Best Begrimed Poems
Once upon a time...
Once upon a time, in France, a storyteller fella
Wrote of a girl named Cinderella,
Meant as a fairy tale romance.
Her daddy died when she was young, and she was forced to share his riches
With three monumental b****es,
A most unhappy circumstance.
For years her stepmom and stepsibs made her perform a menial's duty,
And as she blossomed into beauty,
They grew more hateful, mean, and cruel.
Each night they dined on fine cuisine and wore lace dresses with silk sashes,
While she wore rags begrimed with ashes,
And got just crusts of bread and gruel.
Then one day a herald from the king demanded entry
To the homes of landed gentry,
They were invited one and all.
It was the prince's eighteenth birthday, and the king and queen were harried
Because their son was not yet married.
Ergo, the reason for the ball.
The stepsisters primped and preened and wild excitement they exuded,
When Cindy asked to be included, they gaped at her as if appalled.
Stepmother sneered, "Look here, I'll show you!"
With self-righteous indignation,
"Your name's not on the invitation.
Just we elite are so installed."
So Cinderella went downstairs to seek some solace in the kitchen,
But 'stead of sittin' there and b****in', she started dancing with a broom.
She whirled and twirled around the floor,
Or else she'd stand there, gently swaying,
As if an orchestra was playing
Pretending they were bride and groom.
And then a flash, a crash of thunder, and to Cindy's stunned amazement,
There gliding through the kitchen casement,
A pudgy lady dressed in blue.
She said, "Hello, my dear, no fear, I'm here to grant your secret wishes,
I'll wave my wand and clear the dishes,
And make a princess out of you!"
She waved and tapped and flicked and zapped,
And what she seemed to make the air do
Was give her make-up, nails, and hair-do,
And then to make the look complete,
Out of those rags so soiled and worn and far too torn to drown a cat in,
A gown of gossamer and satin, and crystal slippers on her feet.
Without this timely intervention, Cindy's tale might have been tragic.
Could she have managed without magic,
And her dilemma be resolved?
But everybody knows what happened with a gourd and six white mice,
And how a smudgy scullery maid was made to clean up really nice,
When a fairy got involved.
To be continued...
Two faithful souls stand listless in the great big tower
overlooking the stranded city that once stood tall
yearning for a quiet place to lay their heads
while far beyond the deserted land
a soft blue light gleams gracefully above tranquil skies,
dancing shadows rocking to midnight tunes,
and sweet melodies echoing from the gigantic moon.
She spans more than a thousand feet long soaking
up the exhausted earth, her immeasurable depths
cuts and carve through valleys and streams
with clear blue water and powdery white sand
what more could you ask for on that distant land.
They have been planning this trip for many years,
but when the time draws near their saving disappears.
An empty refrigerator with two trays of frozen ice
lean against the corner of the kitchen
in their ten bedroom mansion
and a bare pantry exposing a slice of mildew bread
filled with little mice nibbling and playing tug of war.
Not many people knew their story
they have been broke for twenty years
but lived a painful lie, cutting corners
making back door transaction,
eating lamb and turkey from profits
made from sordid deals.
Their empire that once stood tall hangs in dismay
While it watches the world going up in flame
by those who continue to play treacherous games.
Sobibor and Hiroshima horrors of the past
Should have cleared the way for a more sophisticated path
But now athoroughfare mixed with complexity
packed with insidiousness
have ducks walking around
quacking without wings or tails
They finally got an offer to go to Utopia.
with packed bags not a penny in their name,
they set off for Utopia hoping to find a new life again
but when they got their it was the same old begrimed game.
Their entire world has been shaken,
shaken by its own guilt and self-reproach,
the transgression that their ancestors have borne
have been handed down for generations to shoulder
A land that they believe was pure and holy
has turned into nightmare and horror
dreadful things dismount in dark corners
women raped strangers abused
yet religion forms the core of the throne
They have witnessed empires toppled,
Kingdoms have fallen in their sight
Rulers have shaken and wept bitterly
causing the great big god to balance the scale
but blackmail in Utopia remains a formidable game
©2013 Christine Phillips
(Response to Mr. Lamoureux "Tell Me")
You say "Tell Me" "I really want to know"
Tell you what Richard? Really?
About a God sitting on a throne in high heaven
And you down below whining and fretting?
So...I thought, well...why not?
Let's go find you "a God!"
Sought I Him in places high
Sought Him I down in the abyss depth,
In places sacred, in distant shores,
In scriptures, history, science and folklore,
In rites and rituals, in customs and creed;
Is He a God, really or a Phantom, indeed?
Or a figment of our imagination, I plead?
I saw within me and saw the light!
Oh yes, I have seen Him
with the eye of my heart,
And Him I asked, "Who art thou?"
He replied, "Thou"
"My spirit is mingled in thine,
Like water with wine,
Lo, in every way we are one."
"I in truth am He" ~Isa Upanishad 17
"I am He whom I love,
And He whom I love is I,
We are two spirits in one body,
If thou seest me
Thou seest Him,
And if thou seest Him
Thou seest us both." ~Husain Ibn Mansur (Al Haqq)
"Why should I seek?
I am the same as He.
His essence speaks through me.
I have been looking for myself." ~Jalal al-din Rumi
"Let him by wisdom his doubts dispel,
Let him be himself,
And then he sees The Self in all beings,
All beings in The Self,
The same in everything he sees"
"Even as a mirror with dirt begrimed
Shines brightly once it is well cleaned,
So too the embodied soul
once it has seen Self as it really is (tattwa)
Becomes one, its goal achieved,
from sorrow free" ~Svetasvatara Upanishad, II:4
"As much of heaven is visible,
As we have eyes to see" ~William Winter
So, Richard, here's your answer:
"Who sees Me everywhere,
Who sees the All in Me,
For him I am not lost
Nor is he lost for Me.
I am never nowhere." ~The Bhagavad Gita, VI:30
For "Tell Me" contest by Richard Lamoureux
My mouth is weak in gape
That night my eyes in gawp
The night of war in memory
Horrendous ISIS brought Paris.
Horror! The world in anguish
Bataclan Theatre in despair
Before Eiffel shrieked in anguish
The dead, maimed, the innocents
The glints of Eiffel now in glitch
Begrimed! 13th of eleventh month
As bodies in bags she sees
But cry not further, Eiffel
Borders shall be in open
Eiffel shall tower and smile
Bow not shall we to them
Cowards, men in dark visitations
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as Master and his Lady take their ease.
This is what awaits at home -
(I'll try explaining in a poem).
Taxi line or Uber call.
Heat I cannot take at all.
Mail piled up and plants a'droop.
Empty fridge or fruit-turned goop.
Messages on the machine.
Headlines that I haven't seen.
Laundry basket quickly filled.
Jet lag feelings 'bout to build.
Car begrimed and yes, by cricket,
Windshield likely sports a ticket.
Just this morning, eggs and scones
But flying home to local zones,
I'll need some time to readjust
Before the mem'ries turn to dust.
In deep,drenched trenches did they wait
To confront the foe
Mud-infested and rat-swarmed.
Lit fags,shielded by begrimed and cupped hands,
Passing from mate to mate
Against the booming background
Of the heavy guns.
Some shells bursting overhead
Others throwing up clumps of dirt and burning flesh.
Stifled screams of pain
Which distant ears deny
As they dread the cry
"Over the top"
Into the blazing barrage and the limb-ripping wire.
Now in quiet,restful trenches do they lie
Stark white crosses
Populating the ground
Still and peaceful
Grim reminders of a war
We have time to regret
And wish it had not come to this
That so many had to give their lives
So selflessly to save our future
And lose theirs.
Behold, the aura of evening sky
colors fade to darkness, breathless.
Hands, spent toiling and tilling, reap
simple pleasure, and fingers begrimed.
Passion of the island people grows,
As upward the beast below boils.
© Jul 21 2010 African Asset contest “sky, soil, and sea”
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as
Master and his Lady take their ease.
~
Diamond
invaluable, resplendent
shining, shimmering, scintillating
jewelry, gemstones, silica dioxide, blight
scratching, abrading, scarifying
commonplace, begrimed
Gravel
~
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Sparkling Diamonds" Poetry Contest, Joseph May, Judge & Sponsor.
Five and a Toad
They marched in ragged order
under the brilliant, hot,
drenching sunshine,
with thin cotton clouds overhead.
Motley assorted clothes,
sweating, begrimed, sunburned, but eager faces.
One with a cast, blue
with purple stars and glitter,
a residual from a failed acrobatic
jump in the living room.
Dreaming the dreams of childhood,
they marched along the neighbor’s fence
carrying with them, a toad,
captured triumphantly to the
accompaniment of much screaming,
passing it from one grubby little hand to the next.
Marching in the brilliant sunlight,
they sang or perhaps just giggled.
5 year-olds playing in the waning
halcyon summer days of backyard childhood.
David Holmes
rootless on sapphire seas
tides dishonored then begrimed
a keel eroded, relentlessly thinned
barnacles disguised with time
drifting toward dark horizons
battered and barely alive
distant isles beg an appearance
pleading I arrive
beyond the rotting corpses
mired and run aground
anchored in the muddy depths
the Sea of Despair surrounds
fire-ravaged rigging
scared by flame and age
fail to bear the sails
billowing before winds of rage
salt-breached stores
neglect to nourish my
bloated belly filled with spoils
hunger pangs defy
among debris without compass
stars that guided now gone
lost upon the derelict
no port do I belong
barren brown sandy isles
without an oasis or scarcely more
countless swells deftly erode
a deceptive sandy shore
dreams once charted a treasure map
leading me to distant virgin coasts
linger now in the swirling mist
reflecting fading failing ghosts
flailing from the yardarm
I beg reprieve once more
in the distance lays the land
of a milk and honey shore
riding waves of swirling crimson
on churning deep blue azure seas
surrender not to marauders
pirates or itinerant thieves
blues swirl destroying dreams
hurricanes batter weakening beams
darkness reflects in fractured mirrors
as blues drift through sapphire seas
the storms are raging on the rollin' sea
and, on the highway of regret
Prompt Credit: The storms are raging on the rollin' sea, and on the highway of regret - Bob Dylan - Make you feel my love
February 18, 2020
B709K
rootless on sapphire seas
tides dishonored then begrimed
a keel eroded, relentlessly thinned
barnacles disguised with time
drifting toward dark horizons
battered and barely alive
distant isles beg an appearance
pleading I arrive
beyond the rotting corpses
mired and run aground
anchored in the muddy depths
the Sea of Despair surrounds
fire-ravaged rigging
scared by flame and age
fail to bear the sails
billowing before winds of rage
salt-breached stores
neglect to nourish my
bloated belly filled with spoils
hunger pangs defy
lost upon the derelict
to no port do I belong
barren brown sandy isles
without an oasis or scarcely more
countless swells deftly erode
a deceptive sandy shore
dreams once charted a treasure map
leading me to distant virgin coasts
linger now in the swirling mist
reflecting fading failing ghosts
flailing from the yardarm
I beg reprieve once more
in the distance lays the land
of a milk and honey shore
riding waves of swirling crimson
on churning deep blue azure seas
surrender not to marauders
pirates or itinerant thieves
blues swirl destroying dreams
hurricanes batter weakening beams
darkness reflects in fractured mirrors
as blues drift through sapphire seas
B709I
One flight of steps down
you can smell it
the putrid odour of urine
your eyes must adjust to the darkness
then you hear it
in the distance
Clunk, thud, Clunk
the sound of metal on stone
followed by loud swears
Funk, thud, Funk
closer now
Then you see him
a begrimed creature
Hobbling on a crutch
propping his metal leg,
lost in the war
War
had broken him,
physically
furrowed pain upon his face
he still rues his lost foot
People call him “Footroo”
Cause he hops like one
he spends his days underground
away from the nastiness
new enemies abound
Peace (huh)
had shattered him,
mentally.
This is his bomb-shelter now…
FIRE AND BRIMSTONE
Whitened collar, fixedly starched
To the ultimate limits of self-perfection,
Points righteous, crooked finger
At an open-mouthed assembly,
Crouching beneath thick-
Eyebrowed gaze of a dark
Frock-coated scarecrow.
His cackling voice emits
Hollowed-out squawks,
Casting lines of invective
Like steel confetti
Into the ironic celebration
Of a judgemental wedding
For outsiders, condemned
Beyond the pale.
Heaven is expunged by murkiest haze of hell,
Begrimed in dark, closed-off shades,
A treacherous welcome for
Those who smear themselves
With so much intrigued slime of purest evil,
Cloaked with superior innocence
For the delightful delectation
Of ascetic, hair-shirted fools.