Too old..
No wrinkles just sagging skin. Loose strands of black hair shuffle between my thighs why? Because I’m too old. Elbow skin tough, rugged soul like wrangler jeans but with impromptu feelings of unsatisfactory thoughts as I scan my teacher I realize, I ain’t shit my ass is too old. Start over and get your life is a scream of tantrum of my inner Tamar who is holding up a force field shield to protect my heart. My heart, why is it so fragile with feelings and emotions because my ass is old!. My gut is not as strong so I can’t tolerate too much ignorance at one time why? Because my ass is old.
Trying to figure out what the hell Maya Angelou be talking about in her poems was as baffling as to watch a slain gang member funeral on live tv. Praise and acknowledge me now, not when I can’t see you coming because my ass is old. Old is a proxy label of degrading your youth to a uncertainty of confusion and accepting the demise to understand and accept your time is dwindling.
iPad in hand with numb fingertips trying to get your point across to a room of undeveloped ovaries is a procrastination of post it’s googling life but not understanding it. Demonstrating your true self within your herd community protects you until a virus of negativity slowly creeps in and infects us all. I can’t live your world, I can’t wait for you to formulate the confusion that sits in the palm of your hand I am too old and set in my ways.
Waist training spirits with a Herbalife spark is motivation to some but it’s my enemy. Why because I’m old. I’m so old that my cursive writing is reverting to pre school chicken scratch before my fingertips. My oldness have taken over my spirt and is arguing me down that Air Jordan’s at my age is a reach for acceptance within my urban playground.
My youth left me at the age of 21 when I birthed my first son. I knew I was gonna be old like right now. I cried at the sight of my abdomen looking like a balled up trash bag,I screamed when my breast looked beat up, I yelled when my hair was shedding and my teeth was hurting due to this oversized cocoon I just hatched.
Now that’s old ass hell, when you consider your uterus as an cocoon.
"It's been over a year.
I realize,
eyes playing about on dates
of the calender.
Suddenly thinking
back to a year before,
days exactly 364.
So, less than a year,
by hours. When the
lips that pressed were ours.
When our fingers intertwined,
when we felt each others' bodies,
souls, mind.
So wrong, so forbidden,
it felt right.
Written into passing,
the scripts and screenplay
of night-time stays,
never staying until morning.
Visits,
door left unlocked,
just in case.
Offered, often heard,
only once utilized.
She always said she would.
Eventually.
She did,
softly cooing my name,
pulling me out of my slumber,
and instantly hopping into my bed,
my arms, pulling her close.
My warm bare skin
juxtaposed to her cold clothing.
We soon matched.
There was no lack
of mutual attraction,
no shortage of constant communication,
trips, adventures,
ridiculous confessions
and straight-forward denial.
I denied I did wrong,
to myself.
Who knows how she felt.
All I know
is that she felt good,
she felt like home,
like I belonged.
Longing for her scent,
I still remember
how it drove me wild.
Past-tense,
as she liked to point out.
It's a lie,
there is nothing passed.
Though, once she asked
if she was hurting me.
I, misunderstanding,
replied, 'why, no,
it's my other shoulder
that's broken.'
She grinned,
leaning into my arms,
'no,' she said,
'this. Us.'
It hurt,
seeing her dog I grew to adore
slowly separate us on the couch
a year or so ago.
It hurts still
thinking of some details.
Fond memories,
so vivid, full of her laughter.
Haunted by scorn,
the scorn of several people,
over all that transpired.
You'd think a year
would wash it all away,
but nothing is past-tense.
Hence,
the dreams.
Thoughts I can't deny,
lying that they're gone.
They aren't.
I was told it was trouble,
I was warned.
But still I got in her car,
she got in mine.
She's a phone call away;
I don't have the heart
to dial,
knowing damn well
I'd immediately answer if she called.
Does she read my poetry?
Does she think of me?
Love me like I love her still?
I should have not turned my cheek.
I should have came to her rescue
against canine off-leash.
But I didn't.
And I wish I had.
Instead, all I have
is a book with edits,
another that's a gift
belonging to her,
one of her favorites.
We even shared a quote,
'Never lend a book.'
An act of affection instead,
one of several.
She never said the words,
but she gave me many gifts.
It started with a cold can.
That's how she loved me.
I wish I had realized it
a year or so ago."
I remember when I was young I was with my dad in our ranch, and he had set up a contraption on the table. At the time I didn’t know what it was, I just knew that it was a big box with some knobs and needles to indicate something, and while I was looking at that contraption my dad was wrapping some copper wire to a slim but big square of wood. Afterwards, he told me what he was doing, he was making an antenna for the contraption, which was like a radio, at first I remember not understanding because I hadn´t seen that kind of radios in my life, he then told me how that was a long distance radio that could pick up signals from really far away. The next day I noticed how he always liked to listen to the radio, in total he has 3 high quality radios that he uses, although he used to have four, one of them was accidentally destroyed by me when I was a little kid, he usually uses his radio to hear some soccer games, but once in a while he uses part of his time to listen to other stations from around the world. He has told me that when he was a student, he heard the news from other countries and learned how radios work, it is quite fascinating. I believe that his love for radios started since he was a child and he bought a HAM radio kit and he assembled it, then when he was a teen he worked on summer break and what he decided to do during that vacation was to buy something for his dad. So he bought a radio that was expensive at the time, and that is when he really got a passion for them, at the beginning I didn’t understand why he liked to use them so much, but then I understood that it was because he has used them all his life and he does not need to see an image to imagine what is happening, that is why he can easily hear a soccer match or a college football game without losing focus. This love for radios made my dad a great listener, he can listen to people for hours, and that is something I was not aware until now.
"The coffee shop,
where in the middle of the block,
it had started;
where they met.
Their headquarters,
where they rested
over iced drinks
after a long skate.
Old friends,
young men,
two, not the same blood
or kin
shake hands
and embrace the others grin,
a tight squeeze
given to each.
Brothers,
such a tight bond
with so little time,
sealed the deal
of interlocking
storylines,
adventures and shared
scrapes.
Escaping near death,
falling off boards onto wrists,
downhill descent
screaming past parked cars,
wherein that itself
is a rare occurance
when once was daily.
Temperature varied,
as did the places they'd
hunker down,
sweating,
stopping to have a drink.
Seperated by little,
attached at the hip,
it seemed. Until
life happened,
having sent the older
away for summmer,
the younger away for the rest,
testing himself and his brain.
Drumming away,
marching on by,
the two had lives
blur on by,
spiraling in different directions,
story arcs and sidequests,
conquests coloring the night,
but by and by,
when guest apperances
would transpire,
everything dropped
to meet one another,
the bond was made stronger
with the short time
it had to cure.
Not to say
neither were lost,
but both stepped in confidence.
Always looking ahead,
but once they were together,
unspoken,
to each love was gave.
Brotherly love,
concrete waves."
I opened my eyes another day seeing only
the same endless ocean. This beautiful,
disheartening endless ocean.
A ship with the possibilities to be seen for
many miles. Yet, the oceans waves taunt me
with its excessive, dramatic waves.
Concealing me from the eyes of others.
This ocean; my best friend, my enemy. The
reason I have discovered the woes of
isolation.
Daily I wake up with a heart's desire to see
land, to move onward in my life's journey.
The oceans jealousy believes its memories
will be lost, but never. I vow! Caring
nothing for my hearts desire, yet it
mocks me with possibilities. Possibilities
that I might one day feel and experience what is now only memories.
my months spent crying, pleading, full of
hateful anger changed nothing. As I awoke
my eyes each morning was locked on the
same blue ocean floor. Deep waves, cool
breezes, moving deep sea passer-bys of the unknown.
I potentially die from the thought of
marriage to this mountain of beautiful
misery.
Years of plotting my escape proved to b
e act of a dreamer, not a doer.
My heart has grown numb and in my numbness, its torture lacks the effect it once had. I scream to all, my voice stripped and dry, barely heard by even the wind.
the silence of my unheard words replaced with the crashes of ocean waves; I will never submit.
Even while my knees have bent and come closer and closer to the panels of stained wood.
I seemingly lose the courage to keep with my
vow to never submit, yet my vow to leave
this prison of cumbersome water has
engulfed me in disillusion.
In my lucid thoughts, I mumble of its
devilish games. The games that I will never willingly accept.
I listen to its illustrious melody. I am its mistress, a
the battle that seems impossible.
I am lost...
I am weak...
I will FIGHT till death approaches me.
"Almost tiring,
the bump of the shoulders passing by,
the hallways so full of students, mean,
their intentions unknown to what they vie.
But the Janitor,
mop handle twisting in wrists,
cleans the bustling halls, murder
of the sparkling floors committed with fervor.
Moreover, the students don't care!
But no matter, the Janitor smiles as he cleans,
leaning on his swab bucket, no flair
for how unfair redoing the swab job is.
But now it is after five,
the older gentleman is working his way up and down,
the passageways now empty,
all the students long gone home.
Quite the opposite scene,
from when the school was full,
a loud and swarming event, specifcally
during the lunch periods.
And during those times? While constantly
going back and forth, picking up spills
and keeping the floor clean,
he even feels grumpy.
But only now at this momement,
a longing, a forlorn feeling wraps itself
over the un-bumped shoulders of the man,
alone, doing his job.
The sudden wish the students were there,
to fill the empty space he cleans,
the abandoned place to fill up soon,
but not a moment too late, he steams.
All the moments that he's spent,
breaking up a fight between two boys,
frankly taking both collars in each hand
and talking to them sharply, they listened.
The time he talked to the crying girl,
leaning on the mop handle, wise counsel
spewed at a comforting rate to the young one
who had her first broken heart.
Or the time he tutored the troubled youth,
not in math or english but in life,
the boy sticking around while he cleaned.
alone, his only brother having been knifed.
Every smile he evoked,
with silly, word-play jokes,
every time he snapped at young students passing by,
keeping the rowdy in line.
The old man now smiled himself,
finishing up the entire school,
looking forward to the bustle to come,
the lockers that will slam, voices, loud.
The end of this feeling, eerie,
sudden, and no more farther then
when he will grumble, with a slight smile,
of the busy hallways where he will be bumped again."
In my heart, loneliness is brewing
Winter rain is greeting my backyard
Something from the past is calling
All the thought, memory, seems to fade
You did shed sunlight in my heart
Days by days of my life, I have wasted
Still, I am here, the same man
Empty hand, waiting for its old warmth
A man doesn’t last, but his feelings do
Poor old Mr. Crow slowly walking down the road
you can’t use your wings because you’ve gotten too old
You got blisters on your feet and it gives you the blues
never understood why birds had no shoes
Cars and trucks keep passing you by
throwing dust in your face and making you cry
You hold your head low with broken pride
if only you had thumbs you could hitch a ride
Just hang in there old friend
Life’s journey is just around the bend
You’ll make it to heaven and life will be complete
with a new pair of wings and clouds for those old tired feet
John Gabriel ©
Old man Charlie weeps
Drowns in sorrow he keeps
As old as hops brewed ale
Charlie of old gale
Old man Charlie seeks
Stability in seat
As old as hound who sleeps
Charlie of loose teeth
Old man Charlie finds
In due time, a divine
As old as church bell rings
Charlie of deep sleep