Best Blotched Poems
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
Categories:
blotched, appreciation, nature, smile,
Form:
Alliteration
Dear swollen-trunk maple, deemed
diseased by the saw-happy tree guy,
you who have stood silently, supposedly
slipping your ailment through your roots
to the neighboring trees, now fallen
full blast down, geometrically down,
right angle, then parallel at last, your flat-
sawn stump blotched with incriminating
evidence—you came and leafed
and are gone, and I who have grown old
in your lifetime, who intuited you rather
than knew you, felt you in my bones,
now feel the slightly thinner woods,
the hint of frailty. Scott the tree guy
has carried your eighteen-inch logs in his
red wheelbarrow and stacked them
for winter: a little Williams, a little Frost.
Oh tree, everywhere I look
I have to pledge reclamation, fill
the forest floor with ferns, mushrooms,
pine needles, and in the side corner
place the outhouse, practically unused
anymore, still in good shape, emitting
its rich human-waste smell, its wood
smell, its few spiders climbing
their trellises with their sticky feet.
Oh tree, so much has been discovered
to fill in the space where you were:
seven new species of Philippine
forest mice, a new genus of blind
Bulgarian beetle, four new species
of jewel beetles, six of New World
micromoths. I have filled my note cards,
I have left the vertical space open
for the Ur-tree, the canonical vision
that will take your place, even the stigmata,
your bulged and arthritic joints, the
whither of your leaving, the grand word
whither standing where you were.
Categories:
blotched, life, tree, space, tree,
Form:
Partly clad
full moon
was taking a bath on hills.
Trees were waiting
for the curtains to rise.
Scented stars would make
giant scars on the clouds,
I would make peace with the sky.
Lids of human greed were laden
with golden dust, I was hoisting the skull.
Of a virgin god who did not
want to live for the blotched up creation.
The decline was obvious. Truth
had refused to climb
on the sky-blue, salted peaks of springs.
Body had arrived,
mourners quietly wailing.
Gouged eyes could not decipher
the script on the halved pyramid.
Sun was sucking the clay.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
blotched, death, food, life, love,
Form:
Free verse
He goes by the name of Lacrimosa
He is the plain picture of a man
Those who don’t know him see him as a monster
But you and I know better that he is a broken friend
His smile drips of sorrow
His walk is that of a footless ghost
And should you accept his outstretched hand
And succumb to the adoring nature of his gaze
He will lead you away to a dreary place
That he calls home
And the monster will sing sweet nothings to you
And hold you safely in his arms
And though the smile on his orchid face may weep for you
Do not be ungrateful, as it is for you
You can shudder and shake and claw to get away
But you need him as much as he needs you
This puppet man who hangs from a single string
Neck crooked and marbled and hanging to the side
Will frighten and disturb those who can’t see his face
But he will protect you from the ones who claim to love you dear
He’ll hold you close and wherever you go
He’ll be there by your side, his cold hand grasping your own
He’ll be everything you need so you’ll never be alone
He’ll share with you his tears and guilt and blame
And for these gifts he asks nothing in return
But your companionship and smile for only a small time
He knows you cannot stay forever by his side
So when you’re ready to say goodbye
He’ll let you go
And he’ll insist that you keep his gifts
But in time you may throw them away
And turn your back on the weeping thing
Who gave all he had in your time of need
And let his crying fade away
But don’t look back or you’ll see him there
Extending his hand, begging to hold you in his arms once more
And should you choose to return to him
He will always welcome you
And make a place for you by his side
And one day you may decide
To snuff out the man on a string
To throw the gifts he gave back in his blotched, orchid face
And run far far away
So that never again will you see his smile so grayed
Or feel the icy sting of his clammy embrace
Never again will you sigh in the arms of a love once held dearer
Now burdened whenever they look in the mirror
With the image of what they at one time feared
Of a sad smile painted on the picture of a man
Neck crooked and marbled and hung by a string
Dangling a smile loose to the side
Tears scarring his cheeks
His arms open wide
A monster posing as a broken friend
Who goes by the name of Lacrimosa
Categories:
blotched, dark, depression, grief, metaphor,
Form:
I'm remembering our tender moments; how sweet was love
that filled pages of poetry you will never read, where I wrote of
my affection and things I no longer have the chance to say.
Words of passion, anger, and dreams that were swept away.
Melodies of memories I hold, still flow within my broken heart.
I try to console myself with writing you since we've drifted apart,
by recalling your voice as it gently whispered close to my ear.
Utterances that I'll not ever forget because I hold them dear.
Had I only imagined or fantasized that you loved me, too?
No, I knew your heart loved mine before we both vowed, "I do."
I remember the day you took my hand and knelt upon one knee.
"Yes!" I cried, and I saw the desire in your eyes for want of me.
I cannot chase those reveries away. Ones of your lilting laughter,
thinking we'd share that tethered treasure of love forever after.
Love; the greatest of all glorious gifts to each other we could offer,
more priceless than precious gems or coins that would fill a coffer.
You once asked me to write a pensive poem about a fallen star ~
A foreshadowing as I think back now, pondering where you are.
I wonder if you still think of me with the same thoughts I remember
or have you forgotten me as if there's not a spark left in that ember?
Once it burned brightly. I don't want to believe that could be true
for my heart still beats with longing and the yearning want of you.
I will close this letter in these wistful words, "With love, always."
Perhaps not the sentiment that I should fondly offer you these days.
Forgive the stains that have blotched the ink. They're from my tears.
I haven't managed to staunch their flow, even after all these years.
I addressed the envelope to our home, but it matters not one whit
that neither of us still live there. I know it's time that I get over it
but this letter will join the others I keep hidden inside a desk drawer.
Bound with crimson ribbon, written for a love I can no longer implore.
Categories:
blotched, lost love,
Form:
Rhyme
Running cracks of lead flaked paint, spiders across the front door like a grandfather's
forehead.
Its hinges squeal from years of inattention and forgotten maintenance
Floor boards moan a song of dismemberment and forgotten age
While musty gloom thickens the air – inhibiting, restricting, compressing breaths
Entrance ways lead to hallways which culminate and connect enclosed spaces,
hovering in an atmosphere of haunt and mourn
Conversations linger, echoing within walls of dine and feast
settings arranged from ritual –
two plates,
two bowls,
two cups,
two knives,
two spoons,
two forks,
two napkins,
two chairs,
with only voice and ephemeral trace.
Twisted unleveled stairs, escalate to second stories
letters to love and hate cover ancient mourning boards.
Segmented space divides the infant from maturation.
Cracked spine, chipped rails, exposing the wooden crib core
Superficial angst and rage characterizing the infant's facade,
yet delicate love exposed in clean white linens pressed and laid in perfection
sets the bedding stage for stuffed bears and embroidered blankies
Toppled bookcase defecates bound knowledge across adult wooden bed frame
disheveling sheets, rugs, and right angles,
its half fallen posture exposes entrance way to hidden passages.
Between walls, moving slow as not to catch thread to exposed nail, pipe, or wire
shoulders grazing support beams, pace entranced by flattening florescence bulbed ceilings
Each step enclosing space tighter and tighter
Climax turns to anticlimax as exit opens to
a hermetic cell of textural paint echoing skin blotched and boiled.
Surrounding walls of tattered gold, ulcer red and puss filled purple,
each based with blotched skin.?Encircles full length mirror exposing views of deceased
discomfort –
Black glass glows within frame of ornate wood
spiking and curling with baroque transcendence
Reflecting back a ghost of future deceased persona.
Categories:
blotched, artlove, space,
Form:
Ekphrasis
It was dark...
I was on board
A running mind off the long board
A sleeping mind across the board
A winning mind over a long sword...
I saw children around me
Abducted, crying before me
Crippled, reaching out for me
Worn and disheartened, following me...
On the very same train I'm locked up
Children of innocent faces blotched
Can't imagine how we've all packed up
Can't see any window or door unlatched...
Children of ages five to nine with grime
Teens and adults aged twelve to nineteen
Befuddled and unnourished by torments of time
Soft bodies, bruised and mashed like gelatin...
I started walking inside the cursed train
Children, one by one, followed in pain
Following me like melted candles in chains
Growing up inside the unlitted train that drains...
Then slowly the runaway train stopping and halted.
As I reached the end of the runaway train
Faces of shamed lives wired with strain
An open door swiveling as wind blows the train
A new hope flashing at blown away-train...
Parents longing outside the train are in glisten
Each prisoner of runaway train freed
Me, watching the victims of the stricken
Redeemed and relieved of hearts that bleed...
I woke up... t'was just a dream!
Categories:
blotched, abuse, children, dream, grief,
Form:
Verse
- Dying Mother-
Perched on her stool but getting there
Angry at paper that just does not care
Onion unlayered in the last of her skin
Paper be angry, paper be thin
Blotched and embattled, unwashed and pajamaed, the bladder goes dry on the floor Not telling her why, two teeth left in a mushy jaw
I am still alive but who knows what for
Walking swollen ,chapped and scaled , stuck like Mother goose
Hearing goes harder than misunderstood
Drinks from the vine the everyday bottles ghost from the past
Wherever i am going I am getting there fast
Will they buy my a casket, or burn me with gas
There's comma 'tween now and forever and a hyphen just before hell
The nothing hereafter gets as good as it gets
Categories:
blotched, addiction, death,
Form:
Free verse
Defeat
Blood starts drippin’ from the soldier’s wound
Seeps like sewage ‘neath the politician’s room
Deep in the house, white fades to red
And the freedom we’re fighting for seems to be dead
‘Cause we can’t win like he once said
No we can’t triumph over the hate in our enemy’s head
But we’re deep in mud over the ******** we’ve been fed
While more and more soldiers awake in Heaven’s bed
The wind is blowing like a hurricane
In the frightening desolated lands
Where the wolves are insane
And hawks feast on bloody hands
Bullets flying, children dying, mothers crying
While the beasts are lying and hiding
Behind black curtains that no one’s finding
But God knows the truth, and He’s forevermore sighing
Too many hands washed in widows’ tears
Too many echoed gun shots ringing in ears
Too many hearts frozen numb from fears
Of hope too distant, like skylight chandeliers
Wounded souls soaked in blotched black fate
Disillusioned by dark demons’ fate
Persistent nightmares of woebegone escape:
Screeching fervently under Liberty’s Gate
I grasp the rope fabric with delicate care,
Neck tickling from its bristly hair
My chapped, dry lips whisper a final prayer
Before a tightening ravish pain permeates the air
A bright radiant flash scorches the cloudless horizon
And ashes drift upward, caressing my bare, dangling feet
Bleak, barren, biting malice below seems blazon
But the dead know not the sentiment of defeat
Categories:
blotched, adventure
Form:
Heroic Couplet
A dry stone wall
of moss-grown granite
staggers,
lush undulating plains
swaggers,
fields ablaze with wildflowers
bows
at a curvaceous hollow
where a copper stream gurgles below.
Sheep fluff velvet meadows
mirror cotton clouds above.
Stooped,
they graze
on buttercup fields
Blotched blurs,
they climb
to higher ground
where
Lilting melodies
lace the trees
sweeping the air
with apple blossom
on a dove day afternoon
Written for Francine Roberts contest "Flowers" by Eiken Laan 27 January 2011.
Buttercup Fields
Categories:
blotched, nature
Form:
Free verse
I could see auras
Blotched on the walls before me
Around human heads
I could see colors
Floating around head gaily
Like precious halos
I could smell - 1st sense
I could taste - 2nd sense
I could see - 3rd sense
I could feel - 4th sense
I could touch - 5th sense
I could sense (intuition) - 6th sense
Guess my seventh sense?
If you don't, that proves that your dense!
Get the hint?
If you do, here's a cookie!
You get it?
If you don't, shame on you...
Shame to you,
dude or lady!
Really now? Really?
I could sense
When someone is ill...
Or when someone is sad...
When things go wrong...be still !
I could sense that you're mad...
I'm seventh sense
Can you guess my 7th sense?
*hint* hint* Read the first 6 lines!
It's not that complicated!
Categories:
blotched, beautiful, beauty, change, confusion,
Form:
Rhyme
The tulips are too excitable, it is Winter here.
—Sylvia Plath (Tulips)
Like Tulip-beds of different shape and dyes,
bending beneath the invisible west-wind’s sighs.
—Thomas Moore
Roses propose to plentiful hearts, but my soul
rushes headlong into a waterfall of tulips.
—Quote by Poet
*Rachel Ruysch - most acclaimed tulip painter
of the Dutch Golden Era
ODE TO TULIPS
tulips a treat, with trippy leaves,
a fan over roses, a relief from grief.
this delightful Dutch-y sends me.
blotched sepals amidst pastels
of Spring, in perky pink,
purple pleasure, youthful yellow.
this dandy, fellow of a flower,
full of power to please, or Plath.
Sylvia’s sentiments, a nod
of regret, blinding, grieving.
opposite of my pet. my perpetual
love knots binding me in happiness,
romantic rendering sealed with a kiss.
vainglorious leaves sans thorns,
luscious darlings to stroke. effervescent
brilliance in a clear vase of water.
ostentatious presentation of Ruysch.*
florid field of treasures appeal to my eyes,
a sea of tulips as far as the eye can see.
Dutch-y draw near, your ship overflows,
in Miss Universe’s arms, cradled in a bride’s.
Categories:
blotched, art, beauty, grief, poetry,
Form:
Ode
In certain countries, they bombard
The populace with police and guard.
I wonder how they would regard
A woman who just loves to fard.
Perhaps her face is acne-scarred
Or freckled, blotched or wrinkle-marred;
Would she be feathered (after tarred)
Because she takes the time to fard?
We women know that life is hard.
From certain places, we are barred.
Yet female rights we can’t discard
And one remains the right to fard!
So next time, on the boulevard,
Or even in your own backyard,
Just flaunt what once was tubed or jarred
And show the world how well you fard!
*to fard: to paint the face with cosmetics
(a word I’d never heard before)
Categories:
blotched, women,
Form:
Monorhyme
You notice the trees seem grown up, so much more than you have; arms are thick, gnarled
like they have been force-fed steroids, unlike the used pipe cleaners that hang like wet
towels from your shoulders.
Recalling the privet hedge that your father loved: shaping bolster boundaries every fourth
week, hoping it would dull the world into a soft subtle melody of background music; lying
besieged by the rubble of too many feet, too many voyeurs.
Terracotta blotched across the portal to your cocoon, split like the moth had already flown,
but you were the one who flew, singeing wings in your sense deprived flight; the night never
felt as comfortable to you as it folded around your flames.
Your life littered amongst the charred past like a melded genetic mistake,
teddy morphed into something even your nightmares kept hidden.
You know the bubbled paper well its something you see in every shop window, a brand
displayed as stigmata. They called you hero; you the one with hidden matches; you the one
who craved infamy,
still burning.
Categories:
blotched,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Wind Swept Beauty.
.
Upon hilly brackish tor
Of a wild inhospitable
Windswept ambling moor
Woolly sheep chew cud and bleat
In the shadow of the over looking
Rugged towering sister mountains
.
A sprawling sweeping land
Of tawny browns and greens
And carpets of purple heather
Laid by God’s hand in between
.
Linier lecithin blotched
Higgledy piggledy drystone walls
Boundary lines
Thickets of bracken
Woody copper copse
With steeple wind battered tree tops
.
Silver ribboned stream and brooks
Snaking through the rugged land
Gushing rushing over
Stone pebble and boulder
Sparkling cold clear and clean
Lazy pouting gasping trout
Suddenly turn and try to kiss the sky
As a flock of flapping crows
With raucous calls pass by
.
A harsh unforgiving land
Weather beaten unrefined
Rugged beauty upon sodden earth
On which it defiantly stands
Under temperamental moody
Ominous varied darkened sky’s
Capturing many a heart
And pleasing the eye.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
Categories:
blotched, beauty,
Form: