascending.
From the odd night an unnumbered zone
The Night of Measure unlike the rest
it doesn't geometrised is transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric Golden Ratio.
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, exposes her unique divine closeness
her golden spiral reaches out closer to ***!

The great women flock
mirrored the earth all along.
Treading on every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Till those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode on approaching
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The seven seas billowed up
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like little dews
hanging low on the rose
just to drip down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night.
The Moon is floating down
slices of the moonlight pushing the boat
full of fireflies rolling over  
to the cup of this pretty little drop.  
A poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
in the sky the Moon is its title!

The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title songs.  

Never were a woman prophet of ***
nor was paradise hidden anymore
to one woman it was the open shore!
The heaven turns upside down
turning for the earth the last stone.

For the rest of the rocks
it was the stepping stone.
As many times more
the earth may try on
it will still be tangent fluid
until the very one woman
The Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimals.
At last putting it all on the map ‘as above,
so below’, all in all, pure scientia scenario.

The heaven will open its grand door
where The Queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on this last turned stone.
Paradise starts from here on.
From the one great woman
from beneath the mother’s foot!
CK Baker Feb 11
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
with voices of the past

finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views

clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the night watch
corporal May 30
Let me taste those golds
because Babe, we’re not here to be told.
Bury a kiss on my neck before the truth unfolds.
It’d be your vow to the angel you’d sold.

Take off your watch.
Take off your crown.
In just one touch,
Make me believe I'm the only one.

Golden sticks, holy air.
Drop the lies and just skin me alive.
Don’t ask for a name.
Surrender to a bite instead.

Throw your clothes on the floor.
Leave your name behind the door.
You won't need those until four.
Don't bite too hard 'cause I might ask for more.

She's pretty wise to be fooled by his nicotine tongue.
But his smile bites.
Oh ***, It does.
But Babe, you're in the wrong place if you're looking for love.

Danger hangs around his neck
Another trouble night ahead,
As if the government would pay
For all the night we would face
Cece Sep 25
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.
Helena Sep 5
it's not easy being just friends
when this summer you kissed
me with the passion of the sun
that scorched our backs by the
beach and it's so hard when
you catch my gaze and I can
literally feel the magnetism
between us even when we don't
touch but oh when we do my body
is helpless just like your board
in the ocean sloshing around
in the crashing surf but our
relationship was a bit like a
wave because it came and went
and left nothing behind but it
never really crashed against
the shore it was more just like
the moon slowly pulling the tide
in as the sun goes down in the late
afternoon and I can remember you
asking me if it was waxing or waning
and which constellations I could see
and I never knew the answer but now
I know that I really really do miss you
Akira Chinen Jul 2016
What if the sun was a fish of golden flame
What then would the moon reflect
Would the earth be a bubble
Would space be a sea
What would become of
All this human misery
If the sun was a fish
With fins of fire
Swimming here and there
Going wherever it did please
Would the moon be a minnow
Forever bound to follow
Would the earth be a dream
Would *** be the water
Would the devil be the worm
Would love be free to swim
Without fear of aches and pains
Without mans clumsy hands
To break the heart
Of the sun swimming
With golden fins ablaze
Anywhere and everywhere
And never ever
Ever
Would love be
Touched by our
Human misery
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