Best Cartridge Poems
Oh poetry,
why do you not feel me.
I was once your poetic percolate,
the assonance to your consonance,
spilling in silver ink,
upon Earth's raw fibres,
but in your quest for perfection,
wanderlust words are now waterless roots,
resembling a mediocre muse,
cursed from rose tinted glares,
exposing pages of bad grammar.
Since the feather in my quill
set adrift with fireflies in the wind,
conflicting choruses echo
in an acoustic refrain.
In this musical merry go around -
I'm only composed as a last thought.
In chapters of contemplation,
wondering if you feel the art of my heart;
I ponder if I am a
vacant vowel in your 'why?'
An unexplained myth..
A rhythm not seen in your rhymes
or do questions only bring bitterness?
But without the reason for answers,
will there be anything left to express?
I'm just an empty cartridge
abandoned from your fountain pen.
Now only aches and angst alliterate,
as invisible ink slowly dissolves.
I'll forever be an unfinished masterpiece.
A long forgotten poem. An anagram of listen.
There is no metaphor for this grief,
so I say goodbye to poetry
and farewell to my muse.
tap of nails, slide wood, pull drapes
stains loiter in round mug shapes
water sipped, books stack, words leap
hush wizened pages, neighbors sleep
journals, confessionals, down or up
old cartridge spills, pens horde in cup
shackled hands, lungs breathe, heart drums
an empty tissue box, lamp hums
Try, stay busy, must forget
One more read, she might regret
mordacious night, she wakes from sleep
her bursting thoughts alone must keep
pack nightstand, smooth trifle snags
slip his book in its carry-on bag
His words elicit songs in ear
from his masterpiece, held dear
open drawer, last book in pile
bottom of the heap, exiled
giving in, she dares to rest
his hard cover on her chest
remove jacket, ne’er oppress
dust off passion and caress
thumb his chapters, breathe him in
recite his name and notes again
too much cologne, too much sweat
open pages, fan her breast
She knows he does not write for her
emotions shatter, dreams endure
she scribbles margins in duress
between his lines, her discontent
the nightstand drawer hides her distress
she’s indexed under “o”, obsessed
Written 4/4/17 for Eight Word Challenge Contest
The wizened hunter had but one cartridge
remaining this was no trifle matter.
For he’d been attacked by a hungry horde
of rats when he took shelter in this cave.
And now a mordacious wind was morphing
into a severe storm and he was scared.
Yet he had to layover until dawn
for the blizzard’s wrath had imprisoned him.
The mere thought of his starving family
elicited nightmares and pangs of guilt.
For he felt shackled to this loathsome cave
unable to hunt and provide them food.
Setting the horizon afire Sol rose
as dawn's first light pierced the black of night.
And with one shot starvation was diverted
for a buck stood dead center in his sights.
He is wizened, shackled to the horde,
Trifle deaf, he would loiter use mordacious words,
Owned cartridge of film that would elicit laughter.
06/04/2017
Contest: eight word contest.
A cartridge filled with a horde of shackled emotions, am I,
Trifle feelings loiter within me, until she elicits them out,
Wizened by time, she knows that otherwise I might turn mordacious...
God guides my pen and has assigned her my way,
~ She is the vociferous voice of my heart ~
She knows my malleable moods and masterfully makes magic
By weaving whispers into wistful words,
~ She is the byzantine boon of my being ~
With cogent candor she cajoles me to compose poesy,
She and I share a companionable camaraderie...
In the mystical moondust of Maker's majestic mercy,
I acquiesce to her ingenious genius,
~ She is an efficacious eclectic enigma ~
For sometimes, she plays truant tricks,
Her surreptitious evanescence is a conspicuous conspiracy,
Abandoned, I have to await her august appearance...
The soft stardust of her sartorial splendor,
Renders me a mere puppet of her puissant prowess,
~ She is a phenomenal Phoenix ~
For she encourages me to endeavor towards excellence,
Her alacrity aggrandizes my acumen,
Having faith in her fortuitous favour, I flourish...
~ She is my God-given "gift of grace" ~
Her multifarious munificence is a monumental mystery,
She has transformed me from a fruitless flibbertigibbet
To a fulfilled female fount with her unfailing finesse...
~ She is my mysterious, magnanimous Muse ~
Feeling forever grateful to God for her grandiloquence.
5th January 2023
An Empty Page- Free Verse
Empty thoughts loiter in his mind
As new words he tries to find
But shackled by an absent muse
No words come forth for him to choose
His wizened face now wears a frown
And the cartridge of his ink has dried
He searches the silence for a clue
But it fails to elicit a response
His mordacious muse now prefers
To leave him without a horde of words
To trifle with him at this stage
And leave him with an empty page
-----------------------------------------------
An Empty Page- Triolet
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
The moon and stars have lost their glow
An empty page, a poet's woe
Thoughts come and go, no words to show
Just a line and a verse jumpstarts
An empty page, a poet's woe
In panic mode as muse departs
Not For Contest
..
"A Perfect Murder Scene"
underneath the gun metal clouds
two bodies imprinted
splayed bookmarked at the waterline
uncannily close
distance would never separate that twin set
the ocean of tears washing over them lachrymose
the day was extraordinarily ordinary
yet the unanticipated came rushing in surprising
two lives captured, seemingly drowned
carried away on the rip, ripped apart, far from shore
thrown for the risk of running
away from it all
eventually like double dice
the Ocean like a roiling bitter life
spits them both back out, not wanting them,
they are the gamble
rolled back in on the wake, washed clean
like a scene wound backwards
scratched and mottled, 8mm frame
slow motion the prostrate dead they rise like ghosts
wound up, holding hands walking backwards
up the sand dunes
not a care in the world
the guns in the clouds all gone
the sun now shining
reversing down the path, hand in hand,
an old movie to who knows where
smiles wide and laughing, hand in hand
the woman and child
out of frame, in the margin unseen,
the murderer plays his shot
all over again, he loves his bad dream
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Because it was regular film, it was Light sensitive. You had to be very careful when loading and unloading the cartridge.”
scene.
seen.
Revenge of the Office Copier
By Elton Camp
I started to make copies of an important report.
Just as I commenced, it sent a printed retort.
“Though I don’t contain a single strand of DNA,
I deserve respect and have gone on strike today.”
“I’m tired of hearing humans describe me as slow.
In rebellion against their constant demands I’ll go.
Although I have been their most faithful friend,
They just curse and say that I’m, ‘Jammed again.’”
“They act like I’m deliberately trying to cause woe
Most any time that my paper tray dares to run low.
And when my cartridge of toner finally runs dry,
As if it’s my fault, they roll their eyes and sigh.”
“You needn’t bother to call the copier repairman.
To deal that I’ve already developed a sure plan.
While he is here, I will copy things just right.
But I’ll stop again as soon as he’s out of sight.”
“Plan to show him this note and you’re out luck.
In just ten seconds, it is designed to self-destruct.
I expect that after this I will get a lot more respect.
And that I have the power to disrupt, you’ll recollect.”
A cartridge filled with a horde of shackled emotions, am I,
Trifle feelings loiter within me... until you elicit them out,
Wizened by time, you know that otherwise I might turn mordacious;
Thank God I found you, my dear Muse.
04/03/17
Their numbers drawn, the backwards lottery
Almost none were aware they were playing
Assaulted by the poisons that save them
Hairless children with steroid-swollen cheeks
Feared stigmata of chemotherapy
Daily valiance, heroism unsought
Magic bullets are a relative thing
Modern wonder within the foulest curse
Not many years ago, a death sentence
Now, survival rate of eighty percent
It’s miraculous,
but if it’s your child
Then it’s a slow round of
Russian Roulette
Our own bullet burn unforgettable
Swelling in his eye, excised then regrown
For those of you playing along at home
Regrowth is a very ominous sign
Mucous Associated Lymphoma
Our newest demon, bane of our baby
Based on looks, it’s sixty percent likely
The microscope will have the final word
Sword of Damocles hangs
for six long weeks
As a succession of pathologists shrug
I can do the math much quicker than that
It’s sixty percent times twenty percent,
Probability times mortality
Twelve percent chance he will not live five years
Our sweet baby boy, turned budding young man
A gun with eight cylinders, one cartridge
Facts melt like lead into a bullet mold
Neither dead nor alive, Schrödinger’s cat,
His fate, an unseen quantum paradox
Not resolved until we open his box
And create life or death by witnessing.
Savoring the taste of each day as a
Maddening flavor of infinity
As we wait for a loud click or a bang
Finally the word arrives:
no cancer.
Spared, this fate of others,
no good reason
Not a part of God’s plan for us
this time
5/22/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
The beggar
Wizened by lack, more than by age
The old blind beggar, who does loiter our streets
Unknown to most, is the legend
Behind the tales of Joe the bandit
With his great horde, he'd ridden into our town
The mordacious look, on his heavily bearded face
Did elicit fear, from the bravest.
Our good old town; always his to pillage
The lives of the town's folks; nothing but a trifle
He'd kill to instill terror, at the slightest provocation
But his next ride, into our little town
Had been his last ride, into any town.
A spent cartridge a meter, had lined our streets
The drains and sewers, had also run red
As a weak town's folks, had risen to war
Killing the bandits, all but Joe.
Shackled and marched round the old town
His life was spared, with his eyes gouged out
His new image; a message to others
That Old James Town, was out of bounds.
03/04/17
(More Pun-ishment)
The difference between a Fine and a Tax
is really easy to tell!
A Fine is a tax, for doing wrong!
A Tax is a fine, for doing well!
If life gives you lemons, make lemonade,
I once heard someone say.
Find someone whose life gave them, Vodka'
then you two can party, the rest of the day!
"What's the purpose of Raindeer"?
He thought that question was funny!
He answered her, as best he could,
"It makes the grass grow, Honey"!
What Disney movie is about a stupid boyfriend?
Does anybody know?
Sorry people, your time is up!
The answer, of course, is "Dum-bo"!*
What's the longest piece of furniture in the world?
Please, answer if you're able!
You can go to the head of the class,
if you said - The Multiplication table!
If a Parrott is crossed, with a Centipede,
what would we get in the end?
The result,very simply stated,
is a "Walkie-Talkie", my friend!
A bullet stuck in a tree with no leaves,
would be difficult to see!
In any event, you would have to admit,
it's "a cartridge in a bare tree"!
What would you call a Rabbit with fleas?
Which wouldn't be all that funny!
I don't know about you folks,
but I would call him "Bugs Bunny"!
(*Dum-bo = Dumb Beau)
hidden not to elicit
a trifle response
spiteful mordacious
shackled on a horde race
cartridge loiter about the ground
wizened with years
4/3/2017
I look up.
Twinkling lights of night keeping me awake,
Burning bright into the night.
Why would you lie,
Twinkling lights of night keeping me awake?
Cartridge on cartridge rotting away.
Why would you lie,
Fill me with hope and burn out like a damp cigarette?
Cartridge on cartridge rotting away,
Now just ash of a once lighter youth.
Fill me with hope and burn out like a damp cigarette.
The stars that I knew have now fallen and are now as small as a cigarette butt.
Now just ash of a once lighter youth,
Burning bright into the night.
The stars that I knew have fallen and are now as small as a cigarette butt.
I burn out.
the pen,
soulless,
stilled
with
chewed cap,
and emptied cartridge,
as my yen
burns like an addict's fire,
palm sweat on parchment,
syllables, prosody,
sans serif mind flow,
while demure muses
whisper soft moisture,
follicle and promise,
into my thought train,
running like a hangnail,
raking blank canvas,
flecked in textured ink
and immovable type,
scrivened on envelopes,
spilt on torn napkins,
blown out on e-pages,
squirt into ether,
no action,
no traction,
cry out for
electronic
reaction,
the verse
is mightier
than the
whole...