"senescent" poems
*The chill in the frigid night air
casts tremors of lingering shadows
upon an ancient windowsill
where a liquescent candle’s glow dims.
Peering into shattered mirrors’
silver hued jagged edges
that no longer reflect counterfeit images
a nascent paradigm unfurls in the wind.
Terrifying diminutive steps are taken
in directions au courant
enabled by years of refinement
in torrid near incessant fires.
An excrescence of wisdom
has broken the weathered mold
allowing a senescent wisdom
to shimmer a phosphorescent glow.
The venerable map leading
to this transcendent destination
is not read but perceived
through intuition’s faint whisperings.
©2015 janetaylor
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
Christmas
as usual, buttered
with senescent conversations
this year fizzed with a citrus dialogue
of scrunched ears, hot water bottle hugs
and altogether too much hair
on the smallest head
Dec 26, 2021
Dec 26, 2021 at 7:10 AM UTC
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
to cast an enchanting spell
A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
hastily, halting , frozen motionless
Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
In the blink of an eye,
with a vigor too rapid to capture,
as the nowness of urgency flashes ―
She stretches the earthworm
with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall becomes the long winterlude.
The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
of the giant tree’s golden splendor
Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.
Harbingers of spring…
Blueberry sneakers…
Gleaners of fall and winter..
“Teeek” “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
fills the overhead air
with a beautifully chaotic verve
The flock returns repeatedly to and fro the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash
The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
as if it were only an unspoken allusion
of the passing seasons
The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
into a break in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…
In the blink of an eye ... life’s senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
of a migrating beautiful mess
The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…
November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Oh ferocious angels,
lionesque children of Eden
on narrow streets and polluted alleyways
whispering cruel things to each other,
you're radiant in your belligerence
and as my enemies you are virtuous.
Beside me in this carpeted rectangle room
a faint glow exhales
from the tall alpine ivory lamp illuminating
firefly wings of blossoms
alluringly exuberant in the afternoon sun-ray
diamond shine and shimmer.
Dusty tin roofs billow
firewood smoke in the thick violet shade fog over-top cabin potted
mountains and hills sprouting firs and rose bushes abounding.
Spectrum cast chandeliers echo staircases which
jot up and up arduous ruby landings,
hardwood floor cracked
and stacks of novels ballast the senescent hallways
of bookshops where poets works and journals diaries and memoirs blur
the serpentine walls with memories.
Angelic the soul which is too often contaminated with
avarice rebellious to concord living
harmonious midst dew grass and calm waters in residential lakes
empathy equanimity, far from Bodhisattva.
Few kinds of darkness transcendental
subduing other darkness to a weak shadow.
There's an importance to admiring the delirium of metropolitan roads on roads
this intricate unspoken connection to those who
rest by stoplights and crawling traffic metallic molten aura of
cars in July heat.
Paying attention to the open window of adjacent apartments
where Mr. Norris waters his tulips and shares this moment
modern meditations practiced
finding a balance in such an anxious
volatile world like this.
Oh ferocious angels, impetuous
forlorn seraphs,
sing! sing and soar!
Boundless is our ardor
and our passion.
Unenclosed is the lion
in it's bloom.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC
The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land
The candle-snatch gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.
The mourn of the Moorland
Has feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn
As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
Like a giant Sequoia tree, well aged and outwardly still tall and firmly anchored
I proudly display, my outer senescent bark, but inside, I’m pitted and cankered
Still majestic and straight, branches spread, with fingered needles reaching for the sky
But at each limb joint, those cracks lay hidden; not yet visible, to the naked eye
Those blisters ravage and rage, at my inner trunk; but not, so you can clearly see
Hidden by the sap; like those morning rheum tears, which seep out and crust on me
I reach skyward, extend my branches to the sun; my sieve tubes there unplugged
But below, my veins congested, and my arteries full of sap, are fully clogged
And yet I stand, without an outward tremble; disguising well the tremors in my roots
With all my strength, I will them hold; do not cede, to the pain that in them shoots
I will perceiver; not able to bend with the wind, I stand firm still; until I break
Stiffen my resolve; until my fluids coagulate, and rigor mortise does me overtake
BOEMS BY JA 397
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
I am a broken teenage girl, unaware of my corrupt insanity
anxiety fills my conscience along with insidious darkness
I wonder why the world is so cold and painful, as frostbite is to my lips
a taste so bitter all forms of hope are demolished
I hear the voices of past souls, trying to advise me to turn around
but I persist to shield my ears, leading me to restless nights
I see shadows of my tormented past, guiding me to obscure loneliness
haunting me with past doubts and sorrow
I want to live my life without the regrets, regrets still chewing away at my being
unsympathetic to my cries of solitude
I am a broken teenage girl, unaware of the demons trying to attack me
oppressed by antiquated misery that dwells in the darkness of my mind
I pretend I don’t hear them shrieking my name
like a banshee in the celtic sea
I feel them gnawing at the depth of my perspectives
unable to see beyond the path of obstruction
I touch the feelings of joy and happiness, but am never able to grasp it
the guiding light seems to dim to darkness as my vision blurs to black
I worry that these demons will not flee
They vow bottomless wealth with a side of endless burning
I worry that they will eventually rule my mind body and soul
My senescent spirit is tempted by the sinister evils of the malicious ghouls hungry for empathy
I am a broken teenage girl, unaware of my corrupt insanity
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
***** windows open to frigid air,
hard wooden floors, cold black coffee,
mud caked on sneakers, filmy cobwebs lacing corners,
senescent Anne Beattie novels with yellowing pages,
stacks of mail, maybe if unopened will disappear,
dishes upon dishes, a pyramid toward the sky,
a dead Christmas tree,
no longer effervescent,
tinged grey,
incongruously picturesque.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:01 AM UTC
** why do the white gulls call? (everyday must have its poem)**
<>
the cries are intelligible,
each a separate story of:
patient waiting, of seas
unending waving, unchanging,
cycling, waiting, prophesying,
propelling history, retaining a
staining past, future similar...
why do the white gulls call?
for evening tide rapid approaching,
we may even have a decent sunset,
first worthy of being drunk toasted,
all reminders that this ordinary Monday,
has nearly escaped without an extraordinary
composition, you prone position negates
inspiration, so rouse yourself, rise taller
tribute due, tribute demanded, tribute needed,
that is why the gulls screech, fearful of lapse,
that poet will suppress what is compelled, no,
compulsed! the senescent days offer no excuse,
indeed, the time of limitation is nigh, is here,
the gulls know their history human, its lore,
needs foretelling, retelling, and keeping
humans come and go, but gull generations require
the prescient precision of their words, to define,
to record each day’s unique way of living/dying,
so they can become forebears of the future,
the passers down, of that they cannot exclaim well,
we humans are their heroes, living close by,
we carry the gulls thanks given, for skilled appreciation
so they cry out, is our poem be readied, for the day’s end
comes closer and* every day must have its poem!
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.
Stoic fingers as rusty girdles,
Grainy textures as the bare calluses of our hands.
Trap.
Grasshoppers.
Trap.
The Sun.
Trap.
Our lovers hearts.
Within it’s moral confines.
Casually unlearn the truth that
confinement leaves it absent of light,
rid of it’s senescent glow,
dead to grow.
Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
There’s a stranger in my house
I have seen him mope around
In some fuzzy bedroom slippers
and a faded dressing gown.
He somehow seems familiar
Though I cannot place the face
My memory retrieval seems
lost without a trace
Every time I see him
He is staring back intently
As if he too is searching
for a clue within his memory.
This morning he was back again
In a faded emerald robe-
You know, I have one like it-
Did he steal it, you suppose?
But that can’t be, I’m wearing it
I look up with a start
What a curse are full length mirrors
to a senescent aging ****
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
Although my reflection holds me physically accountable , 'tis with graduating , certain unstoppable effect of age that every striation upon this weary face would recall a bittersweet poetic page , life's prose under the tutelage of a senescent , life schooled man at peace with his looking glass ..
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Crow-bars as big
as an Oak,
or the head
of Egyptian alien
architects build desert
triads,
ten thousand buff
onyx oxen men
to remove the kite
height splinter
from a kitten's foot.
Somehow I'll hold
my tongue-
tied like cherry stems
cross-like
the national anthem
spools of yarn
big enough
to fill a football stadium
in colors of senescent
knit sweats
alternates with purrs
and claws.
How can one apologize
by way of ESP?
Or plead with ghost
dripped vows
stay up all night to write
while you were up
scratching the post.
I am remiss for not
admitting in all
the languages
of the world
I clearly
do not speak
in Morris code
or maybe cats
just can't read.
I thought I had,
let me try again.
I was wrong.
friends never say
goodbye
but lovers
so often do.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
storm clouds rising somewhere up ahead
blossoms tossing shadowed on the wind
skies are changing blue is running red
searching for forgiveness for our sins
in the darkness under forest cover
eyes that hide from hunters passing by
we hold these truths
clutched to us like our mother
we tell these stories hoping they're a lie
raindrops splashing fat upon the flowers
shaking leaves and dampening the ground
summer's waking thunder tolls the hour
what never has been lost cannot be found
young buds open now their time has come
senescent giants falling free the sun
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
It seems I’ve used up all my words... these so called tools of mine
To allow you exploration deep inside my heart,
within my mind
These pages lie in solitude, in darkened boxes...
left behind
Possibly to be discovered, senescent....
and there unsigned
Someday perhaps, some years from now my words are found... austere
Their meanings undefined, and so sadly...
feelings disappear
Can words on paper hold, what even now seems clouded...
so unclear?
The thoughts of one as me, who only sought...
to leave some comfort here
These pages now have seen another dark December…
come and gone
And so another year has passed, to leave my words...
therein withdrawn
Condemned to sad obscurity, endless evening...
endless dawn
To lie there unobserved, another tired...
ragged vagabond
They fill these dusty passe drawers,
my pages disregarded...lost
All of what I’ve written, so much time and effort...
God the cost
The nights spent lost in cold regret, for the frozen lines...
that I have crossed
I watch as now, upon my heart there lies a cutting...
bitter frost
The emptiness of thoughts unread, to fade...
throughout the ages
Ravaged by the hands of time, yellowed...
torn and tattered edges
Please believe me when I say, It’s cost me sorrows
cruel wages
These unseen words of mine, that lie dead and silent on…
The Pages.
Dean Evans
1-08-15
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
The wrinkled, old, decrepit Man of grey
Succumbs to death with graceful dignity,
In doing so, his senescent poignance
Reminds us all of our mortality.
In death he lives vicar’ously through us
And serves to show of our impending fray,
As we one day will live through those ‘neath us
Dead--As an old, decrepit Man of grey.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
Before the end it all took place,
I met a man who drew my face;
The paint decides the life it shows,
As ancient men like Plato knows...
for in that portrait I was king,
and people never knew a thing...
for eyes and heart showed innocence,
and in my heart remembrance...
although they'd never understand,
Yet here I sat with crutch in hand.
The portrait's old and incomplete;
that moment framed. Yet obsolete.
But once upon a time and place,
I meet this boy who draws my face;
I held a secret no one knows,
this memoir only wisdom shows...
through pain the art reveals a king,
but Aristotle caught a thing;
a childhood swiftly evanescent,
rare-like paint and senescent...
a boy with rope and kite in hand,
Unsure the world would understand...
thus birds not fly; I'll supersede.
Still not convinced if i'm complete.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
A slow rabble was the army tent
In the sense events commenced.
Lines lingered laughingly long
Senescent men intent in resentment
Furiously fighting fear.
Young men too, letting bravery ferment
Fools to the firmament.
Fate's Impertinent
Bent by torments underwent.
Who begged to be sent off to war?
Not me for sure; not anymore.
I won't ask why I was whisked away,
That I thought through though.
Wistfully waiting, I Inclined
To outline this old tale of mine
In the event I'm left behind.
So to whom it may concern,
Know you how my spirit burned!
Watch as I, while mortal
Fought foul fate, so much unearned
And how, with luck, I'll yet return.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC
I whispered a secret
to the senescent trees
while flowers breathe through
and as toadstools eavesdropped.
Within the wintry treeshades
I peeked through
the misty oceans above
upon where stealthy Mr.Thunder
has kept on skipping and hopping
and leaping from one silver cloud
over another, where for
every leap was a growling cloud
and for each brave growl
was a silver rainfall,
but poor Mr.Thunder
still couldn't give a good chase
to his fleeing rainbow chariot,
till it had sunken deep
skyrimming in the underclouds
to the mauvy meadows where
it had always frolicked through,
and me, in the underwoods
where we had always built
wreaths of purple memories
before soaking ourselves long
in the silvery mud,
bethinking in sunken moments
to just become ghosts
with only memories
because even rainbows leave.
Thursday with blue spirits
waiting for when would
this dreamy mind alight
from looking for
where my heart has crestfallen
deep at, how I had lost it.
So I bite into the mist
of the peeking dusk.
My bluest spirit has taken it,
a secret the sleepy woods know.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 4:40 PM UTC
studious skinny scruffy scribe
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sniggering,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning ********
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
What ails you, o youthful soul ?
An indelible writ, some trecherous dole?
The delusion, that is fate's generous design;
Or, some disowned yearning, you repine?
There, in the depths of the unseen
Athwart the moist groves, lush and green
With mirth flows the meandering brook,
Glistening with myriad shades, forbear, look ...
Here is an ethereal solace bestowed,
Unbreached by woes, is this tranquill abode.
In this serene woods, unspoken and kind
Abounds, what you desperately seek to find;
A moment's succor, a touch of the divine...
And what grieves you, frail, senescent being
The gloomy dusk, past the bountiful spring?
Mayhaps, the meagre share of ill-spent time,
Some futile persuits, worth not a dime...
There in the glades, the pansies bloom,
Gleeful, sans a hint of imminent doom,
Come summer; when spring shall fade
Those gay petals shall wither, ashen and dead
And yet they bloom, though death is nigh
The unassailable fate; do they ruefully deny?
The wherefores of being, who can wholly discern?
Well, dust we were and to dust shall turn...
In earth and clay shall our being, to eternity sublime.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap ****** lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching cellular skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC
Find one thing
Stare at it
until you
fall in
love
It is impossible not to
__________________________________
Stop making sounds just to indicate joy
If I was not here you would be dead silent
Is the presence of another so off-putting
Just do as you would there is no ploy
The world is ugly and violent
We don't see it much but stop ignoring it
Be joyful despite all the soul shredding ****
Be joyful in silence if it's your bent
Love everything that makes you senescent!
All your light comes from small explosions
All your explosions are revelations
So stop just making sounds
And learn something
The world is a teacher that God gives us all
Lesson one is that each of us is terrible in a terribly unoriginal way
Look closely
There is such Joy in that
Lesson two is that it isn't in you,
Nor is Joy hiding under some rock waiting to be found
Joy has told you where it is
It is dancing with Love in God's glory
Those are the lessons
Please
Join them
I promise it is better than just making happy sounds
I promise it is better than the fleeting feelings of happiness
Better than the make-up you put on every morning
Better than the pale replicas that your broken heart has confused it for
Better than every last inch of this world
You will explode into tears of joy
And Joy, Peace, Love, Beauty, and Grace
Will hold you
And then in silence you will know
That all the happy sounds you used to just make
Were agony
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC