Poems and Poetry

poems about life

A Poem for Brother David | By Daniel Klawitter

Every morning the same ritual:
He reaches for his glasses,
Puts in his teeth,
And with the aid of his cane
Lurches to his feet—
Shuffling to the bathroom
For the first bladder relief of the day.
Frankly gazing at himself in the mirror,
He still sees a man attractive for his age
But long ago retired.
And not for the first time in 80 plus years
He wishes he had a tattoo that said:
“Some assembly required.”

Visit Daniel at https://poetdanielklawitter.wordpress.com.


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Life’s Eight Count | A Poem by Roy Pullam

Life is a dance
At first simple steps
The movement minimal
Almost disconnected
To the music
The tempo lifts
As experience
In the ballroom
Demands more craft
More freedom
Yet more form
No one claims
To be the choreographer
But all demand
A certain rhythm
A certain conformity
To match others
On the floor
At times I feel lost
Out of step
Trying to find
The beat
Confused
By the melody
But no matter
How poorly I perform
I must keep going
Until
The music stops


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What Her Life Is Like | A Poem by Guy Farmer

A door opens on a
Narrow lane in a small
Hillside town forgotten
By time. She steps out
Into the familiar mix
Of shadow and light
Playing off stone.
A neighbor walks by,
The perfunctory hello.
Once in a while she sees
A tourist or two, adventurous
Sorts who journey to isolated
Places for an authentic experience.
She wishes she could tell
Them what her life is like,
Ask them to take her with them.

Hemispherical Sculptures | A Poem by Robert Kohlhammer

I recite to a bird with the cortisol level of my bookworm finger
As a loop of a plane lifts like a lid’s sticky picnic licked jam richness
Daily writing task are like poison ivy drooling on my unlaced trainer
Is there irony in a leaf half eaten between hemispherical sculptures?

My momentary surprise deflating slowly like sandy diet cola.
I count down the shuttle of froth with the gravity of a coaster.
I hope the goal in my head does not hide like a marbled mothball.
Ponytails in the sky are smiling behind the roofs of cork rind sun.

Sometimes I shelf ancient books leafed through a tall tree
The wisdom of the tree disguises the branch logging me in
There is a friendly walk into a tunnel’s incubation of trees.
Without the crowds of people nobody’s bar-coded identity reads.

The leaf is as dog-eared as the seven day television listings
With blue opaque smog like the smell of a petrol stations
diesel dripping on the foliage lingering the day’s restlessness
The caterpillars comatose neutral gears ignites a car alarm.

Please Forgive My Lapse of Memory | A Poem by Roy Pullam

Your face has changed
From 13 to 40
You have filled
The demand of adulthood
I look with the slight memory
A faint recognition
But I am afraid
To speculate
To put my finger
On the roll
To place you
In my past
I know it hurts
That you are anonymous
That years of pimpled faces
Of kids eager
To get beyond
The clumsy
To claim their place
Among what they think
Is independence
Only to find
The bind tighter
Jobs, children, husbands
Commitments
That blacken your calendar
Now I face your disappointment
That during the best
During the worst
Years of your life
You can find no register
In my blank stare
I feel guilty
Not remembering
But time
Erased so much
Like the erasers
On my blackboard
And I am left
With just the yellow dust
The powder
Of times past

PHS 1964 | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The parchment has faded
The setting
And most of the teachers
Gone now
Lucky classmates
Aged and gray
Other chasing
The lines of Bryant
That mysterious caravan
That will not allow
Them to return
We gather
Hoping to see
A glint of youth
In each other’s eyes
To reclaim that past
That gathers more fog
In the passing
Of years
How we long
To rekindle
Friendship
Lying in ashes
Between the time
Between reunions
We chose not
To abandon the light
to let the past
Be done
It is the bond
Of shared confidences
That stirs us
From the recliner
To look our best
So others
Will not see
The cost of time
I will come
Bathing in the fellowship
Sharing the jokes
Sharing the stories
Grieving for lost friends
Counting my blessings
In our five year
Ritual

Walnuts | A Poem by G.S. Katz

I remember my father sitting at the kitchen table
Cracking open walnuts and eating every morsel
Dad was a good eater, chicken was his favorite
When he got done with half a chicken
It looked like a war had taken place on his plate
Bones gleaned of any meat
A spectacle to watch
We always kidded him about it
The walnuts though I never got
He drank celery tonic too
Another non-starter for this cowboy

I never felt like I knew my dad
He was always a quiet man
Gentle but firm, pragmatic as the day is long
I wanted to know him but I wasn’t allowed in
Four years behind enemy lines during WWII
maybe the cause
After he passed I found out I wasn’t the only one
to feel his silence
He was rarely mad
His favorite expression
“God forbid for worse”
He would say if we kids every complained too much

I gave the eulogy at his funeral
That’s what a son does
I was so honored to be his kid
Despite the distance between us
The love was there, my mom also telling me so

I’ve tried to make peace with walnuts
I eat them now for health reasons
I still don’t really like them
For dad’s sake though I feel him with every bite
I buy them already shelled
Dad had to do the work breaking them open himself
A decorated war veteran
It was like rolling off a log