A poet more than thirty years old is simply an overgrown child.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Next Thirty Years
(track 12 - time 3:37)
(phil vassar)
I think Ill take a moment, celebrate my age
The ending of an era and the turning of a page
Now its time to focus in on where I go from here
Lord have mercy on my next thirty years
Hey my next thirty years Im gonna have some fun
Try to forget about all the crazy things Ive done
Maybe now Ive conquered all my adolescent fears
And Ill do it better in my next thirty years
My next thirty years Im gonna settle all the scores
Cry a little less, laugh a little more
Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear
Figure out just what Im doing here
In my next thirty years
Oh my next thirty years, Im gonna watch my weight
Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late
Drink a little lemonade and not so many beers
Maybe Ill remember my next thirty years
My next thirty years will be the best years of my life
Raise a little family and hang out with my wife
Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear
Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years
In my next thirty years
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mrs. Thrale on Her Completing Her Thirty-fifth Year
Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O'er the bounds of thirty-five
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five.
Ladies, stop and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five:
He that ever hopes to thrive
Must begin by thirty-five:
And all who wisely wish to wive
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
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Onward Ever Onward.
I must pursue my endless quest.
My destination is unknown
Although the path is overgrown
I have no choice I must go on.
I’m not allowed to stop and rest
I have to journey on alone.
I have no choice I must go on
although the path is overgrown.
It’s up to me to do my best
until my journeying is done.
Although the path is overgrown
I have no choice I must go on..
Perhaps in time I’ll pass the test
Show I could do it on my own.
I have no choice I must go on
Although the path is overgrown.
Each man must pursue his own quest
It’s something he must do alone.
Although the path is overgrown
There is no choice you must go on.
Mirrored refrain created by Stephanie Rypnyk
Sunday,17 January 2010.
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I know a child
I know a child,
11 years old, and slices her wrists,
I know a child,
whose name is Elizabeth.
I know a child,
12 years old, and has a pervert daddy,
I know a child,
whose name is Maddie.
I know a child,
13 years old, and wants to die,
I know a child,
whose name is Ty.
I know a child,
14 years old, and came face-to-face with death,
I know a child,
whose name is Seth.
I know a child,
15 years old, and pregnant with a baby,
I am the child,
whose name is Sami.
poem by Sami Woodall
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Come On In, The Senility Is Fine
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
poem by Ogden Nash
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Simeon
Yes, I know his new poems;
all Beirut is raving about them.
I'll study them some other day.
I can't today because I'm rather upset.
Certainly he's more learned in Greek than Libanius.
A better poet than Meleager though? I wouldn't say so.
But Mebis, why talk about Libanius
and books and all these trivialities?
Mebis, yesterday (it happened by chance)
I found myself under Simeon's pillar.
I slipped in among the Christians
praying and worshipping in silence there,
revering him. Not being a Christian myself
I couldn't share their spiritual peace-
I trembled all over and suffered;
I shuddered, disturbed, completely caught up.
Please don't smile; for thirty-five years -think of it-
winter and summer, night and day, for thirty-five years
he's been living, suffering, on top of a pillar.
Before either of us was born (I'm twenty-nine,
you must be younger than me),
before we were born, just imagine it,
Simeon climbed up his pillar
and has stayed there ever since facing God.
I'm in no mood for work today-
but Mebis, I think it better that you tell them this:
whatever the other sophists may say,
I at least recognize Lamon
as Syria's leading poet.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Thirty three years
Thirty three years
~
Soon I turn thirty three
And wonder what I have to show
I feel I have achieved very little
And have been going nowhere fast
I fear I am stuck in my ways
And this is my lot for life
I sit alone in writing this morning
With my usual coffee for one
I have loved, had my heart broken
Let opportunities slip away
Now I tend to do nothing
At least I wont feel hurt that way
I have spent time in solitary
And lost touch with the world
Please try and remember that
To excuse my lack of social grace
The pace of each year is picking up
While I am still young in some eyes
Still may yet have a lot to achieve
I look at the past thirty two years
And see myself an old man
Lonely and turning thirty three
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Shaved
He had wore a beard every since his early teens.
It had been at least thirty years since anyone saw him without it.
For those thirty years he felt he had something to hide.
But yesterday he shaved and freed himself from the thirty year mask he had been wearing.
He said it feels good to no longer have that itchy heavy beard weighing him down.
Yesterday he shaved when he finally told everyone he is gay.
The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Diverging Paths
I took the road less travelled by.
Impelled by curiosity
Simply because I wondered why.
It was disused apparently.
I chose it voluntarily
Although the path was overgrown
With brambles which would hamper me
Almost as if deliberately.
It may well be if I had known
I would have chosen differently.
Instead of venturing alone.
How quickly past the years have flown.
Since I had a choice to make
Which of the two paths I should take.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Mourning Anniversary
After all these years
thirty years
thirty years and more.
The emptiness the loneliness
cries I love you more.
I held you once
only once
more than thirty years ago.
And then my love
my only love I had to let you go.
But my heart had seen
my eyes had seen
the only true love for me.
When you walked
away my love.
You turned not back
to look at me.
A single embrace
just one embrace
is all that’s let to me.
A single embrace
just one embrace
second never again to be.
And no one cries for me.
No one cries for me.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Poet child and grammar
No grammar is needed
In a child's world
In a poet's world
In the world of love
The poet the child
Are living always
And no one can put them
In trouble water
Poet is a free bird
With his words his languages
His dreams are with him
He is sharing his dreams
His thoughts that is
His greatness.
Leave the poet alone
Leave the child alone
Leave them to smile to laugh
To love to live
You can apply them as they are
You can put them on your own way
And in regular form and understand
On your own what they expressed
Beyond vocabulary beyond grammar
And see everything is alright.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Yeah I'm thirty-six, but on the show I'm thirty-two. Nobody wants to watch a thirty-six year old woman, so they decided to make me thirty-two. Much more appealing somehow.
quote by Ellen DeGeneres
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am A Poet
Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me
poem by Metin Sahin
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I'm thirty years old, but I read at the thirty-four-year-old level.
quote by Dana Carvey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On My Thirty-Third Birthday, January 22, 1821
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing--except thirty-three.
The first and the second childhood
The same house housed
An invalid old and an innocent child.
Both need to be tended,
Fed, bathed, clothed and toileted.
One is the feather to the cap
And the other the overgrown nail.
One cries for milk and the other, for death.
One is cheered and the other, ignored.
The child is tomorrow’s unwanted
02.09.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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As A Child I Loved Poetry
AS A CHILD I LOVED POETRY
As a child I loved poetry,
As an old man I love poetry-
Years of reading poetry are in me,
A lifetime of poetry.
But as a poet,
I am less than what I know from others,
And less than what I would have been-
A small poet
Of small lines
Old and getting older
And still loving the lines
That rhyme inside
And make life more beautiful.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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