Best Armfuls Poems
On that fateful day in August arriving late, so unusual for me
For I am always early; did I know deep down what the verdict would be
As soon as I walked through that door, the neurologist told me my fate
I had Parkinson’s she said; a degenerative disease; but then I heard no more
How I wanted to scream are you sure, are you sure
Then I started to cry; then I started to shake
How on earth would I cope; how on earth would I live
I am now all alone since my darling had died
But the kindly sweet nurse made a cup of sweet tea
She gave me a hug sending me on my way
with armfuls of booklets, to read one by one
and not all at once, there’s so much to take in
I spoke to my family, I cried, they cried
I spoke to my friends, I cried, they cried
Then slowly I realised it could be much worse
I began to get angry; I began to curse
Till finally I vowed to live life to the full
Making each second count, till the day my time comes
I vowed that Parkinson’s will never define me
I will never let it rule me; I will fight it to the nth degree
Written 21st December 2018
Competition: You are not defined by
Sponsor: John Hamilton
2nd place
Standard contest 180
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st place
You brought armfuls of dream
Want to parse the stream
They say you are made of cream
Bright and leading my tongue scream
What else was so sweet
This is your cross street
Always stand on its own feet
No matter how much the clock beat
Uncultured and out of control cars
Foolish drive from hours at the bars
Received license from the planet Mars
No wonder purple stars
Without you in my life my friend
Visiting hours are over ~ the end
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28.10.2015
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
3rd place in the contest
Off us two went, beneath the trees,
that crackled and snappled
in Autumn’s crisp breeze,
our wellies slish-sloshing through the pelting rain,
plip-plopping, plip-plopping
again and again.
The thunder it rumbled,
and the wind it blew
but on and on,
the adventurers, two,
rustled through leaves
till we came to a tree,
and the treasure it threw -
just for you, and for me.
Dark red-brown shiners
were there to be gathered,
the bigger the better -
that’s all that mattered!
We took them in armfuls,
filled carrier bags,
then we strung them on strings -
“Oh, what fun we had!”
Crashing and bashing,
we let the strings fly,
around our knuckles,
and up, to the sky!
Knocked them together,
till they spun around,
in a smackety wallop -
one fell to the ground!
One of the shiners
was all split into two,
twas tough on the outside,
but inside, all goo!
The champion, victorious,
announced that she won
and I was defeated, but still, it was fun!
Conkers, all bonkers,
Oh, what a game!
And when next year comes
we will do it, again.
Suzy Davies, 2017. Copyright. All Rights Reserved.
Scorned coquette
perched so solemnly
upon your death stool,
claw deep the fresh flesh of victors
bearing armfuls of decaying flowers
stolen from your mother’s grave.
A diverse parade -
clairvoyants and gigolos
tyrants and schizophrenics
junkies and Jesus freaks;
you seem to attract
an unending assembly line
of tarnished beggars
you’ve at one time
longingly called
“lover.”
Tainted transients -
now live as smudged chalk marks
upon the mammoth gray blackboard -
hanging askew
upon your barren bedroom wall.
Precocious sorceress
perched atop your fragile Hepplewhite
feigning the airs of a barfly madam -
look a bit closer
at the species of insects you entrap.
You’re not a spider woman by trade –
Nor was your mother a queen bee.
Understand…
burning security blankets
during one’s wonder years
may now be considered
a latter day memorial service.
Bedouin to the barstool
wrap once more
the quilt you crocheted,
from momma’s discarded doilies,
around your sleek white shoulders.
Remove the scratched liquor labels
that live underneath
your pillow cases
and look.
He’s out there, precious -
somewhere
behind the mist in Glasgow
or hidden 'neath
the sands of the Gobi –
Somewhere…hiding,
lurking
ready to erase away
faded white chalk marks.
His minted breath
will burn
your cold, gray
slate.
MEADOW GIRL
She is my bluebell meadow
Want to gather her up in armfuls
But not to spoil her delicate composition
TWO KIDS REMEMBERING
There we were
Next to the railtracks in the middle of the industrial heartland of 1950s Tyneside
Martin and me
Summer’s day and no money and no place to go except the drab streets and projects
Just exploring carelessly
Among the factories, spoil heaps, rusty tracks, piles of old axles, oily ditchwater
And enjoying youth
All day we strolled, climbed, jumped, ignored the “no entry” signs, threw stones, felt hot
Until we wearied
And decided to go home with a big bunch of wild blooms for mum bcause we’d be late
And picked flowers
Marguerites from the oil-soaked patches with rusted steel-ingot enriching the soil
Dandelion, daisy, cornflower
From the sand-spoil heaps lining the railtracks for miles, dumped as future ship-ballast
Campion and forget-me-not
Hidden tiny among the broken crates half-emptied of reject rubber tyres
And with armfuls
We trudged our way back through the sterile concrete and tangled barbed-wire fences
We got home
And mum was waiting with dinner, and we washed and ate, and she loved the flowers
And that night
We all talked about our explorations, and the flower collection, and we were so tired
We slept soundly. . . . . . .
Mum kept the blooms in a bucket - or was it a basket? Kids don’t remember everything.
Memory is selective.
.............................................................................
ALONG THE ROAD OF LIFE I CARRY WITH ME MEMORIES
Recollected childhood trips seem an intensely hot affair.
We took a bus, tight-filled with sweaty people’s feet
For hours; but then at the end, there was air.
And gone were the constriction and glaring heat -
In the tranquil cool shade of the springtime wood.
There were spreading red campions and more -
In places where a little sun shimmered and could
Make yellow pools on the woodland floor.
And everywhere the fairy bluebells all
Nodding in crowds blue and thronging.
In life I carry with me and oft recall
That day, the happiness, the feeling of belonging.
I picked armfuls hoping to preserve their beauty till later,
Wrapping them in wet cloth in a water-pail
To survive the torrid heat of the bus-incinerator,
Unaware that their happy lives I would thus curtail.
An intensely-lived child-experience does not diminish,
But telescopes into a longer event, perhaps with fairies,
Sometimes without any definite finish.
Tiny spaces can morph into prairies.
Maybe the bluebells were just there in some garden to find ,
But I did see them somewhere, and I really made the trip,
I really smelled them. They were not just a dream in my mind :
And for years after, I wanted to relive their friendship.
But trying to recapture childhood memory
Is like trying to preserve beauty a-flowering
By picking it for a collection in a repository.
Its beauty is gone with the garnering.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson's Contest "I Carry With Me"
...the way flight begins in the heart
Martin Steingesser
Stopping by the side of the road
I snap off armfuls of fresh lilacs
blooming in the universe,
a champagne bucket, tarnished
remnant of long lost wedding gifts
serves a worthy vessel of renewal
my thoughts drift with heavenly
perfumed air in my flat, acceptable
since I am repulsed by any flower
scent present at my Grandfather's
funeral when I was four years old
lilacs were not there
Pharoah Sanders captures my thoughts
drifting sweet streams of flute sounds
exhalting visions of peace and love
in tandem with Sun Ra
coaxing creative vibrations that sustain
and encourage my journey as I seek
sustenance from giving as much love
to my fellow travelers as my heart
will provide
grateful, the universe is endless
grateful
the
universe
is
endless
05/12/17
They taught us what to do if there's a bomb.
A big bomb.
A bomb they removed in a biopsy on a God
A big God
Scooped it out in armfuls from the body of a God
My God the blood hanging on the tresses where the speshes operated they
Taught us what to do if there's a bomb.
No point working out who it came from;
Cus wherever it came from is gone.
They taught us what to do if there's a bomb:
A big bomb:
Get the rubber round your face.
Then you radio the base.
Lie down on the ground
While your pants get browned
Are you closer to the cloud
Or the sound that pounds like a house shutting down
My god who lives, who lives to see me live a life as terrible as this my God!
Get drenched in the fear
Too thirsty to tear
Up your ears disappear
And the skies won't be clear for a long time
Peek up through your goggles for the last time
That's it soldier step up and take your prize,
And pray that you don't get vaporized My Eyes!?
My Eyes!?
Can't remember if my mom had me baptized!?
I swore I'd rather die, the great evac-in-the-sky but
Would I!?
I want to live but not like that with my tissue-pissing body like a sieve
To live is terrible
It's terrible man to survive
And you feel like you did when you were five
Tummy hurts, full of earth, where the hell is the earth
I'm rising from the ash like an afterbirth
In the mist missing what used-to-be
The mist is made of my mother and its killing me -
What was it they told us, told us, soldiers
What was it they told us, sold us, soldiers:
They said survive to fight.
My lungs are always tight!
They said survive to fight.
There's never any light!
Survive to fight.
Before I wasn't brave enough but now I just might!
Survive to fight.
Give her arm a bite!
Survive to fight.
Keep the squad white!
They started this mess it's what's best it's what's
Survive to fight.
Not for what you need
Not for what is right
Not for what your dad said when you woke him late at night but what's left!
In the unlikely event that there's a bomb;
We fight for what little is left, not right!
And left right left!
Right left right!
In the unlikely event that there's a bomb;
In the unlikely event that there's a bomb;
In the unlikely event that there's a bomb;
...
A symphony of joy raced through the
Hospital hallway
Mom in a wheelchair holding her first daughter Born after 2 boys!
Dad alongside grinning like he struck gold!
Driving home!
Just minutes from the hospital Dad
Braked to a stop!
He spotted a wild dandelion patch shining bright!
Mom was in hysterics!
Joyful as a wee lad, he gathered armfuls
Of bright yellow dandelion tops!
He was gonna make dandelion wine in
Honor of the occasion!
B ecoming attuned to autumn.
E venings no longer taking a stretch.
A ware of a darker veil at morning.
U shered in by autumn's breath.
T he low light at evening is softer.
I meander winding woodland paths.
F luttering leaves of beautiful browns
U nder footfall give us laughter as we
L ift armfuls then let them scatter.
F all is a time of harvest.
A nd preparing for dark days to come.
L ight the fire and let's all gather.
L ingering long after that moon has shone.
Imagine me, a fish in the sea.
Such a sensitive soul with waves of compassion.
A water baby through and through.
Dreaming away while looking up at planets and stars.
I see Neptune ruling the skies in the dark.
A mystical spirit with armfuls of feelings,
always standing up for what I believe in,
and devoted to what and who I love.
I want to see through your eyes,
and when you feel pain, I feel pain too.
Holding the bloodstone in my hand ( or fin) I think of my fears,
eyes filled with tears.
But I don't face my fears - I escape in my hazy imagination.
Must remember to take off the rose - tinted glasses at times -
I need to see what's real.
Artistic and imaginative, lost in cloudy days.
Enough emotional creation to fuel forever endeavors.
With energy that's as erratic as the tides.
I live in my dreams and believe that they're real
I feel what you feel.
By Emma Buckeridge
For contest : Zodiac Zones
All the good in me unlaced I pull what I own across the floor,
books devoured to the spine, impressions the knees of my jeans
have made of kneeling, my ghosts of ghosts, the saint who is namesake.
I lay it out. A turtle can lay one hundred
thirty-seven eggs in the hollows of trash-filled beaches
and pray her young into the foam
and I know how she judges her almost-gone
with the shell’s first clean fracture, and how much she holds
when she owns nothing and watches it race away.
I line it up for you, lay it down, armfuls, fistfuls,
incalculable catalogues of rinsed fingerprints
released, as they are back-breaking, as this convex shell
is enough, as the body becomes the loudest resonating
home where I deadlock roomfuls of possessions,
where my valuables belong so unbearably to me
that they are not mine. And because I want to float
I lay them down, the swatches of fabric, the memories of places
I swore I had owned so wholly I felt them through to the relics,
laid down, the hopes I hold for the ones I’d kill to own
who swim between combs of aimless currents,
of whom I am no owner, of what I am no mother
I lay them out for you. And as the sea holds
each embryo to the memory of one
original shell, I am unforgivably enamored
with the ownership of all.
I must think fast. My house is on fire and I'll have 16 minutes at the most
to decide what I will save!
For sure, I will rescue the computer, or the flash drive at the very least.That is number one, for this represents a great number of hours I have spent creating poetry.
The second thing is my photos. I've saved most of them in albums, and there are many! I'll have to grab them up in armfuls and make two trips back and forth to get them out!
Third, I really should not forget paper documents: proof of birth and house ownership, certificates, checks, etc. To get those things redone is a huge hassle, and luckily, I have them all in one big box.
What next? I think I will grab up my jewelry, especially my rings with precious stones that I love so much. Bracelets, earrings and necklaces too. I'll toss them all into one big bag and worry about sorting them later!
I've used up at least ten minutes of my time by now. Next I will try to rescue my clothes. There are too many of them to save them all, but I will grab up my favorites, yanking them from hangers and taking them to my lawn in big piles. I'll use the hamper to carry them in!
After clothing comes shoes! Of my many pairs, I need only to save a few which are my very favorites and my two most comfortable pairs which I wear the most often.
Finally, I have arrived at the final thing! Most of the sixteen minutes to get stuff out of my house has disappeared by now, so I will run into my kitchen and grab up my supplements along with any healthy nutrition bars and dark chocolate, all kept in my pantry. I will just shove them all into a large box and get my butt out of the house.
Whew!! The fire truck is here now. I am praying all my favorite nic nacs, books and old records will somehow be preserved! I can always get new sheets, blankets, furniture and televisions, but the things I most cherish are the things I grabbed first to take out of the house, especially those things irreplaceable such as photographs and my poetry!
And what did I learn from this little exercise? Well, I really need to have all my favorite things previously organized into big boxes which are easy to carry!
Feb.21, 2019 for
Caren Krutsinger's Seven Things You Would Save If Your House Was on Fire
IN THE BLUEBELL WOODS AT SHOTLEY BRIDGE
Shotley Bridge woods must no longer exist
Though I looked for them often as an adult.
Eventually I stopped looking fior the woods.
However, I often recalled them in my mind’s eye,
And relived the events of one afternoon
When I must have been about four years old.
It was summer, and like all summers
Recollected from one’s early childhood
It seemed an intensely hot affair.
No indication that mum and I were going to escape
The constricted terraces and cobbled streets of Gateshead,
The vinegar factory and the tram lines
Which were burning to the touch
That hot summer’s day.
How far? How long? Who knows?
My child’s lack of time sense…..
To tell the truth I may even have dozed off.
But we must have walked some short way –
All I can recall is suddenly
Being in the tranquil cool shade of the bluebell woods :
All the glaring heat
And noisy constriction were gone.
The air of the glade was deep and cool. It was given a life
Other than just moving molecules of gas
By some distant stream’s faint swirling sound -
Like woodland fairies dancing on tissue paper,
The air seemed to speak to me
In the whispered language of the stream,
And its soothing tones
Caressed my hot four-year-old cheeks.
With shoes and socks thrown off,
My bare legs were soon damp from the knees down
With brushing through the moist grasses
Of the woods’ floor as I ran here and there
To whichever bunches of wildflowers caught my eye.
My eyes were drowned in the sea of green.
Above my head was a sky completely filled
With translucent leaves of birch and beech,
And all around at shoulder height there seemed
To be waving ferns at the foot of every tree.
Undefoot, a spongy carpet of last year’s leaves
And this year’s grass crumped slightly
And sprang back into place
As I passed by,
As if I’d never been there at all.
I can recall picking armfuls of wildflowers
And dumping them on mum’s lap.
So many kinds of flowers
Came to my over-eager hands,
And their names in those days were unfamiliar to me.
There were spreading red campions
In places where a little sun shimmered
Down to the woodland floor.
There were ox-eye daisies swaying proud
And tall above the crowd
Of golden coltsfoot.