Best Chalk Poems
We drew a sun, a cloud, a heart,
Umbrellas and two girls
To dress and decorate with jewels
And hats atop their curls.
Last week our art had fireworks
And flags to celebrate
July the 4th, with flowers, too
To thus commemorate.
Those chalk designs aren’t meant to last;
The old ones disappeared.
Just one good downpour wipes them out,
I thought, as dark clouds neared.
Our lives are as ephemeral
As chalk-drawn pictures seem.
We make our mark upon the earth
And vanish, like a dream.
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
For Kim Patrice Nunez*, with hope
Must you mileage chalk up in free verse speed way
Let your wheels skid by letting loose grip on wheel
Free verse range’s for marksmen trained on rondolet*
Dipodic foot pantun villanelle dactyl
Cut their teeth on the slippery run-on-line
Roll their anaepest tongue round limerick rhyme
Do not a ballad begin with aubade fine
Nor drive straight past end-stopped line’s feminine rhyme
Such as painters’ coprophilia canvasses
Hide chance ironic hidden ghostly faces
Cubist abstract surrealist morasses
Whose apprenticeships lead to trumping aces
Far too many poets love the sound of words
Yet shirk bardic tasks speeding on twisted roads
* Nunez: Sorry, no tilde over the “n” on my Mac.
• rondolet: French pronunciation rhymes with “way”.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
fingernails
against the chalkboard
-my grinding teeth
In the dead of night, the crickets holding their breath
Our love brooding the full moon's tide on our anniversary
The wind stirs our risen ashes and revived passion
That had remained dormant down eternity's timeline
Tonight, we're reunited once more as we'll be forevermore
Our ghosts dance in the shadows of our old, forgotten steps
Down this moonlit, memory paved path to our short lives
Past the traces of chalk where we laid holding hands side by side
Thabang J. Ngoma
08-30-2015
Nette Oclaud's Sense of touch contest
She squats and points,
her little face is all aglow.
Her smile is wide
She’s grinning ear to ear, you know.
She’s very pleased
at the discovery she’s made.
The little frog
is sitting frozen in the shade.
He knows that she
is his protector and his queen,
but he’s not sure
now that I’m also on the scene.
When did you know, I ask of her,
that frogs could talk and you could hear?
She seems so sure
I find it easy to concur.
I’ve always known,
she says, and most convincingly.
They sit outside
my room at night and sing to me.
I call him Fred;
He has a loud and squeaky croak.
He’s very sad;
his girl was gone when he awoke.
He calls her name
And sings a song about the moon.
I love him so;
I told him she will be home soon.
Why do you think, I ask of her,
That I can’t hear them when they talk.
The frogs told me
That grownup heads are filled with chalk.
When do you think, I ask of her,
That you won’t hear them anymore?
She looks real sad,
When I get big, like maybe four.
You are my frog, I say to her,
for me there never was a choice.
I love you so,
in my best squeaky, croaky voice.
She hugs me hard
And says Big Daddy, never leave.
Where would I go, I say to her,
My little frog, my Genevieve
night's sky
resembles
a chalkboard
and i wish
i could
erase the clouds
and draw you
next to me
Chalk Full of Great Lines
The body has been removed
To my place of sanctified worship
Where all is quiet and piano soothing
I am Ernesto Cortazar
Your Coroner and host for the evening
Here is my creation and story
In the docket I bask in my glory!
She in her balcony
The opera on their dram of the second half
If only she knew
She to be
Behind the curtains with me
The final act of the soiree
The expression she gave oh screaming pleas
As I slit her throat in a lustful three
The blood of our love
Gushing and gushing for only me
Her love and bloods devotion
Only chalk lines point now to me
The detective goes "Ernesto"
Another like all the ones before
I smile and fain sadness
Yes detective, any tell tale signs?
None that I can see Ernesto
He seems to be a silent one
A ghost who comes and goes
With no humanity or heart to show
Are the chalk lines all drawn detective?
Yes Ernesto, you may take possession of the body now
I whisper "I have taken possession long before you arrived senior"
I and the detective play the same dance
He is mystified at these crimes
As the blood of love dances, drop by drop, into my mouth
She is with me now
Alone and with our coronary desires
She is cold, and silent, and icy
Welcoming my final intrusions
The dance of the dead
Her blood drained
I drink the wine of my lustful crime
I so enjoy the mystery
As they all stare
At my beautiful chalk lines
She was all of nineteen
She was always mine
I Ernesto
Drank the rubies blood wine
Silhouettes fade as summer draws near
Yearning for their presence in this barren room
Rippling sounds of one's laughter cause me to tear
Awakens this reverie like scent perfume
The vastness I never thought existed
Past the hallways where we've spent our youth
Smiles of the little ones thus recollected
Pictures from the bulletins show love and truth
Just as my heart, the red apple sits quietly
Treasuring the bond of our love so pure
The hugs, fights, celebration and anxieties
Carves the path to grow and mature
Oh darlings, it pains me to say goodbye
So please keep this chalk to remember me by.
color bands
rainbows touching earth
sidewalk chalk
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
So, fire up your fancy lap top,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I remember ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.
Embrace the new technologies,
acquiring knowledge as your goal,
in the realm of search and seizure
feed your mind, refresh your soul.
Social Media and bloggers,
irritants in cyber space
will whore themselves for your attention,
waste your time, usurp your place.
In my youth, before the outbreak,
schooldays were much simpler then,
homework, classwork, all handwritten,
essays done in fountain pen.
You fire up your fancy lap tops,
Facebook, Twitter, Cyber Talk,
while I give thanks for ink wells, pen nibs,
blotting paper, sticks of chalk.
Chalk Dust
by Odin Roark
What history lurks
Below blackboard surfaces
Wedged in creases of eraser felt
In between folds of Oakwood trays
How pristine we wipe clean
The dark window’s surface
Making ready today’s learning
Tomorrow’s remembrance
Future’s childhood bygones
Like stars burned out
Disintegrating to dust
Time’s ancient knowledge
Forever seeks rebirth
Even though for many
Such simple magic
Has all but disappeared
Merely white dust memories
Purposely forgotten
For a few
The latent markings
Remain black and white teachings
Forever embedded in rainbow dreams
He wonders in silence aloud screaming
speaking to his own reflection unseen
memorized moments unfolding backward
like a rubber band unwinding
in its given way and own time
as fear brings clouds nearer
yet denial looms larger than life
a victim of someone else
escaped culpability captures him again
overtaken suddenly in shock
he looks dismayed at his own handiwork
so he calls a tempest forward
drawing on his smallest self
intentionally blinded by accident
using his own staff
stabbing his heart in pain
rather than holding onto firm ground
some angst jumps across his chest
rejected by God's unsent mercy
disallowed by his own sheer will
an unforgiving menace to himself
suffocated by his own hands
that reach from behind him like a serpent
as if someone else was his poison
stepping backward as fast as he gains
like a turtle in his shell he shies away
alone this night a meal digesting hastily
recapitulating the day ahead
even before it has begun
this kind of present haunts him today
as yesterday's unlearned lessons creep
into another day and life
swirling as if in a vortex
he refuses to breach the circle
that grips him tightly as if
in his own prison of chalk lines
oblivion is nothing new ~ i’ve been there once and will go back too
i awoke crying as sensations grew ~ til death rubbed out all i knew
god only knows who’s really who ~ i’m bamboozled a sign could do
blackboard equations esoteric and true ~ chalk dust for us to chew
can’t see past these monokus ~ that’s okay try this existential clue
life blindly flails on through ~ to bumble and fumble like mr magoo
By
David Kavanagh
Lately, I've heard many stories of teens
taking plunges into the pristine waters,
but some just sit chatting with their peers...
while someone is contemplating suicide with blank looks;
Billy was one of them, perhaps the wildest one...
he never listened to his parents, they worried for his son!
The chalk cliff over the Seaton Bay wilderness
is a favorite spot for kids who are disobedient and violent;
life means nothing to them, their curiousity is intense:
dying is a cool adventure, just to have their names in print!
I met billy's mother who mourned her loss hiding her rage,
" My youngest son was a darling! " and holding his picture
lots of tears fell on that tender, sweet and innocent image;
" I warned him to keep away, he thought I was insane! "
I returned the next day to write an article about
the dangers that these kids faced daily, by they still swimmed
and had forgotten that their friend had died hitting a fishing boat;
now, a sign reads, " No Swimming. " Will it be heeded?
The chalk cliff over the Seaton Bay wilderness reminds all of fright:
a grave for a teen who defied fear and ventured in perilous waters;
a candle vigil is held on the anniversary of Billy's death, candles and stars
flicker while eyes look up and hearts pray in the stillness of night!
Written on 8/29/2017