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Ivan Brooks Sr Apr 2019
If yesterday was an old man,
He would be old by now.
His hair and lashes would
Be full of shining grey hair
And walking with a Kane.
He would probably be frail
And proudly speaking of the
Good old days marred with
Conquests and exploits from
From his youthful adventures.
The intricate details of his flamboyant
Years and youthful antics and shenanigans would bring sparkles
To his old wrinkled face.
There would be tears in his eyes
When lamenting on love and sorrows...
Squinting his eyes and fumbling to
Find faded photographs hidden away
In ancient boxes from dusty shelves.

If yesterday was an old man,
He would speak between bad dentures
With shaky voice of an aging legend.
He would go on and on with tales
Of all the places he has been and
Calling the old names of cities and
People long gone but alive in his
Now on and off and fading memories.
He would talk about voyages taken aboard old vessels packed with ancient
Cargoes and Slaves and whale oil barrels.
He would recount stories of monsters
At sea and great beasts that once roamed the earth when it was young
And green and void of pollution.
About places and people and various
Cultures ,would be captivating stories
That young people would only imagine and listen in absolute awe, almost to a point of envy for his rich stories of a good life once lived in the past.

If yesterday was an old man, he would have a repetoire of ancient skills and knowledge that no one has today.He would talk about locomotives and steamships captained by bearded old sailors with horse drawn couches driven by hardened cowboys and couch men.
 If yesterday was an old man, he would talk about world war one and two like it was just yesterday.

If yesterday was an old man, he would know more of yesterday than today.

#IvanBrooksPoetry ©️
4.16.2019
Yesterday as an old man means everything new would be looked at through the old way.
Marci Mareburger Feb 2015
This is a precursor to everything to come in the next year. I believe if I begin to focus on stream of consciousness writing, my content may begin to resemble that of Bukowski or Poe but hopefully not as rapaciously violent or ominously insane. More specifically, I figure in my own storytelling fashion I will account my platonic relationships gone awry based on false pretenses established by reputation of the "societal self".  As well as the romantic relationships that I so eagerly sabotage(d) believing in the assigned repetoire cast upon me by others who believed in seductive over deductive reasoning. When someone calls you something for long enough, you begin to believe it. But unlike others, I can't drown my demons because they know how to swim. I seek catharsis and self definition. I seek growth and competency. I seek understanding, and I seek to turn my version of insanity into something that others can relate to or translate.
This isn't poetry but it's me.
Liana Veteto Apr 2013
Let me bask
In the excellence.
Let me wonder in the explosion
And add the new colors to my pallette.

This is mine
Such desolation
Can belong to none other
This is but another ode to my craftiness.

Pain is mine.
I create the victim
I conduct such an orchestra
And all these are players on my team.

I own it.
All destruction
That dare to befall me
Only adds to my repetoire of tricks.

[Please allow me to introduce myself...]
Derek DM Nov 2017
A green angry
bottle of ****
Nasty ogre of
endless remiss
In oozing
incountenance
Hammers in
breathy credence
Defy we they
Her that say so
And he that
cowers in every show
In so much greater
they number
The mess of my
horrid old lumber
Most definitely
Me
It's all that they
See

Despite from
this efforts
Being nice and
Laid comforts
An exhaustive
dumb repetoire
Of convulsive
nice quagmire
It is never enough
Just an affliction
of being
Damaging
Careening
A car on the ice
Another monsterous
device
In each day fro
And so it must end
There's no way to stop
never to mend.
My poetry has really gone to ****. It doesn't even matter.
monica Jul 2019
/
the shell of a girl i once was,
walks in my place with a smile,
small talks from my repetoire,
makes me seem worthwhile.

i regret the lines i have written,
remorse what i have not yet done,
with the fake image i hence became smitten,
no lies may second to none.

— The End —