Tag poems about living
So fleeting is the time.
The bills to pay, the clothes to wash,
and the kids to bed by nine.
Where do I find the time?
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Oh, where do the hours go?
Even if I’ve sagged and wrinkled
would you find me beautiful when I laughed?
Could you possibly recognize what will
be me in so many years, or will you pass me
by? Even if I do not recognize myself?
Will we ever even speak again, like we used
to, like good friends should? Or will a nose be
turned and no words spoken as we walk back out
of each other’s lives. I sometimes wish I knew,
so that the time I waste wondering is not in vain.
I live another day,
adding to the potential years,
of a life well lived,
so they say.
In the shadow of yesterday?
Will they say this upon the grave?
Yet, that which was lost yesterday,
can be regained tomorrow,
again, so they say.
Do I understand?
Where is today?
The choice lays within,
the question mark of a new day.
Without saying good-bye.
My passport photos are my proof.
My precious ally has found a new face
Not touched by grief, lack of sleep
And broken dreams.
No picture does justice to the life on parade today.
Waitresses carefully place and disappear;
As faces cheer with greetings.
Another; Another.
Tracks are made for those coming after,
A life of white and laughter,
The milk of being.
let Ciaos choke
under miles of steel.
The train won’t let me
memorize its trails
nor commit to memory
the secret pleasure
of sobbing wheels
when they hit the rails.
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned,
their conquest nearly complete.
Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.
peeling skin with the broken promise of cooling
as she waits
to be pumped full of salty brine
and then discarded, debris
carried by the waves until she
washes up on some strange, sunbaked shore, a
sea-scratched corpse, the
refuse of murder, or perhaps,
suicide
she bobs up
and down, violently
tossed by the waves, frantically
snatching rapid half-breaths-half-gulps-of-ocean before she’s
plunged ten feet
under, then
propelled back up, an insignificant
buoy caught in a
cyclone’s raging passion. his arms
grasp at her as
forcefully as a prayer expands out against
her chest, calling
for ocean to swallow the
naked groans and shrieks yanked
out into the unforgiving air—
each scream,
a plea that she might
die this moment, escape
the body convulsing and writhing,
possessed
The woman that wife’s will never invite
The one with the mouth, opinions, and brains
Who’ll never be asked round to their house again
The cause of divorce one way or another
Who’s always accused of being a lover
Causing a rift at parties or work
For trains that never arrived
Drank shots in cellar bars
On Tuesday nights
With in-betweeners
Who still believe in lady luck
I’ve walked along promenades
Been battered by the wind and the rain
Taken shelter in late night cafés
Drank coffee so strong
It made me shudder
I’ve read the beat poets so many times
But I never tire of the words
Of Ginsberg and Kerouak
I’ve watched black and white movies
Made long before I was a twinkle
In somebody’s eye
