Best Bristle Poems
Through frayed seams a rosy dream bleeds
needled and re-stitched
with threads of time and love and hope..
and still — a rosy dream bleeds
the miscarriage of a promised rose garden
leaving me bereft but for entwined bands of gold –
contemplative thorns tempt my angst
moony moody barbs bristle twigs of tenderness
sigh— it’s not a laurel wreath worn atop my brow
as I sit alone with a squeamish friend
my blue-sky-to-storm-cloud introspection —
as your distant eyes deserted mine long ago
Winter's beast laid bare a cerebral graveyard
lost you wander amongst laid-to-rest neurons
worn headstones of thoughts and laughter and memories…
you wonder why they hide — why they died
the crackle of cognitive circuitry quiets
branched-lightning fades from unwitting clouds
and aged roots of reality perish
our red rose finished fallen to pieces
you-and-me-petals a messy heap like old potpourri —
yet in dark’s hush love’s scent lingers on our dream pillow
Oh nostalgic sepals embrace me!
my heart yearns to return to the bud
to the fullness of our June bloom —
instead, I bury desires beneath life’s litterfall;
amid pollenless stamens and leaves of one-sided reveries
and cage my fear my despair behind purple thistle facing the light
as I free a smile for you, my love —
you my sun that still parts the rain-bearing nimbus
We hear the engine whistle
The hissing of the steam
The hairs on our necks begin to bristle
As we meet the arrival of a dream
We didn't think we had a chance of winning
Entering just for fun I guess
but thanks to simple poem we are grinning
As we board the Orient express.
London to Paris, what a dream come true
I never dreamed the sparks would fly between us two
The fireman stokes the boiler; and releases a jet of steam
The guard collects our tickets and we begin our dream
Days and nights together on this magnificent train
Travel through beautiful places, seeing new terrain
Enthralled at the elegance and beauty of the carriage
Will our trip together end up with our marriage
Looking so handsome in your new dinner jacket
Glad you won this holiday; it must have cost a packet
The ambiance of the surroundings is utter bliss
We seal our relationship with a tender kiss
Holding hands so gently we share a vintage wine
Sitting in the Pullman coach you rest your head on mine
Velvet blue sky and shining stars start to cast their spell
The romantic seine has such stories to tell.
In Paris we visit the galleries of fine art
Holding your hand I realise you have captured my heart
We pass through the Arc De Triomphe and climb the Eiffel Tower
Now I surrender to your feminine power
Retire with me to the Napoleon suite
Sharing in the splendour of this romantic treat
Promise to be my Mam'selle Josephine
Or expose my heart to Madame Guillotine
You look so beautiful and smell divine
I kiss your lips, They taste of fine wine
We are lost in the flames of passions fire
As we quench the thirst of true loves desire
Our bodies rise and fall as we entwine
Oh I’m so glad that you are mine
All those feelings denied and for so long suppressed
Come to the fore aboard the Orient express.
Passion abates we are wrapped in each others arms
Darren wants more so I succumb to his great charms
Our fire ignites with desire and great passion
Hour upon hour – this man I can’t ration
Finally we reach the end of the line
Our love making session has been so divine
Arm in arm we head out of the carriage door
So hopelessly in love – who could ask for more
15th April 2014
Jan Allison and Darren Watson - 'JaDazzle'
Please also read my Blog about our collaboration
How did a cherry kiss? Bitter flower petals with sweet pistils.
So laden they act as halos while we breathe the love
in a pink hollow, silence sounding like taste, acting like epistle
to hold this moment in a silvery image, like moon, or dove
low, low, a bowl formed while sunshine flickers above.
Chains of yellow petals hang over our deck, the leaves hands--
offer welcome resting branch, our sheltered home.
Seeds follow close, fragile like beans, hard case to feed the land
crawl before God, they say, be grateful as we weed and stir loam.
Together seeds and flowers and hands make a life a poem.
Awaiting the sumac, the flame at summer's ending is fruitless
we've passed the feathering, the pimping of red underneath bristle
the deer horn softness crawling out in oddest places in a mess
lining the sand pond, above the purpled iris, the pestle
of stone and sun, no rain to bring down sumac's fiery trestle.
Vulturous crows squawk and fight the ring-billed sea gulls
waiting, one in the bared hollow hands of the cottonwood
the other fat-bellied and waddling after rain finally dulls
we're under hoodies, under shivers, our neighborhood
waits the pinking and mossing, will it unfurl new wood?
Don’t Look Behind You
From swamp I lifted from an arm
But collapsed to pitiful puddles
And ground my fist in slush
As I heard their voices
Drag at thus
And make of evil a cunning mist
Has me bewitched
Lost for all my will to do righteousness
Has led me astray in my ego wish
And left me bleating and bawling
Cowering and quivering
By the ancient grave
That made in secret
Chill, black as the imagination can make it
Seeps through every pore
And begins my desire to do its bidding
And what comfort there be
But
Murder
Most foul
Of stained and terrified blood
For mad men to feast upon
And still I cannot find my way from
This spine chilling howl
And was it me in moonlight
Drenched in red
My reflection does not seem similar now
But my heart races
And lips drool
And my throat
Growls
Am I cursed
The hairs on my arm on down my neck
Stand
But is it bristle they feel
For there is a scent of death and raw meat
In the air
I savour
Murder
In a bath of drooling slavering
Vein pumping
Slavering
Madness
What choice has bittersweet despair,
A dying rose,
An empty chair.
Shall I then grieve and weep for thee
And temper broken heart and soul
So I can cherish one more gaze
Of happiness, of summer days
And bristle with abiding love
Of life cast now in shade and brook,
This ebb which pains with force and fate
United soon through heavens gate.
As I, sit here and I stare up at the night sky,
The cool air rushes past, and it's a moonless night
I listen to leaves bristle in the gusts of wind,
and the howling of the smooth air, and it's my friend
They say there's always a rainbow at the end of a storm,
well I'm still picking up the pieces while another storm is born
And while my last scar is healing, more of my skin is torn,
These last few months, I can't figure out what has been going on
So I, put these words together like it's gonna change anything,
If anything I'm doing nothing but hanging on to my dignity
I already lost my pride, I put it up on the shelf,
So that when you laugh at me, I laugh along, at myself
Cause nothing you can do can phase me, this life is a maze see
You just gotta stop by and take a glance to learn I'm amazing,
Because I made it here, without giving up,
and there's a long road ahead of me before I blow up
As my body deteriates, my soul is still alive
My mind is ahead of me, I'm living before my time
But in my mind, what I'm doing is right,
And I know I'm losing, but at least I'm putting up a fight
I'm scared off the odds, because the results could be drastic,
I'd rather hide my face, so like Halloween I mask it
And the mask fits, so I choose to wear it
Then like my face, the pain hides, and I can finally bare it
I just, roll along like everything is good,
knowing that I'm nothing, but I'm doing what I should
This depression is taking over, who would've known that it could
I need some shade for a while, so I slip inside of my hood
I try to, dream better dreams and live better days,
Knowing that the end of that road is miles away
There's no stop lights, just an on going road,
I've got no compass, my heart is tell me which way to go
Dust dry winds that leech and parch,
Skeletal soldiers that endlessly march
O'er barren sand and rocky crest,
Examples of nature's cruel jest.
Plants that bristle with vicious quills;
A land that teems with ancient ills.
Cursed and blighted by gods unknown;
Loved by bandits and rogues alone.
Loneliness that echoes the land's bleak need;
A cancer that grows like an unholy seed.
Twisted remnants from an age long past;
Memories linger, but nothing lasts.
Broken spires and crumbling sand;
Fading ruins on every hand
Of once proud cities gathering dust;
Abandoned dreams now choked with rust.
Shadowed lands now harsh and bleak;
Drained of life, of decay they reek.
Blistering heat to sear and scorch;
A land benighted, the sun its torch.
Mountains loom high on every hand;
Timeless sentinels o'er the broken land.
Yet in this desolate, deserted place,
Life yet lingers, if only a trace.
Lizards, snakes, and scorpions abound;
Cactus blooms and birds give sound.
Reminders to all that life will live,
And survive on whatever nature will give.
A wasteland it is, and yet it is more;
For it harbors secrets of forgotten lore.
Lessons of serenity, hope, and trust;
Covered in blankets of alkaline dust.
I hear the palm trees bristle
do they not like the breeze
could they be angry that the sun
has hidden its appeal
Perhaps they share my thoughts
intending to appease
That I am not the only one
that they know how I feel
I watch them through my window
as if they wave to me
hypnotic in their soft advance
I just can’t turn away
Imploring as they bristle
to hear their winsome plea
to give the sun another chance
to grace a brand new day
Hard-working, calloused hands
firmly imprint ridges upon my back.
Your sandpaper face, like a fine file,
smooths against my neck gently.
Like your rugged bristle terrain,
my arm hairs stand erect.
11-7-19
I can't, whistle I, wish I could.
When I hear folk whistle, it sounds good
I'm like a kettle without a spout,
I purse my lips but, no sound comes out.
Blow girl, blow, the sound will come,
Whistling comes easy to everyone,
Says my husband gleefully,
As he whistles merrily.
I am starting to bristle,
Eighty-four, and still can't whistle.
My father could not bear to hear,
When my mother whistled loud and clear.
He said " A whistling woman and a crowing hen,
Are neither fit for God nor men."
I switch the radio on to my favourite station,
And sing and dance with jubilation.
I was just drifting off,
A quiet snooze on the bench
Under the tree,
When I heard:
"I hereby declare this meeting open!
The frosts have given way,
The hush of winter loosens,
Spring has stepped up for Lady Day."
A busy chatter of squirrels start to gather
For the branch meeting.
Trees unfurling into bud
Yield a promise of nest eggs
Soon to pay dividends
For the nimble and resourceful
Tenants of the Woodland Guild.
There's a quiver of quills of feathery tails
As the squirrels brush up on stocks and shares -
Who's invested the what-s and the where-s?
Secret maps drawn in ledgers of lichens.
Arboreal advice given,
"We must maintain balance,
Reduce risk, but stay agile."
The squirrels of this midland bank listen,
They bustle and bristle.
Ears pricked, steady their nerve
Ready to go,
"Remember, time is your friend,
Impulse, your foe!"
Each squirrel a proud custodian
Of assets, ground hidden,
Hedgefunds.
A treasury of nuts and seed
Saved through thrift
In times of need,
Dug deep in the vaults of the earth.
Beech, pine, hazel and oak.
"We sit in these trees of plenty
Because of what squirrel folk planted before."
Then, with a scamper and flicker of tails,
They were gone.
As a pup she sailed through the air
Jumping from chair to chair
An eagle's elegant poise void
Just a thud 'pon the air
Those short legs carried her swiftly
As her chest drug the ground
Most all small furry creatures drew
A bristle and grrrr sound
Her red coat matched her fiery growl
As enemies she faced
Until that brave cat stood her ground
And a red dachshund chased
The moral of this story is
Don't get all bristled up
You might meet your match dear friend
In a small dachshund pup
Sponsor: Rob Carmach
Contest: Dachshunds
Written: January 26, 2015
I puppy sat and now dog sit my daughter's dachshund
Her personality is still the same fiery..
Fiery can have either two or three syllables
I used it as two..
This is a form of Poulter's measure..
deciduous tree
limbs bristle in winter wind
ever green fortress
Those condescending Royals in their pristine
garden, primp and preen among the other flowers.
Their porcelain pale skin so fragile; they make
a wide berth, around me. I feel like a thorn
in their flesh, an oddity at best.
The stately cedar would not deign to give
his daughter to my son, saying she already has
a place at the palaces of kings. I bristle for without
this lowly thistle, their lives would be boring.
Why, they’ll be sorry to find me and my kind
honored on the Highlander’s Royal flag. One day,
my thorn will puncture the proud, topple them from their
high horses. They’ll slow down, their careless
stride and fall, as the thistle's prick is pulled from
their perfumed and powdered rumps.
After: Thistle in the Field, by Fidelia Bridges, 1875
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 10
16 January 2016
* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing 24 February 2016
Yonder comes the messenger
Forging thicket and thistle;
A young postal carrier
Known as Israel Bissell.
It began in Watertown,
This bold tale of derring-do;
Bearing news of Lexington,
He would get the message through.
America’s call to arms
Was his burden to carry.
Because of its importance,
Israel did not tarry.
The lad set out that morning,
Driven like a man possessed,
To alert the colonies
Of America’s unrest.
By noon he’d reached Worchester,
Though his steed did not survive.
A fresh mount and two days more,
In New Haven he arrived.
Every town along the way,
Heard his voice sounding alarms.
Our war of independence
Has begun! To arms! To arms!
He entered New York City
For another two day ride.
Then was on to New Jersey,
Without rest, or break in stride.
On to Philadelphia,
He reached Independence Hall.
Five days would be his journey
In delivering the call.
To arms, he warned the people,
Every American son,
For the British are coming,
And the war has just begun.
So if you can remember,
When a tale, you first did hear,
Of a legendary ride
And a man named Paul Revere;
Perhaps you might consider
How a hero gains his fame.
Sometimes all it comes down to,
Is the more heroic name.
But tales will still be written,
Full of bluster and bristle.
While true heroes go unsung,
Like young Israel Bissell.