* * *
Discrete,
Are those two innocent souls.
Innocent,
Are those two fading lovers.
Lovers,
Are those two teens, just discrete.
Poems on the topic: youth
Poems on the topic “youth” on Poets.by.
Coming of Age
The vine danced in the wind.
Swinging gently, the young one thought
'This is life; I will soon be an adult
I will take in many lovers
I will have offsprings in thousands
This beautiful land and brook mine'.
Above, on the low-hanging branch
Sat a Bee-eater, sharpening his beak
His eyes had a kindness one could not fathom
As he gazed on the young dragonfly.
The Basketball Players
Outside my window, below on the ground, the Basketball players.
In the mornings I awake to the drumming of the ball on the concrete floor
And to the yelps and shouts of children playing basketball.
Lifting the curtain, through the haze of the mosquitoe net,
I watch them, lithe, graceful
Jumping and running like antelopes in the savannah.
Dribbling the ball, they run to and fro
Across the court, turning, twisting, ducking
Swiftly passing the ball, faking a throw
Blocking, trying to snatch, moving like cats
On a hot tin roof and then leap and lift the ball to the basket
Some bounce off the board, some slip neatly through the net
Only to be grabbed and loped again and again.
Find a way
Trying to find a way
That will make me feel the same
When i was younger and my mind
Wasn't overhelmed by pain
Emotions are drifting in my head
Trying to forget old wounds in my heart
Make me feel the same
When i was younger happier man.
Loving The Unloving One
Day 4th
I love you
Is that not enough?
I adore you
Is that not enough?
I want you
Is that not enough?
I miss you
Is that not enough?
I proclaim my love for you
Is that not enough?
I sacrifice my youth for loving you
Is that not enough?
I sacrifice my beauty for feeling sadness of being the unmissed one, for you
Is that not enough?
I live my life for you
You Need to Know
I think you need to know
You say I'm old enough to understand
Yet you always say I'm too young
So don't tell me something
You think I'm old enough
To understand
Because you're confused
Make up your mind
Most likely
I don't understand
Or I just can't handle it
I'm that age
Where you step
On a thin sheet of ice
Every time you open your mouth
So do not tell me
live to give
i give and i give and i give and i give,
giving is my name, parts and pieces of
my youth and yonder, i give as a gift to
you. i have 2555 days of my youth to
spare, but i only itch and itch and itch
to inch away at myself for you, for you,
only for you, not noticing the cracks and cuts
and cracks and cuts in my carved out flesh;
no one notices the worn torn gone-case
burn out hell of a weary heart i drag around
in fiery chains, searing in my soul, an iron
furnace of self-giving and selfish taking.
i cry and i weep and i pray and i worship,
i care and i think and i anger and i worry,
i love and i love and i love and i love and till
this day i never learnt how to love without losing
Youth
what we make you inherit
we say ourselves inheritors
of all we are mostly unseen
all we can change or can't
and will or won't
our debris insights skyscrapers
word or insect bites
cocky unsure in inequality wars states
wanting to pass down green
sun-blessed greeneries or symphonies
or vulgar croons
We work read news sometimes
protest make gardens birdbaths poems -
try. Meditate to tap real
subtler realms our
inner light.
In a Vale
When I was young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom,
And for every kind there was a face,
And a voice that has sounded in my room
Across the sill from the outer gloom.
Each came singly unto her place,
But all came every night with the mist;
And often they brought so much to say
Of things of moment to which, they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
That the stars were almost faded away
Before the last went, heavy with dew,
Heat Stroke
One day in July,
Sierra Nevada
(sun unblocked, high, blazing)
—I was splitting and
stacking tamarack-rounds
for somebody
in town. Heat
came up
through my body to my head.
went blind. I was seventeen,
had learned by then to be
more embarrassed
than frightened
by affliction. I saw
just well enough
to stagger down to the general store,
Beech Lake
Spring, and spring of her life also. She walks
to water to stand behind sedges, thinking of snakes.
And snakes come. First one, lazily, tail
sculling, head high, counterclockwise along
shore, and then another. And then -- another.
All going, she notes, the same way round. Next day,
incorrigible child, she rigs a black fly rod
with stout green line tied, butt end and tip end:
a snare. Back to the sun-long lake. The snakes
continue their rounds. She casts loop, she waits.
One comes, riding high in clear water, black eye
bright. Caught, the looping, livid thing
bends the rod double almost. On close inspection
she speaks its given name: common water snake.
Proudly she touches the twisting ribbon of flesh,
Too Soon
These are not the tomatoes she wanted,
Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, or
Even Brandywines. But the clerk only
Sells what's brought in, finds labels, wands
Each three-inch pot through as she would
A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.
Really, the old woman muses, I should have
Ended my day at the seedsman, but it's not
Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I've
Opted for the discount store again, to buy
These things that hurt my soul: hybrids.
There's this about them, they do produce
Heavy fruits that please her folks and friends
Easily enough, and in larger numbers. But
To her there's something in them lacking.
Old varieties taste of the eyes of young
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