Best Bristly Poems
Rain follows the fading winter's breath
In the tangled field,
where bristly ryegrass sways
Emerging green, the blades do rise
glimmer in the verdant hue of shamrock
like the lively notes of the cuckoo's call
Whispers dance upon the undulating meadows
The fragrance of the soil—
its charm, a whisper of rain-kissed ground
Silver whispers of yearning
Softly sung, a memory lingers still.
What is love? Love is a portrait of art and love is precious.
Love is amazing poetry, simple imagery of alluring beauty,
Love is wonderful presentation filled with nice surprises,
Love is the first duel in the field to conquer honour and duty.
Love comes at dawn with welcome arms full of charm.
Love lives in the land of glory, by bristly heroic sacrifices,
Love is a language the conscious noun use of genres from,
Love is a life light until our soul eclipses the eternal skies.
Before pall bears, shadows fall smouldering ashes in a fire,
Love is the vows we make and the vows that we will shun,
Requiem powers of the dead lend strength to the survivor,
Love is in colours of the rainbow that glows for every nation,
Love is the scroll on which romantics wrote symphony of notes,
Love is the road on which they walk towards elusive goal,
Love is the boat on which they serenade carnival floats,
Love is in the air on streets of gold catching snow and windfall.
Love is many laughs and as many cries, we treasured most,
Love is risk and adventures floundering in the sleepless night,
In a chasm of abyss leap the soul above incarceration mist,
Clasped the fantasy that yearns for passion in secret delight.
Love is a cloud on which birth surprisingly thrives on earth,
In time, our emotions tear down the walls on which it stood,
Until we go back in reincarnation blur along the same path.
And consume the hearts splitting off into tiny pieces of good.
Love is a mixture hidden deep in faith, of belief small or great,
Unhinged the carriage driven by mortals in athleticism flame,
The contagious nectar of taste refined more palatable than hate,
In rhapsody of human glory, the acumen brings no shame.
If you had love? Would you give it away or keep it as a gift?
Finding ways through prison bars up the stairs and into the stars,
Love is too costly to waste scratching your head tearing at yourself,
From the almighty plan, it is our needful breath of joy and tears.
Except for an occasional
firm tug on my bristly neck,
daily walks were enjoyable.
I really don’t mind, what the heck
I get to sniff the things I love:
Poop, poles, an occasional *****;
A master I think the world of,
freedom to stop and quell an itch
all my needs in one walkabout.
My master’s a different story:
If barks were words I’d state flat out,
Your megalomanic fantasy
Is just that, doomed to fail,
Thus leaving you unsatisfied
fruitless as me catching my tail.
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.
Grass. Weed, broccoli, burrito, stink, pot, skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.
Reefer is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.
Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout shoes.
Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims
in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
He squats the entire day,
extending his empty cup.
Cold sweat oozing from the pores
of his slack bristly white face,
yet he crouched spiritless,
hoping for kindness to tumble.
Desire split his dry lips,
but he stoops without a murmur,
parting the busy shoppers,
roaming up and down the Plaza.
He makes rhythm with his cup,
a somber rhythm that plunges into the ground.
People pass by in a rush and ignore his plea.
Without warning a weight, falls upon his head,
and he collapses to the ground.
His weary eyelids stop throbbing,
the sweat drys up ,
and mercy plunges desperately
into his cup, but poverty stares.
©2013 Christine Phillips
I want to
Do
Things
To you …
My fingers dance
Restless, tingling
Remember our
First night?
OH
MY
GAWD!
My tongue trembles
Behind my lips,
Warm, luxurious,
Waiting …
Remember?
That first night?
Oh
My
Gawd!
And my
Netherworld?
My
Bristly, furry forest?
Wants its pine cones plucked its
Needles stroked its
Burgeoning wildlife tamed –
Hey! You can bark
Up this tree
Any time, honey!
Oh do I
Want to do
Things
To you
Remember that, first.
Night? Oh My Gawd!
Come here come here, come
Here
Come
Hither and yon
While I
Do things
To you
CONSIDER, THOU BRAIN
Would thou consider, Brain
How much is the worth
I have strived these many years
From childish curl to bristly grey hair
In other for thee to reason and
Be the base of ingenuity to life?
For this, I schooled thee
Here and overseas in alien soils
Larning to enhance thy noesis
Journey round climes and sites
Of earth for thy exposure
And get thee conform to the times.
For thy sake I have subject
The other members to suffer
From sleep, food and labour
From leisure and exercises
All for thy restless quest
To discover, know and create.
But thou hast not yet reached
The end of thy quest and suffer
With all thy conjectures.
Beware to what thy reasoning
Is leading unto…thy own demise
For there is no end to knowing.
Thou hast become apathetic
And prone to apoplexy
With all features aged before time
Because thou hast failed to realize
Einstein is common sense by which
Thy crude forbears have rest!
All bony frame and bristly hair,
like a graying werewolf
or a skinny bear
and you...
so lovely,
so feminine,
so how in the world
did I make you mine?
Frisky frog forgot to bathe
So off he went, to the creek
Alone in the water, he decided
He’d be so clean, he’d squeak
Silly squirrel, scattered his nuts
Along the bank where Frog swam
Sinking into the clearest water
Frog told the squirrel he should scram
Friendly fish whirled in the waves
Swaying with the chug of the water
Reminding Frog he was surely clean
So he could visit the king’s daughter
Bristly bear came across the ridge
Rattling the leaves with his great paws
The others saw him and left the creek
Recalling the fierceness of his wide jaws
Frisky frog went to visit the king
While silly squirrel packed his lunch
And, friendly fish worked up the nerve
To glide by bristly bear – and on a hunch…
They all thanked God for this water
Where they finally met Mr. Otter!
Be Creative Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
November 6, 2022
We walk about bristly in the heat of the day,not knowing when it will happen.
Some watch mere predictions on picture screens before setting out to complete routine tasks;
but who is to say what will happen for the unknown dwells with us.
I see a beautiful lady frisking her hair, wiping prespire from her mascaraed face whilst
pushing a stroller along the busy sidewalk.
A dog sits in the shadow of a street sign; its mouth gaped in a state of exasperation.
Without warning it happens...........the first wave of attack.
An obscure lone drop comes down and taps you on your shoulders.
You look around feverously ...but see no one in view.
An audious rumbling is heard above your head sending everyone in motion.
The downpour occurs and the smell of dampened earth cuts the once humid air;
The ground is filled with myriads of liquid puddles collected in different places.
Those who are armed hold up their array of colorful shields to fend off the heavy invasion ,
whilst those who are not,scamper about in astonished utter despair.
Well, I suppose that I am again revealing my age,
But I grew up when Burma Shave signs were all the rage!
Could it be that those 'masterly creations' sparked my poetic bent,
As I soaked up a tad of 'culture' as down the rural roads I went?
"Buddy, if its a bit of romance you crave;
Best you slather yer mug with Burma Shave!"
"Why would she deign to give you a cuddly hug?
Better use Burma Shave to smooth yer bristly mug!"
"Fer a smoother shave here's the latest buzz;
Use Burma Shave to rid yer mug of all that fuzz!"
"If you really want to set that romance on fire;
Use Burma Shave to smooth yer mug of all that brier!"
"If you need to clear yer mug of that five-o'clock shade;
Use a heap of Burma Shave with yer razor blade!"
"If scratchy whiskers are causing romance to be rather grim;
Perhaps a dab of Burma Shave would smooth yer trim!"
"If yer love-life with her has nearly disappeared;
Maybe its time to lather-up with Burma Shave on yer beard!"
"If yer whiskers are as scratchy as a field of thistles;
Use Burma Shave on your kisser to rid it of all those bristles!"
(To learn more about Burma Shave signs during the 1920s/30s go to your
search and enter "History of Burma Shave Signs")
Hyacinths in a trance, bewitched by hysteria,
Amid the shadows of a mythological eclipse.
Elixir of roseate red oozing out loose progeria,
In islands where the sea weeps azure breaks.
Amid the shadows of a mythological eclipse,
Daunting me subtly with its crimson smell.
In islands where the sea weeps azure breaks,
From golden dust to smooth bristly as well.
Daunting me subtly with its crimson smell,
The fading breaths of sinister falsehood.
From golden dust to smooth bristly as well,
On black graveyards to azure seas, we stood.
The fading breaths of sinister falsehood,
In the sunken bronze halls of antique disease.
On black graveyards to azure seas, we stood,
Teals are being tormented by nightly noise.
In the sunken bronze halls of antique disease,
Elixir of roseate red oozing out loose progeria.
Teals are being tormented by nightly noise,
Hyacinths in a trance, bewitched by hysteria.
Written: May 22, 2022
Oh, how this winter rain would glide along,
descending down the landscape’s bristly curves…
It’s waiting just for our “Come on!”,
but simply, no one’s there to say the words.
Beneath, through the November mist at last,
the color-yielding trees are quiet now,
renouncing their leaves and summer past
and pounding on the sky with bare boughs.
And thus renounced, we gather bitter taste
to ourselves, to our old addresses.
And so it falls again, but not that rain –
begotten, not created, of one essence.
Translated from the Bulgarian by Diana Stefanova
How far Dreams fly from that ponderous room—
a fear gripping the bones that dares to be a vision!
Feel its power as —like rivers—it percolates,
transporting cool beauty to heated nerves.
Wedging through the density of the dark
till bursts of color cry out to be seen,
Water flows—yes, Water—but Breath too.
New and cold—fresh Breath,
swelling in and out of focus
until inextricably delivered!
These Waters— these Breaths,
They are Dreams—
and yet they solidify solely into the earth
into the thirsty soils of solicitude,
straight into minds and hearts
that Believe in every bristly spur.
All stirs of emotion trace new meaning,
sustaining life in its wake.
All puffed up, ducks, swans and goose
fluffed feathers on the loose,
afterfeathers clinging to open flagged wings
strutting as they move and sing.
Smaller birds hang back and low
un-intimidting, gentle, calm, slow,
little barbs rising from the contoured body
ready to rise, the ease of flight embodied.
Iridescent delicate tipped quills
bounce and float at will,
boldly embracing the cold wind breeze
downy fluff and stuff set free.
Ruffled remiges, covert retrices marked
by circannual monitorings embarked
the seasons bristly gatherers on the fly
all puffed up, winged avengers of the sky.