Best Chalky Poems
PASTORAL
Yes I remember when this was all fields
Patchworked across the vale to chalky down
The cornfield and the pastures and the weald
That fed the hearts and bodies of the town
Yes I recall the footpath that we took
To reach the hamlet and the blessed lake
O’er styles and hedges and the little brook
Where we would stop to give our thirst some slake
Yes I can feel the wind upon my face
That cooled our sweat as we ascend the hill
And as we climbed our minds rose up apace
Then widened loosing bonds to our free will
Yes I now hold the memory in my heart
And see the images as I near sleep
Though they are gone they still remain a part
Of my own world, reside in spirit deep
Submitted: 15 August 2019
N/A in contest: Any Poem You Want to Write 180 words or less
By Caren Krutsinger
Categories:
chalky, memory, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Bones
Pale, chalky
Hating, stalking, gripping
Skull, skeleton, Jack-O-Lantern, candle
Humbling, pleasing, comforting
Orange, hollow
Pumpkin
Russell Sivey
Categories:
chalky, holiday, life,
Form:
Diamante
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Categories:
chalky, allegory, confusion, depression, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
A chalky moon rises, from still air, drawn on
smooth, blue-black paper sky. A New Year's eve
like this, seems too calm to be real, to feel
nothing but peace; snow covers tree branches
like fleece, yet I am warmed by a fire inside,
wrapped tight in the starry glow of tomorrow's
promise. As this year's memories glide across
my heart, all the love flows through me like oxygen,
beginning with the purest breath of youthful
innocence, me and you, under a diamond-cut
crescent moon. Many picturesque nights
have come and gone since then - the me and you
now we - a family. Somewhere a clock chimes
twelve times, when your first kiss of the new year
wakes me from my nostalgic dreams, my joy returns
to the moment, a new year, new memories,
a love more real, more true, than the chalky moon.
Categories:
chalky, beauty, family, love, new
Form:
Free verse
The cult of the bone
the bone
the bone
Chalky and porous and white
as a stone
crushed in a cauldron
in flames in a fire
brewed as a potion
to cure my desire.
Inspired by Anthony Slauson
Categories:
chalky, mystery, passion,
Form:
Couplet
Wiltshire is a lovely place too be
A county with plenty of history
Neolithic rocks from north to south
You can even see a white horses mouth
With walks over undulating ground
Find the mystery of the giants mound
You can see where the soldiers train
On the expansive Salisbury Plain
With white horses carved into the hill
Walk around them enjoy the thrill
If you are not able to do the walks
Visit the heritage centers hear the talks
But if all else fails jump into the car
You can easily see them from afar
No queuing required and it's free
Come to Wiltshire and you will see
Stonehenge, Avebury stones too name but afew
I guarantee you will go phew
Ingenuity of the people before
Its amazing, it will not bore
Moving those rocks that weigh a tonne
Without machinery just father and son
Carving horses into those chalky hills
Showing us, all thier artistic skills
So visit Wiltshire and see these sights
Plenty to do from morning to night
Let the country air cover your face
Do this slowly it's not a race
Enjoy your trip to this county
Paradise Yes without the bounty
Meet the locals and have a chat
Enjoy a cider you can't beat that
Categories:
chalky, history, image, nature, vacation,
Form:
Free verse
It's a quaint little street, bustling with tourists
Shops selling ice creams and coffees, sandals, and seashells...
People rushing, a bike or two in the street, a car searching for a place to park
A baby cries, and mothers wipe sticky faces....chatter, and laughter..
One small gallery, tucked descreetly, into the narrow cobblestone alley
A blinding ray of sun's reflection, catches my attention
The window display, filled with seascapes, antique sailing artifacts
And one small painting....sitting, poised, proudly on an easel...
At first the glare makes it hard to see
But I cup my hands around my eyes...
A lovely rendition of this very same village
Painted many years ago...long before tourists
Long before lattes and souvenirs...
Just a little fishing village...dated 1918
The houses wearing chalky patina,
Narrow lanes leading away from the main road,
dipping down into golden sand dunes,
A small general store and a blacksmith shop,
Seagulls gliding like angel wings against the summer blue
White steepled churches slumbering in the warm afternoon sunshine
The quietness, the peaceful nature of it....simple and serene...
And I think to myself, ...how extraordinary it would be
If I could freeze time for a day,
If I could pull it out and visit it...just once in awhile
If I could bring it back now and again....that peaceful afternoon...
Walk in warm sunshine,
Where the leaves would never fall from those ancient trees,
And the gentle slopes would never know the cruel blast of winter storms
Where tears had never fallen, where age was timeless
If time could stand still.....
I hears the tinkle of the bell, as I enter the shop...
Categories:
chalky, introspectiontime,
Form:
Narrative
Diversified, she sat upon the page
a tiny dot of incoherence brushed into the ink
She wondered how she got so small
and stretched to reach an "A",
the brink
which started the sentence of her life,
a thousand words to hide away.
While she studied the paper rift
she noticed the fibrous weave
of every white of every letter
to chalky dust inhaled to breathe
She split herself into twenty times two
and walked the page a struggle
So tired and broken of breath and lung
she scattered and sunk to ink
to sleep, to weep, to wallow and keep
every thought that she dared yet to think
And while the wind caught up the page
and settled it into a pond
she gathered herself in her incoherence
and wrote herself into beyond.
Categories:
chalky, art, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
Lines, Launch Angles and Curve Balls
The boys of summer
Set up for a season of lines, launch angles and curve balls
With straight chalky lines leading to a field of dreams
Where line-ups keep the line moving
On frozen ropes to climb the ladder into the catbird seat
Above the Mendoza line when outlines of a waving pennant envision
Crooked numbers and dusty home plates where grand salamis
Foil curves balls in flying angle launch lines – not lined out,
Not out of line
To make power lines for a hitter’s line of sight
And for bases lines, nicknamed the 45’ line,
That call for calls of fair ball down the line
Or foul across the foul line
To guide the line – fair or foul -
And lines of music for the seventh inning stretch, or the chin,
Sung in lusty lines of fans in seat lines
Or in line for nachos, popcorn, brats and beer –
To cheer the back door slider, can of corn or Uncle Charlie –
A Bronx cheer or line of boos –
A summer lineup card of seeing-eye doubles down the line,
Balls climbing up the ladder lines
Nestled in a flat curve
For lines creating perfect diamond angles
Ringing with famous lines
“Batter up!”
For “There’s no crying in baseball.” –
A nervous breakdown in nine innings” -
Because “It’s outta here!”
“Adios Pelota!” “Good bye Mr. Spaulding!”
“Holy Cow!” “Long gone!”
“Put it on the board” “Hey! Hey!”
“Oh Doctor!” “Bye, bye baby!”
And “It ain’t over till it’s over!”
Because “It’s getting late early.”
And “The impossible just happened.” “Forget it!”
“Hello again everybody! It’s a bee-yoo-tiful day for baseball.”
“How about that?”
“If it wasn’t for baseball I’d be in either the penitentiary or cemetery.”
“Remember these two things – play hard and have fun.”
With lines, launch angles and curve balls.
Opening Day April 1, 2021
Categories:
chalky, baseball,
Form:
Free verse
There come those nights—you know the sort:
The ones where the moon is a tear-stained cheek, pressed to heaven’s passenger seat window,
Toying with the tides to the rhythm of some melancholy song that only she knows.
She’s lonely, and you know she is, because
You can feel her tugging at your ankles with each pleading surge she pushes ashore.
Homer’s words revive, and the sea is as dark
Beneath Erebus as the bottom of the glass
That you left unfinished at your hotel.
Salt leaves chalky fingerprints up your calves, but you forgive it,
Because how often, really, does the moon have a shoulder to cry on like this?
She’s confessing to you with every rasp of the water,
Lapping over the sand like the bodies of un-shy lovers, and you stand
Quiet in the fading froth.
No voice rises to cut the night as Selene sobs to you on that midnight beach, and
As above, so below, the waves weep;
Stuttering susurrations at your feet, supplications to take you under for dinner
So that the moon may pour you another glass and whisper her finer secrets where your neck
Meets your shoulder:
She loves you, but she can only say it with the silence and the solemn
Murmur of the sea tasting the sand, that rasping language
Older than writing that all the poets know.
But you’re no poet, and you are not living in a Salinger story
Where you see the evil of man tucked away in the shallows, bananas in its mouth,
Compelling you to raise your revolver like a kiss to your temple.
The night breathes, and so do you, surging in time with the surf and the rising—
Falling of that deep chest above.
The silver light, bare of her clouds
Sees you at your whollest, and longs to show you the worlds beyond your own.
She has no concept of drowning—no concept of pressures deep and fragile lungs.
She knows only starlight and starboard, and weightless things that thrive where air cannot.
Lonely, vast, she loves you.
She loves you.
She loves you, she just can’t say it.
Categories:
chalky, love, metaphor, moon, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Delve into the mindset of a blank page
and you will find your imgination
Shelve all your realities and uncage,
you will arrive at your destination ...
Dispense your words and open the gate
let your mirages guide you through
Immense are the stories that can't wait
when you dip your nib into ink of blue
Deliver your dreams onto the reader
they await your daydreams too
Surrender your heart and consider
sharing it all, with the few...
Delve into the chalky milky vastness
and harness your creative juice
Shelve all your worries, for its a bless
to be able to create like a muse .
Categories:
chalky, appreciation, writing,
Form:
Rhyme
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Categories:
chalky, food,
Form:
Verse
I.
desert stillness shrouds
their adversary lairs
twilight's muted thunder
betrays the nearby
stealthy moon
II.
the chalky moon
creases midnight clouds
blue shades of lovers
walk a powdery sky
chortle at the other's close proximity
III.
pale gold ribbons
fiery soft skies
sea haze streaks
a thin mountain path
as day begins
IV.
kitchen pans, pity, pungent cheese
and garden lace -- the matriarch
dripping decay with
her mild gentility
V.
winter snow, ice
slow spring melt
rain-drowned torrent
ocean bound flow
placid river drift
debris of desire
VI.
drifting memories of lakes
water lapping against land
heartbeats floating on the breeze
the water reflects your face
look away
Categories:
chalky, allegory, introspection, life, loss,
Form:
Free verse
A curse. It's what she was ascertained to be.
A plague which has been put on the burden of the residents of the world.
People discarded her as mere trash for they considered her as an ill-omen.
Misfortune embraced her when she didn't even know the real meaning of life.
God called her parents to his abode and left her with an odious, monstrous scar which blemished her chalky, innocent, baby-like face.
What was her fault in all that?
No one can obstruct God's Will.
Her scar hindered her joy, her happiness.
She was a mere victim of fate.
Left desolated, isolated up to no good, where no one was here to even ask her about food, where she spent sleepless nights hoping that someone will come to sing her a lullaby.
Longing for a melody, tired of being lonely, wishing that there will be someone, somewhere who will care about her, about her desires, her dreams , her wishes, her hopes.
Left in the darkness where she could not even see her own shadows, where it was even more painful to face the life, when survival has been a desire charred in the fire with wistful hopes.
She lingered, hovered as she cried over days and nights when her tears became colorless like diamond dust but who stained her clothes like thick crimson red blood.
The little lady waited for long in certainty that God is here, he exists, he'll help her.
Nevertheless, these dreams of hers were suffused by the dust that time left on its way.
Loneliness monopolized her life as it ruled over her and even bleaks of light was altered into ashes as it hit it.
Survival was solace for her, which seemed to be hardly an oblivion.
It then came when a cherub entered her life filling it with lights, blue like the blue hyacinths, yellow like sunflowers, pink like lilies, red like zinnias.
She flourished amidst the white, fluffy sky as she was lifted up to the crystal clear sky.
She came out of her shadow, up to somewhere were even a slight faint ray of it was changed into creatures of light.
Categories:
chalky, feelings, , Lullaby,
Form:
Night Sky Shivers In the Distance
A storm is brewing, excitement coursing through
Who would think calm blue water storm would brew
Calm silence lull before the storm graphite sky
Far away dark haunting canvas slowly creeps by
Sweeping in a heart of darkness, ripping lightning
forking silently then roaring boom without warning
Wind revolves in the sky and sings as Mother Nature’s rave
breath of howling wind blows, churning swells of waves
Torrent rain cascades down as nature proudly braves
whipping insane waves as it tries to make its grave
Cocooned safely in its chalky painted heavy brick walls
waiting to flood through any crack no matter how small
Sentinel‘s ascending numerous spiral steps, veers
beacon casting its beam of light an aid to seafarers
4/18/2016
Categories:
chalky, ocean, storm,
Form:
Rhyme