Best Bristles Poems
His fragile limbs in a caged body
seeking proteins from ivy drips
vulnerable fears hushed by whirring darkness
paranoia draped in wavering existence of malady
sea of sick humans hanging like leaves from willow
mitigated by prayers of angels in white coats
yet lowered pulse rate in hopeful daylight
but his sumptuous mind holds the key to freedom
in deepest slumber his twisted cage breaks free
arising hopes float in ropes of subconscious mist
his smiling shadow traces whispers of memories
he sways his brittle fingers in ecstasy
shapes of smoke growing as titans in silence
his love is a ghost that the others can't see
exploding stars in topaz lit utopia paint
charcoal brush adorning sparkling bristles of love
colourful patterns on canvas of blank memory
flashing waves entrancing visions of kisses alight
blankets of amnesia in existence but he dances
on a hustling vintage platform emerging in fog
breeze in his red shirt chasing scarlet sunsets
he boards a crimson wagon longing for a journey
holding roses for Aphrodite in the land of swans
simmering in flashes of blooming glitters.
Rising dawn clicks the buttons in his mind
blank memories, ivy drips lock him away
in a caged body his fragile limbs rest
nobody knows he visits a soothing paradise
fog curls under his pillow in deep oceans
till slithering hazy sapphire nights arrive
July 20, 2020
Delirium Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
~Premiere Contest Winner: 1st Place
I have walked past the mirror so many times,
God, I cannot believe what I see.
I once was a painter of great songs and rhymes,
Brushing rainbows and drinking muse tea.
I sang to the hearts of the rich and the poor.
"He's a genius, a prophet," they said.
I walked upon water and danced with pride's whore.
Now, the poet and song man are dead.
It no longer rains and the sun does not shine.
The great spectrum of colors is gone.
All my brushes are silent, the bristles resign,
To a world with no sunset or dawn.
The people no longer pay heed to a man,
Who is just one more face in the crowd.
I wonder if this was God's ultimate plan,
So that I would no longer be proud.
A noble Black Oak tree stands tall and tranquil
Wearing brown, old and dried crumpled leaves
Withstanding all autumn and winter storms
Without any distress or any grief
Golden fall is long gone, cold, wet season is also concluding
Spring is poking its head up with colorful bulbs blooming
Some of her allies have Cherry blossoms in flourish
Some show progression of luscious new emerald leaves
Mother earth knows unique behavior of her child
With assurance, she lets her be herself while watching over with smile
Tree wants to hold on to longstanding and withered for a while long
Not ready yet to let go of dear presence of that warmth
April comes along to cheer her up
Tree beams, perks up
Ridding her old dry appearance, starts dressing up
Growing yellowish handsome clusters of dangling male catkins,
Gorgeous reddish female flowers in short striking javelins,
Velvety foliage of sharp zigzag tips in red tinge,
With pointed seven to nine lobes with bristles exquisitely unique
Summer grows them into profound shade of shiny green
Rust colored acorns with top halves enclosed in caps start appearing
Showing her wisdom in her towering strength and stability,
With canopy of branches widespread and mighty,
Tree gets ready once more for visitors of ecosystem to offer plenty…
If bristles are mouth
I shall use them to praise
And my hairs are mouth
I shall use them to praise
For He's leading my way upon the choice I made
For roads are many and manta devours my head
In an abyssal ocean; brain drenched of ideation,
Still I swam a fish hope for season
To change to dry, to dry my brain
Oh! Poor soul in complication
As a beetle lifting a huge rock
With its sucking jaw or beak
When difficulty comes one's means
One might turn into a goose
Little fishes of land giggled and
Stabbed me with outwards.
Um! To God be the glory
The choice I made for poetry
Gave me true dimple grin
As two lovers face each with grin
Till my night was brightened
By bright light shines as gold
Orginated from the moon.
9/10/15
OH VINCENT
Oh Vincent, can we ever know what torments plagued you;
what demons fought you; what images raped your senses?
It was no accident that you sent blinding blasts of brightness
swirling, like hurled saucers to splatter upon your night sky canvases.
There you found your voice feathered
with mixed hues of unrelenting colors
swished in among tired out bristles.
Unconstrained, they brought to life
the frenzied haunting façade of your crazed visions.
Oh Vincent, you have tried to paint pictures of God,
broken frames holding thoughts alive within a broken soul,
You felt other’s deep sorrows and you placed
your mournful tears upon empty spaces,
and rendered images of a faceted life,
conceived from a passionate heart.
Oh Vincent, you created holy existences
upon folios of painted scenes
the glory of dreams carefully uncovered
and laid bare to once again transcend life
as permanent shapes and shadows.
Evocative images were lured into sensory miracles
of what you wanted to offer, and of all you had to offer
You told your stories in ways only you could express.
But, oh Vincent, I ask you, was it really ever enough?
CAK 2-20-2014
Zurrip Zurrip
rip it, pull it, yank it free
peel your velcro heart from me;
stick it to lashes
stick it to hair
stick it to a love that's barely there.
Zurrip Zurrip
fine job you did to zip me in
a velcro heart plays to win
loop it in my mind
lock it on my tongue
hook it on my love, then I guess you're done.
Zurrip Zurrip
the bristles break
the more a velcro heart does take
unstick it from my future
unstick it from my past
rip it from me openly be sure to do it fast.
Zurrip Zurrip
the taste of love is is never so tart
until you find yourself fastened to a velcro heart.
It rained on and on.
the fire in the hearth
had long died out.
hunger grew,
frustration raged.
vultures swooped down
to feed on flesh in the night
half willing, half resenting,
surrendered, rather subdued,
desire spilled over,
bristles pricking
from organ to organ
thrusting and tearing
devouring in greedy gulp
waves surged past the log
passion spent,
hunger appeased,
purse strings loosened,
silver coins tinkled.
amply paid,
her wages of shame……!
the toil not wasted!
nights came one by one
creatures of the night frequented her more often
and the scenes were constantly replayed
though she abhorred them,
there was no other go, but yield
‘exploring hands encounter(ed) no defense’.
each night closed in smutty h(r) ut,
when the h(r)ut turned a prostitute,
she started to rot.
feeble she grew,
languid she became,
body thinned,
energy waned,
ailments plagued,
and
immunity lost!
now,
she lives an outcast.
a luscious fruit
blighted by the worms!
no more nocturnal invaders…..
no inebriated blather falls in her ears
only the hoot of owls !
___________________________
June.16.2022
Placed Fourth
Creatures of the Night Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Julia Ward
Splashes of pink from the flowering Crabapple....haze through
the sturdy square of lemon yellow glass - framed in Knights's Armor
....at parade rest on my porch.
Inside on the ledge, my Christmas Cactus welcomes Spring....with
bazookas exploding triple pink perfections in every direction!
~~~ these are my favorites ~~~
~~~ rising from the soil~~~
~~~ shaped in glass ~~~
When I'm pink, sound disappears
....and comets are late for tea
Perfect prisms of lemon light my intentions....prevent my escape
Sometimes, I wonder how long it will last....before the lemon sours
....the cactus only bristles....and the crabapple is bitter, once again....
....dedicated to AG....xxxooo
I picked up your blue hairbrush
I held it a while today
The hair between its bristles
Still smells of your hairspray
I drank my morning coffee
In the mug that has your name
On its rim still dressed in red
Is the slightest lipstick stain
I put your reading glasses on
To read the Sunday news
I went to the bedroom closet
To dust your favorite shoes
Your pillow still lays beside me
With the smell of your perfume
Though you're gone your beauty's there
To fill an empty room
It brought back all those memories
Through all the things I clutched
I've held you close all day long
Through all the things you touched
Come find me in solitude
wheels in both hands
confined to smooth movement
legs in motion
carefully studied years before
in colored tights
On dry bed
Small rustles in the dark
swift touch of silken hair
nervous bristles
That cutting sharpness
fragile green
disappears in dusk
in corners and
leaves
Grass seductively winks
when too close
punishes a tender caress
opens a spine
bares
and severs
***
July 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
A frequent favor is soon a debt:
It makes cupped hands close into fists.
Now that my hands are empty,
I see your breast heave with cold dark clouds—
A sure sign of the storm to come.
A pool of slime gathers in your eyes
That just yesterday were wide and glad
But now both narrow, each to a slit.
The fault, I know, is that a favor has gone missing,
So I the giver must hear the hissing.
Each time my favors to mist dissolve,
Your inner angels and demons to fists come.
Whom you cheer tells me focus:
Whether you dwell on scores or dwell on sores.
I see you cheer the angels
When it's my scores that you recall,
Scores that I gained whilst my favors flowed;
But it's demons that you cheer
When all you see are sores
That now hurt you where lost favors once soothed.
I feel your pain, so this much I’ll say:
In the hands of the clock is a mighty broom:
Of the plumes of angels' wings are its bristles made.
When time beats the past to dust,
It’s all soon wafted to heaven
As the clock each day fields its fabled broom.
Out of that dust, as at the beginning of time,
The Lord ever forms new worlds and fortunes
In which by his grace
Things now lost and missed may yet be reborn—
But only to those that stand with the angels.
In the woods no right of way, no right to live, no right to play.
I travel quickly, as dusk is beginning. Woods are thick, on this day.
Wood tick and spider heaven, I walk gingerly, on wet old leaves.
Dog has deserted me, long gone, chasing things she thinks she sees.
The air is thick, the sun is dying. I trip on a twig, I end up crying.
My ankle feels sprained, my knee is quite broke, maybe dying.
The woods are silent, but my hair is on end, something is watching.
I will be devoured, through my tears the woods are blurry blotching.
I scoot my sorry sore body over to a stick, hoping it is not a snake.
Pain shoots through me with every single sad boot step I take.
The dog is probably back at the house gobbling up a fancy steak.
My husband has no boundaries when it comes to our lab, Big Jake.
I inch my way to the steps in the forest, built of railroad ties.
Each laborious step, has me feeling the terror of unseen eyes.
A wolf? A coyote? A predator, of some sort no doubt.
Landing hard on first step I scream, shriek and howl all about.
An answering shriek comes from the forest to my immediate left.
It raises the hair on my arms, and it quite takes my breath.
A woman is being murdered in the trees next to me.
A woman is being raped, and cut up into threes.
Bristles on my arms curl my toes and frighten my face.
Whatever makes that devilish sound, is not of the human race.
I stop and I think and I realize at once, I am clearly beaten.
I sit and I wait for the mountain lion who has probably not eaten.
Canvas,
Soft brush strokes touch your lips
every word a colour
caressing those little bits
creating a soul
a whole
a panpsychism
free conscious
no objections
I the bristles bending with the curves
biting down at the turn
of the page
bookmarked the darkness bleeds
and I surface for another read
red looked up at green
back to blue
a sky of a different hue
a fresh river view
eyes stay the course
the cart driven by the horse
the breeze hardens the hairs
you soak them in your warmth
we return
always we return
to gaze at the moon
or is it the sun
perception
all a matter of trust
thrust in the throes
where lust is the precursor
to love
painted
outside the lines
You ...
are the breath of heaven,
an exhalation of the divine ire ...
a "l’appel du vide" angelic, pure,
accompanist to the day's glory,
a sacred diva's note, sustained
for the sheer indulgence of joy.
I dip my spirit's brush in your
blinding hot, golden brilliance,
and paint my day with dazzle ...
I splatter the canvas of my soul
with your shimmering brilliance,
bristles let loose of life's splendor.
The result, a framed exuberance
worthy of Pollock and Kadinsky,
but born of the colors of daylight ...
the essence of wonder renewed,
and the sublime realization of
all that it means ...
to LIVE.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New 16, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
COLOUR me a SUNSET
A melting pot of rainbows spreads across the sky
As a child takes a paintbrush and presses its bristles wide
And plays with it across the dappled canvas.
Small clouds shadow within sun-tinted haloes,
extremes of the spectrum form jagged lines that blur into each other
as crushed Neapolitan ice-cream melting slowly into the horizon.
The sun wears its final crown as it taunts with seconds of flawless light
Streaking upwards whilst sinking, sinking,
thrusting its final rays towards the darkening bands.
Another day is dawning beyond the night
leaving our sky with a memory to take into tomorrow.
But wait, a flash of green.