old age



These days I sit


Old and grey

And always tired


At this late stage

Feeling bitter

Since I now have

Become a sitter


My body always

Hurts and aches

And often needs

To take rest breaks


I start out good

But fade real fast

And only dream

Of my youth past


I get so tired

When I crap

I need to take

A good long nap


And while I sit there

As I strain

I pray that I

Don’t burst a vein


My blood pressure

Goes so high

Those bulging sphincters

Make me cry


But I still know

That I am sweet

Cause my sugar levels

I still treat


If I go out

I don’t go far

Because I usually

Lose my car


So now I try

To stay at home

And do my shopping

On the phone

BOEMS BY JA 101     

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The Walking Cane

My 86 years old Great Grandmother always carries her walking cane anywhere. She is with it every day. Though she keeps forgetting it, she always keeps another stored. There were three canes in total, one for outside strolling, one for house roaming, and the last one for emergency uses. She kept one within each house of her piece of land, the other was hidden out of the kids’ sight.

She walked with the cane in a light hearted way. With great patience she always continued on her way. She walked all around her house and without anyone help did some of the house work. She cooked, and took care of the dog (which is now dead). In a meticulous way she accomplished all her tasks.

It was her fellow companion through sunny days, through rainy nights, in her sadness and her joys. It was always there literally holding up her weight and supporting her. And it did a great job at its duty.

My Great Grandmother welcomes us with here cane on her right side. She invites us in every time. There came the old lady attending us with all her heart. She left her cane while she sat, leaving it within hand’s reach. I often played with it when no one’s sight was on me. If anyone saw me playing with it, I was scold and told to leave the cane alone, even though my grandma was never mad at it. Instead she gave me a smile when she saw me playing with her cane, and she told my mom or aunt not to scold me for that.


It often served as my sword, my lance and even sometimes just a walking cane with which I played. Several fun years were spent with that cane. Until due to her old age, the cane was not enough for her. Now the cane was changed for a walker, as the cane will no longer suffice. Due to her age she was contrived to leave her cane behind. Now it walks no more. She now carries the walker all around, the cane no longer heeding her desire. Only one cane remains. Both the one for the house and the one for going outside were ruined for overuse, only the stored one remained. The cane now stacks up dust in the living room’s corner, not being even look at by anyone. It was indeed forgotten by all the house inhabitants.

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The Dance'

Just a thought!

I jump no more, my dance card is filled,

Passing memories keep me thrilled.

Clocks on the wall slowly advance,

Marking out time in a four-four dance.

Drips from a faucet are very consistant,

They echo quite loudly, although they are distant.

The wind blows strong, the old house has a creek,

I find myself rocking to keep with the beat.

This timeless concerto repeats everyday...

I'll rock on' tomorrow, till the floor boards give way'

Author's Notes/Comments: 

"The Dance"

The Abused


He was born in a rodent-infested hut, amid the broken screams of an abused woman and the furious shouts of a drunken man; those sounds never faded.

He had been there all his life.

He watched the generations pass by; he lived his life in each stage, under the watchful eyes of the same spirits that have always lurked there.



He is unwelcome-he interferes in the dull monotony of their lives

But he doesn’t, really-he never ventures into their existence-

Never shatters their perfect routine,

He merely peeps in from a distance, like a tourist at a zoo.



As the house burned, bright orange and red flames licking the night sky,

A boy of eight watched, a gash running down the side of his head.

That is a scar he will forever have to bear.

Holding that candle to the drapes and then quietly walking out, he wouldn’t regret

He was a murderer.


He walked out of what they called the kids’ dungeon, his gash now a pink scar,

Jagged and crooked, adorning the side of his face.

As other boys threw insults at him, he stole a brown hat with a large brim.



His painfully ordinary hat hides his cold eyes, as they observe and calculate

He is tall, but he slouches; his trusty cane always clenched tight between his white knuckles;

Some people make us instantly warm up to them, some make us shiver uncomfortably.

He is the latter.


He watched with pained eyes as his wife walked away.

The little boy on her shoulder reached back for him, crying too much to be coherent.

The people glared at him cruelly, telling him he was his own father.

He learned to shut his eyes and ears.



He is there, seemingly everywhere at once, as soon as the smiling sun makes his way up the sky;

He watches carefully as the village crawls to life,

The small shacks opening their worn down, unpolished doors, as curious, wary heads peek out at him,

Each of them turning away as he turns in their direction.



He watched in the mirror as his once youthful face grew old, like creases on thin paper;

He looked out of his window. An old lady smiled at him with sympathy.

She was the only one who had done that in a long time.



They talk about him-the women gossip during knitting sessions,

And the men make crude jokes about him as they labour in the fields.

Happy new parents warn their children fearfully, to steer clear of his mysterious figure.

That is why they scuttle away when he watches them-the same way he does everyone else.



He stared at the official document.

The old lady had died.

She left him her life’s savings.



They do not know how he survives-how he makes his living,

How he gets his food and drink,

Or is he some strange entity that does not require any mortal means of survival?

They do not know, yet, or maybe “thus”, he is the story young boys tell around the campfire,

As they shine torchlight in their faces, making sound effects to ensure their friends will wake up screaming in the still, quiet dead of night.



He signed at the bottom of the page;

He hoped someone would find it.

He gave his house and property to his son.



When his spirit fades away like morning stars, in the middle of December, his bed as cold as his eyes once were,

No one knows.

His body rots, as the family of rats, who call his house their home, 

Eagerly feast on the pale carcass.


Things come full circle.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It's been years since I've penned a poem, but here it is anyway..

Will you still love me tomorrow? Part 2


Will you still love me tomorrow,

when my body bears the scars 

of the years gone by? 

When my hair,

greyer by the day, 

falls from my head,

like autumn leaves from a tree? 


Will you still love my pale wrinkled skin

or my dark haunted eyes

from the pain and grief 

of so many loved ones,



Will you still kiss those dry, red lips

like you did but a moment ago?


Will you still love me,



Author's Notes/Comments: 

Part 2 of this. Not sure which I prefer so you can decide for me if you like. Sorry the endings are the same but I liked it so kept the flow. Thanks for reading! 

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Will you still love me tomorrow?


Will you still love me

No matter how I look or what you see?


Will you still think of me 

and the days we spent together,

walking by the sea?


Will you still hold me 

in your loving embrace? 


Will your hands

trace my face

and the laughter lines

placed there by time? 


Will you still kiss

those dry, red lips

like you did but a moment ago? 


and will you still love me,


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Version 1 of this. Basically about growing old and still being in love. Happy Reading! 

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Two Souls, One Heart

When we are old and gray,
I will always remember
How you held me that day
So soft and tender.
You are my everything,
My world, my song, my heart
I will always wear your ring
So our souls will never part.

Brandy Noelle Souza

May 6, 2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Dedicated to my husband

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Orter Cisum

A form of art we have heard of,
Somewhere in the ancient times of the 50's,
It seemed like centuries ago the world was still,
Until a new creation been revealed,
With a new culture,
A new spirit,
And a new flow of beautiful words
Unheard To the ears of those willing to listen,
Now here we are lost in a ageless time,
Orter Cisum at it's prime,
Broke, stomp, and marched on the hearts of those
Who lived in a still world,
Bringing a thrill to the future world.
It made those hearts feel energized and new,
No longer feeling blue,
Because they know,
Orter Cisum will always be with you.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired to write about this poem by The Buggles - Video Killed The Radio Star. Orter Cisum will always be with you.

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A Mother's Strength


Wrinkles are shown all over her skin
Once a straight back now slightly bend
White hair now covers her head
Perfect teeth already lost with age
Cataract is now evident in her sight
When she send us to bed each night
She used to sing us sweet lullabies.

We call on her when we are sick
She keep watch all night and remain alert
Her name we call when we had nightmares
When we cry she dries our tears
She encouraged us to be better
To be strong and strive harder
To be ready and be prepared
To face life, fair and square

Above all, she taught us about Faith
That in times of trouble and heartache
Just kneel down and pray
Tell God that we are weary
And entrust everything in His mercy
For surely, He will never turned away.

The things that you have to bear
To keep us all straight and clear
These we shall always remember
We are lucky you are our mother.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For Our Dear Mother

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