"methuselah" poems
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.
New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?
Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme
Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?
You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.
Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow
Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
blushing hues
preserving precious nutrition
the sun is moving closer
releasing fingers that once reached high
tumbling to the ground
drying out, and crinkling
the sun is turning its face
allowing the next phase to begin
insignificant
like tiny ants crowding the cracks
minuscule
like the creeper ******* nutrients
*one "being" on earth
one earth, in the middle of "space"*
ancient methuselah,
your mycelium branching-
entwining, and communicating
giving strength to brethren
as hibernation takes hold
birthing fungi anew
***orange, browns, yellows and reds
i give my breath away***
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
I’m Medusa, yes Medusa
Not long life that was Methuselah
Vile violent visage I am the muse for
Gorgon legend is my future
I’m abused and an abuser
I am used and I’m a user
Magnet to so many suitors
Once a beauty now a bruiser
Myth: Just deserts for killer cougar
Truth: ***** then accused as a seducer
Athene was my disapprover
Sisterhood is just a rumour
Hair curled tight it can’t get smoother
Locks they’re snakes crawled from a sewer
Lovers now they’re getting fewer
Call me mad it’s only lunar
Perseus my persecutor
In slaying Titans he’d been tutored
He is blessed, I’m outmanoeuvred
My death births Pegasus the wing’d hoofer
Seem to have lost my sense of humour
Need more than a troubleshooter
Temperature has just got cooler
Turn to stone you’re such a loser
anna jones ©2017
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
you painted the moon on my hips drew constellations with
your eyes on my arms and whispered the word pandemonium in
my ear as asteroids exploded and as orbits formed
i drew the color blue on your fingertips and orange in the
corner of your smile and spelled the word requiem onto your
lips because i knew this wasn't going to last
we lived our love in the sky and memorized the names of
stars that were bound to die and last words we used to live
she spoke the language of the sun and i didn't understand
you spoke the language of wrecked love and made our
masterpiece a work of forbidden art
(h.l.)
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
(Dedicated to Eric Onyebuchi Jibero)
What an excruciating blow
You have dealt me!
A brute's uppercut offloaded
A smashing hit delivered
Like a monstrous boxer
Desirous of fame
With an amateur to tame
At this one bout too many
Wherein you have hit me below
The belt as a sadist deriving joy
From my anguish
And relish
From my enormous loss
Oh mower,
Nay hewer,
Can't you feel anything?
Can't you see?
Can't you reason for a while
With your prey?
Can't you pause to ponder
Just for a brief moment
So you can take a good decision
Choosing the right tree to fell
Instead of bringing down a mere
Sapling with your obedient saw?
Why deal sweeping blow
On a mere rookie?
Can't you distinguish
Between the ripe and the unripe?
Between the hen and the chick?
But hawks like you can pick
Meat amidst bones as Moses
In a basket amidst bulrushes
Of Nile to spare from Pharaoh's
Infant-eating sword
And in wisdom did you wait
Patiently to visit Methuselah
At the zenith of hoary hair
Master of double standards
Eyes gorged
Conscience seared
Heart cold like frozen chicken
******* dry and drooping
Like a hag's
A ruthless scorpion
That stings even babes
Rampaging ravager
Notorious brigand
Marauding machinery
Eliminating without scruple
Whoever you choose
Whose hireling are you?
God's or Satan's
Or both?
A blank cheque you flaunt
To cash as you wish
But can't you condescend to a negotiating
Table when a mere sapling is marked
For a cutting down?
Being a professional boxer
Long in this senseless trade
You should have seen the heap
Of pain you would leave
In my heart by this cruel blow
Against a budding amateur whom
You have served voracious earth
Whose stomach is a leaking tank.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 5:22 AM UTC
Were you born in '98?
so was I.
let's do the maths.
that makes you fifteen,
even sweet sixteen.
Methuselah, not my name.
not even my middle fame, unclaimed.
Course meaning clear!
Lived a long time coming,
Picked up yesterday my three year old boy,
Third of a third of a third of a third
Of a half of me,
Who I only see once a year,
And we fell in love once again,
all over as is our style,
Annually, annuellement.
Went to the cemetery
Go once a year,
Where they have buried
The lineage.
On the first,
From near two millennium ago,
And upon the each of and the
every one of his descendants,
Psalm 37:37.
They wrote
upon their markers
David's words
לז שְׁמָר-תָּם, וּרְאֵה יָשָׁר: כִּי-אַחֲרִית לְאִישׁ שָׁלוֹם. 37
Mark the man of integrity,
and behold the upright;
for there is a future for
the man of peace.
An enticing blessing, and curse,
A passed down warning goal.
What's this got to do me,
I got love, poetry, and
French, geometry, and history,
And cute boys on Facebook to study!
Plenty.
You were once three.
You will be someday
Not just fifteen, sixteen, but
Three hundred and fifteen
Just like me.
Your cells will be embedded in
Others,
So take care mr and miss 1998,
On that banner, wrapped
across your chest,
If you win the contest
Of a good life,
Better write down something smart
That is worth living for,
On the palm of you hand.
Tattoo it where you will see it
Everyday, and in your mind
Inescapable.
Then press it upon the skin
Of that three year baby boy,
For that is what this has to do with
You.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
O living being... how long alive?
Through the ages I've survived
Through war and peace, abundant thirst
Of all that's living, I was first
O living being... what have you seen?
A forest coast, a rocky green
A bird to float, a cloud to wing
A wave to wash, a sand to sing
A maid to rise, a king to fall
A peasant wise, I've seen it all
O living being... what have you heard?
A poet's hush, a silent word
A trumpet's bleat, a woodwind's blare
A piercing crowd, a noisy stare
A cymbal's trill, a fluted crash
A dynasty of smoke and ash
O living being... what do you know?
A rapid sloth, a hare that's slow
A solemn kiss, a passionate oath
Yes, young man, I've seen them both
The wise to boast, the fool to swear
The sun to glint, the stars to glare
O living being... I stand in awe
Surely you're Methuselah.
Soul Survivor
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Cicada shells and sunshine a southern summer brings.
Mason jars intended for storing crops through winter
line a porch filled with tea candles and hemp cords twined up
through the lids to the ceiling of a porch. Birds fly over
a view of the graveyard across the road where May is
buried year round. The grass, green now, is crisp as gin
and sharp as black umbrellas and hushes at a wet grave
he saw through a cracked window. Once pearls and suits were wet
by bubble bath romping, perfume, and drunken wine stains
in the corpse's own home. It happened in November
over a swirl of cream in black coffee-the cracking
of the glass. A sparrow's body on the porch outside
and the fearful pottery shattered on the white floor
around bare feet. Cicada shells were long buried but
night gin was still crisp in the face of new death and old
truths: death and taxes, morning breath and sharp hangovers
are a part of the unraveling of becoming.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Deformity of rationale’s depletion of reserve
Cast derelict to the wind,
A vacant stare’s indifference states
A reluctance to rescind.
For terms spat forth in anger’s heat
Have cut the issues thrice,
So reconciliation’s overtures
Just cannot cut the ice.
To bake the cake of spleen so vile
Has soured the very meal,
And words of curt contrition
Now, seem trite and quite unreal.
Retraction treads a hopeless path
Offended ears refuse
And apology’s bland excess
Just infuriates to abuse.
The battle ground awaits you
As the bright red poppies sway,
Do you gird yourself for bloodshed
Or turn and walk away?
Remember, there’s tomorrow
Where a day just could well rise,
To promise reappraisal’s hopes
…Forgiveness and surprise?
To hell with it Methuselah
Let Trumpets scream their din,
I long to sate revenge’s thirst
Make Anger’s War begin!
Marshalg
Approaching the ragged end of anger.
9 May 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
neither united
nor separated,
lovers
we’ve been
for ages
our love
older than
the methuselah
in far away Libra
no distance quells it
no fire burns it
no weapons dare
destroy it
not even
the death sword of shiva
i’m yours!
just like water
from rain clouds
becomes a part of the ocean
forever and ever
© 2019
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 1:55 PM UTC
Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.
Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.
Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.
Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
With stem cell therapy, one day,
we may keep old age and death at bay.
Immune response can be restored
from a pharmacological horde.
Folks aged a century or more
will still be limber, never sore.
It's possible a child born today
might live a millennium, scientists say
Imagine Methuselah on a date
with some sweet young thing
who was born too late
I wonder if the ageless geezer
will have the wherewithal to please her.
A small blue pill will help him score
when all his peers are ancient lore.
If she be coy, it t'were no crime
cause he has all the world and time.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
when I asked how long I would live
my father told me about you
to comfort to my six year old ears
he saw, perchance, I was no longer beguiled
by the ignorant innocent myth
of immortality, on the same night
he spoke of infinite electrons
spinning in a car dome light
strangely, I knew,
even when the car door closed
those energized specs would spin forever
and dance about on a minute stage
when Methuselah was nothing
but words on an ancient page
still I saw his long white beard
counted his earthly years,
and asked father
if my number would be as great,
perhaps colluding to avoid my fate,
as the oldest man who ever lived
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
The learn-ed scientist declared;
" The time has come that I,
by virtue of my own brilliance
will never have to die!"
"I engineered my own Genome
to keep me young and spry."
Indeed, by all appearances
the Doctor's boast seemed true.
His skin was supple like a child's
Though he was eighty two.
His pulse was firm and regular,
His body ripped and lean.
If not for his celebrity
you might think him eighteen.
" I am like the gods themselves-
Immortal is my glory"
The Fates laughed at his insolence
and chose to end his story.
Their Machina Ex Deus
was a drunk who drove a lorry.
Man may match Methuselah
if Science lights his way.
Still irony comes from above
and only Donkeys bray.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
Methuselah went gallivanting around town with some jail bait. When a mysterious person with a bag on their head with the word "Yuck" on it crossed their path. The person began to inform them all about the dark arts and practical black magic.
And attempted to peddle stolen his and her towels to them. Passing it off as homemade genuine hand crafted cloths . When they were just used rags with faded embroidering on them.
Neither Methuselah or his jail bait had the wherewithal to purchase the lousy linens.
Methuselah showed the Bag-headed person his empty pockets.
The person shook their head in affirmation and took the bag off to reveal the face of a woman with no eyebrows and the number "96403" on her left cheek.
She put the towels in the bag and went on her way. The jail bait and Methuselah went to a motel that night to get busy .
The young man at check in said he was sorry because there were no towels in their room.
To both their surprise two bags were there hanging on the rack instead.
One said "Odium", the other said "Pang".
-Tommy Johnson
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
In the private hostel
and
a tiny bit of gospel
because we still have to
sing for our supper.
They still try to sell you
on things that they tell you
and we listen and
pretend we believe.
I saw Satan in the soup dish
and an angel in the cake,
fourteen knights and old King Arthur
who were
standing by the lake
I take communion with the lady
in the shower meant for men
and a mass for me at midnight
when the lady comes again.
We are eighteen carat diamonds
Methuselah wears us well
and we're in the private hostel
halfway home
half way to hell.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Sat next to an old timer down at the shop last week,
he looked older than Methuselah,
piercing blue eyes surrounded by red,
seemed nearly dead,
like he’d been crying for a century.
He told me he was from Tennessee,
another good old Southern boy like me
& we got to talking about all kinds of things.
We ran at the jaw from baseball to politics,
frolics & war, even diamond rings.
I learned he was a fellow veteran,
said he had worked on the big boy
during the last big one,
said it wasn’t much fun,
but they were sworn to secrecy
to do it.
I pondered for a second or two,
knew exactly what he was talking about,
that Manhattan Project,
the huge mushroom-bomb!
Being a kindred soldier,
I leaned over, knew I was safe,
& asked him how he felt,
how he felt about its effects,
all that killing.
It got really quiet, eerily silent,
then he looked at me
& with a lone tear
rolling down his wrinkled cheek,
replied,
“Son, they killed my brother
in the Pacific, which killed
my mother in Cypress Creek,
which killed all my childhood dreams.”
Strange,
how
killing
trickles
downhill.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
It is
The greying stones of old buildings
Weathered people
The palpable cinders of coffin stains
Draped flags Drooped heads and Drained faces
Sequoia’s ancient as Methuselah Falling in once lush meadows
It is
Diesel and gold, and diamonds
It is, dictators and conservatives
It is murderers and mutilation
It is the lies we tell to children
It is the scars on my brothers back
It is religion and regalia
It is an indifferent and inhumane god
It is the desperate stare of the ravening children
And it is life.
And you deign to tell me I need
Your god.
I hope we can teach him
how to love…
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
The young who wizen
Leave me grieving until my breathing stops.
For many years I wallowed
With old photos.
One of Jim sporting a cast,
Holding court with a circle of friends
In the damp cement cellar.
No more lines to flip,
No visages to make us laugh.
I used to hear his favourite tunes
Coming from his room.
Your's is a great loss,
A terrible trouble.
At sixteen we knew he was
A young Methuselah:
Green on the vine,
Unaged wine, a bitter pill.
Dying, dying, dying.
To love him was to leave him
In his last dark hours.
No brother could do more.
I feel the soft parting touch of his warm hand
After so many years.
And you, bold , and shy of seventeen,
You wrote, and I saved it, unexpectedly:
“Peacocks dabbling through the wind
Were the spectrum of her eyes.”
I knew I'd use it someday.
Today.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Is there a difference between seventy and two hundred?
Does a man accomplish more with a sick body and addled mind
Old like a tortoise or
methuselah from biblical times
Does he seek destiny in a cup of tea
Hoping for a spark
To see
And and and
Time moveth along
How long in the tooth or
Deep in the bone
To the marrow ?
The crushing of the soul
How many stacked?
Bodies are totalled ?
How many have passed..
Besides
My mother and father
Who will remember?
Who is there to recall
The endless tasks and
Hours
Like stacked bricks
In a wall
Time may not be the villain
Procrastination
And things taken for granted
I will walk upon the soil
When this earth is a dark dead planet
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
the sun does not rise in the west it rises in the east and it sets in
the west and the concept of becoming and unbecoming every single
day and night still foolishly drives me into finding comfort that
we are both awake and asleep at the exact same time.
there are approximately 266 miles between us four hours in length
and we still both rise and set at the exact same time. but you
are not the sun. i am not the sun. neither of us are stars in the galaxy
we are only people who dare to write each other in the sky as
if the moon had anything to do with true love. you say that star
metaphors and analogies are over rated and i agree. but what else
is there to compare you to when you are as far away as methuselah
and you are as problematic as the north star because no matter
how many times it is explained to me i can never find it. i just know
that it is there. we are not stars in the universe. he is not the sun and
neither am i. but i swear to whatever being out there that when
he told me he loved me i felt as infinite as the milky way and perhaps that
is why i don't want this year to end because stars are born to die
and i fear i am slowly becoming pluto
(h.l.)
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Surprise
surprise
even the veins write lines
inside my eyes.
When I sleep
which I do,
I shoot up the ink
that makes me blink
more lines.
I need no pat on the shoulder
no cat for me because I'm older
Methuselah lives next door
and he has the ***** of Babylon
that keeps
him young and big
and strong.
Not for me,
I love the pain
I like being the bain
of my own life
and words more words
there's always more
come knocking on the bedroom door
prying into eyes and spying out the
land
some other hand writes the lines that line
the artery
but I can see it,
just as I got over Casanova
Judy punches me,
I felt it
the belt, it
hit me like
she meant it.
it's la di da as far as it can be or
all tickety boo to you.
The meds are wearing off right now
the portcullis lowers down
the castle guards are keeping watch
in this great Northern..
..did I say
they all wear gowns of heavy pink brocade?
they'll feed me lemonade laced with cyanide
must keep my eyes opened wide to
write lines with veins where all are class five choo choo trains
it's only being insane that keeps sane
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
I miss you more than u know my dear friend
I remember you more than any body care to know;
I am mad at you more than you ever know for leaving.
I also know your father and mother miss you more than
I, we have all been crying since your passing away
I don't know why God allow death to rob us of you, but
I now understood that death will be the ruin of everyone including
I -by taking away all the good people that we love most.
I feel the pain of your death more deeply because
I felt you were a goodman with a great career and
I knew you would had Made a difference.
I had wish you had more time on earth like Methuselah had and
I do hope you make it to heaven so you can tell my mother that
I miss her a lot as you both walk in the city of light.
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
The ancient one
sits alone
in silence
Though ages pass
age old bark; strong
to outlast the graying mountains
to outlive the bearded turtle
The archaic author
Time's story etched in wood
before pen
before pencil
before feather and slab
Your body will tell the tale of a
thousand years' journey. hence
Scholar of sage
When all have gone
come and pass
and the hands of time have ticked their last
You will remain, here to stay
All alone, a memento
Of a thousand years' triumph
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
Delusional.
Bipolar.
Schizophrenic.
Unable to provide for the basic necessities of life.
Condemned.
I sat just outside
The decrepit courtroom,
Staring at the middle aged children;
G-d's miracles.
A soft voice startled me from below.
I saw a broken man in front of me kneeling
On the floor.
"I am Methuselah" he whispered.
"May I wash your feet?"
I think I recognized him.
Two weeks before in the crowded courtroom
He had bared
His soul before everyone,
Yet they would not let him leave.
I remember pieces of my conversation with the bailiff,
"Can you imagine living his permanent nightmare?
Can you imagine
Believing that your parents are dead,
Mourning for so many years?
Then hearing your sister testify
That they are still alive?
And knowing . . . she is lying,
So that they can lock you up again?"
"Excuse me, sir. I saw you from across
The room; there is a holiness about you.
May I wash your feet?"
I looked into his face,
His glassy eyes, his trembling lips.
I don't know why
But at that moment he reminded me of a boy.
I wanted to help him,
To cure him, to raise him up, to help him see.
I wanted to remind him of his name.
"No thank you." I told him.
"Please sit down."
He gingerly took the seat beside me.
"A fate has befallen me.
I do not know . . . "
He seemed to struggle for command
Of his words,
I wanted to reach out to him, to make him feel necessary.
"Methuselah is a name in the Bible. . ."
But words failed me as well.
What right did I have; who permitted me to trespass
On his life?
If I was helping him, why did I feel so guilty?
"Something holy about you
Drew me over here.
Who are you?
Can you tell me how to find love?"
We talked together then,
About his family, his marriage, love, and G-d.
He wrote down his address as they came to take him home
Then smiled as if for the first time.
A few minutes later, lost in thought
I looked at the wrinkled
Brown paper he had torn
From his bag and read his name.
It did not say Methuselah.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC