"oldman" poems
(Classic music playing, people with masks are dancing)
I was once invited into a fairytale-like occasion
Yes, it's true, it's not a delusion
An event where I can hide my identity
A place of silence, an oasis of serenity
A place where I couldn't recognize faces
But I can hear their distinct tone of voices
Some sits quiet, pretending to be mysterious
Some keep it real, yet they look so serious
People will judge you in the attire you wear
That will give you an uneasy feeling by their intimidating stare
What I wear is a suit colored like the sun
Given and knitted by my lovely oldman
(A man shouts, *"this is the moment for the final dance
Grab your partners now for a tremendous performance"*)
As I roam, I saw someone alone in a room
Wearing a tiara symbolizes the moon
She was in tears, holding a glass of whine
I realized she isn't fine
I walk towards her to offer my hanky
She grab it to wiped her tears then she smiled at me
Oh, she exhibits her glossy red lips
Crossing paths with her feels like eclipse
Her eyes shining bright likes the stars in the galaxy
I'm so in love in this blissful remedy
I can see through the facade and tell she's in distress
I also can feel the sorrowful sensation in my chest
(The emcee shouts again for the last time,
"We'll now be playing the last song in line")
When I heard the emcee, I questioned myself "what to do?"
I told my self, "I'm gonna dance her that's what I need to"
I didn't let anxiety rush in, so I close the doors for it
Final count, And I said in the final minute,
**"You are worth beyond that mask,
Just one dance, that is all I ask"**
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
The blood
A short
slim athlete
Running
In track filled with holes
Like beehive
Asphalted on the ground
All that
Is for an oldman
To raise his tall from a dining table
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
With head bowed and eyelids sealed in prayer,
an Arapahoe youth crouched atop Old Man Mountain
waiting alone in silence for a dream to come -
a dream to reveal the course of his future days.
A rush of wind bent and shook the silvery aspens
and the breath of his ancestors came and whispered,
“You are to be a shepherd of the mountains.
You will gather and tend the sheep of the slopes
that your people may gain warmth and shelter
against winter’s harshest chill and searing winds.”
Guided by the moon and morning constellations,
the youth, now elevated to manhood
descended the mountain with joy-filled heart
to reveal his vision to his people.
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Drifting happily in its sea of mountain air,
Growing heavy, it gives life to the earth,
Rolling hills spotted with evergreens,
Oldman River wizened with the flow of time,
Nature’s wall reaching to the heavens,
Emerald valleys, Castle in the Clouds,
Golden eagle hunts for prey.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Looking out through the window of his lonely cottage
The old man vacantly gazed,
At the lazy curl of smoke from the chimneys
His eyes further wandered over
to the dew dampened meadows
And the sloping paths that ran round
Over them how many times, he had rambled leisurely
With Jack, his spaniel that died a few months ago
Though single with no legacy to leave behind
Never before he felt so lonely as of late
And the memories of his dog keep haunting him.
One morning he found his dog lying stretched out
Alas! From that slumber, he didn’t rise!
Now with nothing to look forward to in life
He is in no hurry to leave his cottage as before
Each day starts with the same ritual
Every day the old man would brew his tea
Pour it steaming into his large porcelain mug
And gets settled on a chair by the table
Looking through the small window,
His main opening into the wider world
Sometimes from the pantry
He would bring a can of biscuits
And munch a few along with his cup of tea
This, he did as an unfailing routine
When his dog Jack was with him!
Every morning the dog would be there at his feet
Its greedy eyes glued to the biscuits in his hand
When there was but just one left with him,
He would lift the biscuit right over the dog’s head
A cue for Jack to stand up and have his share
When it rises up wagging its tail in joy
Sometimes he would place his fore finger on his lips
And the dog discerning what its master meant
Would soon sit down obediently and remain quiet
When he got convinced that Jack took his orders,
He would hold the biscuit between his fingers.
When on its hind legs it rises, balancing into a waltzing step,
The biscuit would be dropped into its gaping mouth!
Now each day as he sips his tea
He sorely misses his dog and its pranks
His world is so cold and he feels so lost
Once his dog shared his board and owned his bed
More than ever he missed him now
Who stood so faithful unto the last
With mist blurring his eyes and with a sigh
The old man once more looked into the meadows far away!
May 26, 2021
May 26, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
I hated you so much for making me your slave,
Stoled everything I had from me.
You made our family life miserable,
And I blame you for my mother's death.
Now you are in the death bed,
And am I suppose to feel for you?
You would think I would feel certain level of sympathy to your current circumstance, but I feel numbness in this endeavor.
You think I would feel at least an empathy,
But your diabetes got the best of you,
Because you never listened to the warnings.
I feel this coldness in me like the Minnesota winter,
And I thought I would never have to go back.
Do you want me to ask for your forgiveness oldman?
I have no desire to go to Minnesota for you,
And whatever is left of your son died in me.
What the hell am I suppose to feel?
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
We live,
We suffer long enough
To die,
Ask a man , old,
Older than those streets,
Who moulds memories in the footpath
Of misery,
1 or a million die in his existence
Still he lives,
He lives In those ashes n graves
And questions,
Is he a boon or so unloved to be betrayed by death,
His bones tremble n crack,
Lifting weight of dead
Dead that were ones alive
To make him stop question
That why he lives,
Now as he narrows down
His vision to embrace,
He personifies
His desperation to die,
Be it the scarf or the pen,
Or Rotting in the fen,
Or bathing in the acid,
Or not so happy ig placid,
Be it the snakes or the worms,
Or leaches in their throngs,
Devouring his curse,
As he crumble down his purse,
He whisper to his lady,
Who lives in her arcady,
They will cross their paths aboon,
As he still thinks,
He will get his death so soon.
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 12:45 PM UTC
Strange how 28 years of life I have lived in Minnesota felt so foreign as I delve around the city, but feeling bitter sweet knowing I will be going back to Kentucky tomorrow.
I definitely have not missed Minnesota fall with drizzling rain, and the cold air that overwhelm the city, but the city lights are hopping as usual.
How I missed the cultural buildings, and the fashion that truly define Minnesota, but saddening to have missed the art museums or theaters.
As of late it seems family gathering is what binds me to this place, and even though I have lost all senses or care for him, watching him in his weak state makes me vulnerable. I hate feeling weak, or having no control over my emotional state. While I have kept positive reinforcement with my oldman's prospect, deep down I felt uncomfortable about the surrounding.
In all retrospect however it was good to see relatives and friends, and I wish I could have prolonged my visit for another week to catch up with people I've missed, but my life in Kentucky have been written in stone. Only vacation or family duty would allow me to leave Kentucky, and it seems it is another good bye for now.
Take good care Minnesota, and hope to see you again.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
Crisp mornings.
The crispness inflamed the soles of my stem.
I shiver at the thought.
The shiver ponders my mind to the last days I ....
Enough.
The succulent hands of the summer breeze is here.
Myself and the other folks sway and cheer,
sitting on the tailored twigs of Oldman the oak tree.
Spencer the sun glazing our trichomes.
Warmth.
We exchange gentle rustling two and fro,
like the sound of an ancient ***** awaiting to uplift the show.
Blackbirds and wood pigeons in the air,
up against each other to strike the berry in the bush goal.
What a perfect life I’m pleased to see.
Maggie magpie why do you perch on my branch so?
your bewitching colours like a piercing cry,
surely I’m not yet to..
The howling of the clouds,
the punches of lightening,
The heavens they open,
good gracious how frightening.
The kicks of the autumn breeze is here.
Stomata is failing.
Stomata is failing.
I’m latching onto the twig,
my ancient armchair.
Carotenoids and Xanthophyll’s,
dehydrated wrinkly skin.
Gut wrenching red anthocyanin,
like lucifer leukaemia stabbing my soul.
Crisp mornings.
I disconnect.
I fall.
I hit.
I lay.
In the flurries of snow,
amongst my other folks.
Oldman the oak tree hospice is empty once again.
RIP
Justine Louisy
Copyright © Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
My dear, erudite fellow…!
Schemed and skilled in academic prowess
Celebrated at your time as accomplished
At your season you were adhered and revered
Extol in your adorn ceremonial gown and cap
That Season are memories well celebrated and spoken of
But seasons come, seasons go!
Old seasons heralds’ new seasons
And yet new season another season
Seasons come in succession and progression
One birthing another, for yet another
And another like in circles
No! not circles of rounds but pyramids of circles
Changing hypotheses Progressing humanity;
Nomenclatures of human existence needing no divinations.
However, Human perversions; greed, pride, and more….
Configurations that have nibbled nature and time scheduled blessings:
A beautiful life, charming nature, a gift scuttled by vein makeups.
Make-ups that changes originality and mars the truth!
Sir, your celebrated research and findings were great yesterday
Beautiful yesterday was history for great tomorrow to cope.
Oh! Beautiful yesterday, salty today not fit tomorrow
The irony of seasons gift of nature but welcomed
Welcomed like the plantains stems that plans its maturity and gives way.
Do we say more?
Of the pumpkins that spreads its hands and tips, anchor its support to grow and births great seeds to replace itself
For posterity is in the replication of self in truth and character:
The excellence of continued originality in human search and psyche
This is the Hallmark of Academic definitions and redefinitions.
Societal evolutions pass on from age to age, from generation to generation.
Wither re’ you’ sir?
-________________________________________________
_________________________________________________ ________________________________________________
Deep seethed question you only can answer.
But you ought to know this…...!
The ground is not strong enough to stop sprouting young seeds.
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 8:36 AM UTC