Small Points Of Victory
those are not scars and wrinkles
on my face...
they are mile markers,
paragraphs,
and small points of victory
grounded in nameless defeats!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wrinkles
Wrinkles
are scars of time
Scars of pride that show you
how much you struggle for your life
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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For the speedy reader paragraphs become a country the eye flies over looking for landmarks, reference points, airports, restrooms, passages of sex.
quote by William H. Gass
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wrinkles
For Naomi Lazard
Sometimes I can't wait until I look like Nadezhda Mandelstam.
-- Naomi Lazard
My friends are tired.
The ones who are married are tired
of being married.
The ones who are single are tired
of being single.
They look at their wrinkles.
The ones who are single attribute their wrinkles
to being single.
The ones who are married attribute their wrinkles
to being married.
They have very few wrinkles.
Even taken together,
they have very few wrinkles.
But I cannot persuade them
to look at their wrinkles
collectively.
& I cannot persuade them that being married
or being single
has nothing to do with wrinkles.
Each one sees a deep & bitter groove,
a San Andreas fault across her forehead.
"It is only a matter of time
before the earthquake."
They trade the names of plastic surgeons
like recipes.
My friends are tired.
The ones who have children are tired
of having children.
The ones who are childless are tired
of being childless.
They love their wrinkles.
If only their were deeper
they could hide.
Sometimes I think
(but do not dare to tell them)
that when the face is left alone to dig its grave,
the soul is grateful
& rolls in.
poem by Erica Jong
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Pinch
i look at my face wrinkles are being drawn like a plow making furroughs
on the ricefield,
wrinkles, i am getting wrinkles,
i look at my arms and i touch it, they are loose now, like some clothes
hanging loosely in my body, emaciated by lack of nutrition,
i look at my hear, i open it like a pettry cash box, i see some scars
and some loose coins for change, i like to break it open and leave
it that way, i am saddened by this
emptiness, this pain,
i stand now in the mirror with a picture on hand of my youth
i look many times finding how
time drenched me with old age, my hands beginning to tremble my
mind forgetting more and more of those memories of my youth,
i refresh myself, i get this clip and pinch myself, i remember
i am still alive, and that is luck enough, a friend of mine just died today,
cardian arrest,
and i am trying to do some little thinking, what if i will be next?
i am finite, i pinch myself some more, some more, some more.....
till i turn blue, till i bleed, who cares?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Some defeats are only installments to victory.
quote by Jacob Riis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sun Block Cream
My beloved worried these days;
'Your wrinkles in the face very painful
Wait I'll buy you a Sun Block Cream! '
'You worry so much and this is the reality
And why you waste money for the uncertainty? '
Just think of the Moon with the patches on her face
And she kept quiet,
The needy, fatal scars of the burns
On their sad faces who couldn't reach even
For a cheap grease tin?
My role is already finished and not necessary
To be in Hollywood.
If possible buy me a cheap bottle of Wine
At least I could have a sound sleep! '
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Are our brains wrinkled?
Wrinkles are the measurement,
to show the life's management,
some are very near and deep,
and the rest long and steep.
Wrinkles are the asset,
that get through the experience,
not all those experienced,
never have such twinkles.
The wrinkles which can not be seen,
hidden inside the hard shell,
More the wrinkles formation,
More the knowledge dwell.
Let us see who has more fold.
Einstein or a research assistant,
people with more folds may not know it,
people with lesser folds strive to get it.
Do not let anyone,
to iron out the wrinkles,
with their disillusioned vision.
Let us acquire more in our brains.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Reflection
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Why do I look in you, at all,
For all I see is the same old me,
And not how I so want to be.
Mirror, mirror on the stairs,
Why do you show me many years,
A face with wrinkles everywhere,
Would anybody like my share.
Mirror, mirror near my bed,
In you I look with certain dread,
For creams and potions just don't work,
Behind them still the wrinkles lurk.
Mirror, mirror in the hall,
Seeing you makes me recall,
That I am now of senior age,
Well stuck into the wrinkles stage.
Mirror, mirror by the door,
How I hate you more and more,
I'm having to look the other way,
When my reflection's on display.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Child Speaks...
being lost in childhood
is nothing
but meditation
often in serene atmosphere
i tune my nostrils
to absorb
the lost fragrance of childhood
and the ears
to hear
the lost voices of childhood
and memories...
where i lived with nameless grass
nameless plants...
and their nameless Flowers...
nameless colours...
i played with ants
and nameless insects...
nameless butterflies...
i lived in shrubs
as if in a wild forest
without name
without words
a child speaks...
poem by Denny M.X.
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Thirteen
At first, this is the face I will show you
Shallow, thin, smooth
Then we feel each other, like some kind of
New found friends, I
Take another layer, and tell you, this is my face,
Some scars, and lines of age, and furrows,
Then we write many emails, and remember
Common things, like a certain familiarity,
Another layer is taken and exposed,
The face of a sick man, with some
Disappointments in his mind,
Some wounds, wrinkles, and so you
Think, are there other layers of faces still
To show,
Deeper, deeper is there another layer to show
Another face of this man?
Yes, there is another layer, more faces
Hidden underneath each layer,
As we go on, learning from ourselves,
And me learning from myself,
I will be digging for more faces,
Because I am never static
I am growing, and for each growth
Like molting
Another face comes out
Soon, I hope, I must come out
With the most beautiful face
The we can be both proud of,
It is just a matter of time
Depending on how well you have loved me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Faces and layers of faces
At first, this is the face I will show you
Shallow, thin, smooth
Then we feel each other, like some kind of
New found friends, I
Take another layer, and tell you, this is my face,
Some scars, and lines of age, and furrows,
Then we write many emails, and remember
Common things, like a certain familiarity,
Another layer is taken and exposed,
The face of a sick man, with some
Disappointments in his mind,
Some wounds, wrinkles, and so you
Think, are there other layers of faces still
To show,
Deeper, deeper is there another layer to show
Another face of this man?
Yes, there is another layer, more faces
Hidden underneath each layer,
As we go on, learning from ourselves,
And me learning from myself,
I will be digging for more faces,
Because I am never static
I am growing, and for each growth
Like molting
Another face comes out
Soon, I hope, I must come out
With the most beautiful face
The we can be both proud of,
It is just a matter of time
Depending on how well you have loved me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There's a victory, and defeat; the first and best of victories, the lowest and worst of defeats which each man gains or sustains at the hands not of another, but of himself.
Obstacles are necessary for success because in selling, as in all careers of importance, victory comes only after many struggles and countless defeats.
quote by Og Mandino
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scars
Now I see that you are pushing me away,
The scars remain as my pain,
I can see that my veins are full of scars,
Scars of remaining past,
Scars from all those cutting,
Scars from all the pain I went through,
Love is vain,
The rain might pour down,
But nothing has stop me from seeing the scars I have left behind,
Nothing can’t stop me from seeing the remaining scars,
All my scars, all my memories remain as my pain.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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Markers
Whenever something wonderful
happens in our lives,
we mark it with a special memory
we can call back any day.
Through the years, we place
many more markers there
to recall in times of despair.
They flood back the good times
we’ve had
in order to help us
back on our feet.
The little markers filled
with love and joy
we store inside our head.
30 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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Fatherly Love
Your face
rubbing my chest
with ice
out side
and In side
the heart
runs
a soothing
firing
love.
your smile
is a balm
on my hundred wounds
inflicted by the rough winds,
your naughty tits bits
is a bliss
in my life.
your appearance
ignites my eyes
with pleasure
and joy
as I win
all the battles
defeating all the defeats
turning all the struggles
into a stunning
sweet melodious victory.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Wrinkles and Grey Hair (Children)
Mommy's getting wrinkles.
Daddy has grey hair.
It wasn't very long ago
when those things weren't there.
Wish I could smooth the wrinkles out
and darken Daddy's hair
to stop the changes going on.
It makes me feel so scared.
Grampa, does it mean they'll die?
They have wrinkles and grey hair!
I never used to worry
before those things were there.
Grampa said to look at him.
There were lots of wrinkles there,
and on his head, a snowstorm
was the color of his hair.
'Wrinkles only come to point
where smiles were, here and there.
It's your mommy's turn to get some
for the happy times you've shared.'
His white, and Daddy's grey hair
well, it was there to show
who had lived the longest time
so everyone could know!
Grampa said it's part of life.
We love, we learn, we live.
We earn grey hair and wrinkles,
they're prizes only God can give.
Victory was not mine
The victory was yours.
And it still is victory belongs to you.
Victory was not mine.
You hurt me you hurt me.
You've scared me.
And yet the victory is yours.
You still continue to beat me.
You torture me every day.
Even though you raped me.
You still win.
And the victory is yours.
Its not fair you have the victory.
When you are evil personalised.
You are the peice of scum
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Nameless Rain
Its raining again outside
And all the witches have to hide
And I stare out the window
And wonder if anyone knows
The name,
Of any single dropp of rain.
Nameless rain,
Do you ever get lonely?
Nameless rain,
Whats your name?
The clouds have huddled above us
As they seem to follow us
And I sit here in pain
Thinking of the rain,
Rolling down my window today.
Nameless rain,
Do you ever get lonely?
Is this a game you play?
To fall here everyday
Did you ever have a name?
Do you ever scream in pain?
Oh, nameless rain.
Are you cursed to fall forever?
For the crimes that you endeavored
If you washed us all away
Would you fall anyway?
Nameless rain,
Do you ever get lonely?
Nameless rain,
Whats your name?
poem by Blaine McCanless
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Jesus Holds My Hand
I saw Jesus last night.
He layed beside me,
held my hand.
I felt his scars.
They didn't make me sad.
The scars are happy.
Jesus said i have scars too.
You just can't see them.
My scars cut deep
So i can't escape them.
Jesus said to give him my scars.
That he carried the sorows of the world.
I gave my scars to God last night.
He still holds my hand.
And i love Jesus.
Can you?