Tears
I am not waiting
nor am I searching
I am just contemplating
to hold in the pain

They fall for time wasted.
Years....5 exactly
like a nurtured vine that bears no fruit.
~
They fall for spent energy.
Used up and tapped out
as the meter keeps spinning.
~
They fall for missed oportunity.
Chances come and gone
like the last flight home.
~
They fall for aging beauty.
Gray hairs and celulite
where youth and vitality once lived.
~
They fall for many reasons:
Irreplaceable days, weeks, seasons.
Unfulfilled dreams, potential lost, forgotten love.
~
And though these tears fall,
know this above all...
I'm not crying for you.
~
Phenom*

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This poem is amazingly beautiful. Thank you. I feel a little on the edge with some of it. For instance, I think its tears. It's most certainly tears. Is "they" good here? I love the ending. Oh, my gosh. It's for the writer, Isn't it? I'm the one who can't tell Hermestri from his imitator, so it's no wonder, I might get confused. I sure love this poem though.
sg
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yes i like this concept of the larger picture,
yet not large enough to contain some egos. good
thoughts here...
~f
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I guess she gave him the skinniest years of her life. ~Cooker
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A wonderful poet, Wilma McDaniel, from the San Joaquin Valley died a few months ago at the age of 93. She came as a child with the fruit pickers and wrote poems like the following as she grew older:
Burned in the Test
I have wasted so much
sunrise
scraping burned oatmeal
from a charred pot
I have often profaned
bright noon
into three pm
waiting by the telephone
for a call that never came
Why can't I be satisfied
to soak a pot overnight
and be content with new shoestrings
when the old ones snap
I have spent a cat's lifetime
tying short pieces together
I have blued broken handles
on many cups
waited days to find out
they never hold
and been burned in the test
sg