Best Clipping Poems
No use pretending to stars that seek
They seem to know where genius sleeps
I hear the sound, but not of harps. Instead the angels play guitar,
I hear them tap their feet to rock, and shake the world below
Like something out of Star Wars...... outside the box
We've been out-foxed. We weren't prepared, to say goodbye just yet
No use pretending to the pitch of sleep
that we can squeeze each puzzle piece, to fit within our boxed-in dream
We were not prepared with lamp or light, to be awake to genius minds
But if we could bring our dreams alive, we'd think outside the closed-box mind
We would have to think, The Rhymer's dream, ...and set the box aside
Our brother could...., while no one would
The "geek", some say, is still inside our open minds
The "geek" I think, is still alive,
in each and every archive of where the soul survives
In pentagrams, each token. kind, a euphoric open mind
In optical illusions, akin to Tolkien's prime
A clipping ripped from headlines, he somehow made it fit
the scheme of things, within a frame, yet still not box him in?
To paste, and form the change of pace, until we're torn in two
then re-arranged, stir common sense, and change our point of view
The artistry he kept alive, is genius we all seek......he lit the torch, and reached the peak
that we may never touch
He lit the torch, and made us think, a bit......outside the box
In Honor Of Chan
For Cyndi 11/10/14
From a classroom,
illuminating our tomorrows -
with a stick of chalk, you bring art
and insight to curious minds.
Magically, you light sparks.
You humbly stand, sharing your skills,
giving your wisdom, shining in a dark sky.
Your words, your truths, your gifts to impart -
your calling is what burns from within.
This compassion in action glows in your instruction.
A school room is your bright canvas.
As you brush colors onto a thirsty world,
thirsty for flowing thoughts and words,
you fill a hollow with imagination,
an inward growth of wisdom and possibility.
Youthful minds and spirits gain from
your passions, books from your library,
your contributions, and your nurturing soul.
Inspiring to climb mountains, applauding
as pupils soar into starlight, you draw upon
a youthful longing for a distant light and all
that is raw, diamonds sparkling, gliding, rising within
asking, “why”, asking “how”, pulling you in again and again
to show a path forward, not clipping what grows wild.
7/12/20
Contest - Lipogram Poem (without the "e")
Sponsor - Emile Pinet
If I were a bird, would you clip my wings
then cage me away with pretty things?
And, if my wings were to be clipped
why not just burry me within a crypt,
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
For to have wings that cannot soar,
then why not nail me to the floor?
Tonight I shall make my final swan song
knowing I have been locked away so long.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant so kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So still the caged bird, she sings
without her sky, without wings.
Sometimes laments, sometimes sighs,
sometimes she whistles her own reprise.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So then curious is it, the caged thing
who finds she has the heart to sing?
Because it would seem a great strain
to be caged seems twisted and profane,
for a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
When asked, why do you sing, bird?
The answer is a simple word,
hope, for escape from behind these bars
that keep me caged from the stars.
For a cage is too small for a master of sky,
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
Birds should have no master, no kings
and love cannot be clipping wings.
But now it seems I must live confined,
in this hand crafted cage of your design,
but a cage is too small for a master of sky
I was meant to kiss the sun, soar, and fly.
So must I wait for these wings to heal
and relearn how the wind may feel.
If I must be caged, still my heart sings
of the day I can again use my wings.
“When we fall in love,
We’re just falling…
In love with ourselves,
We’re Spiraling” ~Keane
Speak, and forever hold me in chaos
For I will sift my way through the toughest stains of your heart
Clipping words in your anger,
You call upon me once again
And with soft words, I reply in disembodiment
So that you may fulfill your frustrating thoughts
And you say to me, almost coldly,
“Please, speak up!”
Shall I hold you in your frustrations,
To give my unnecessary say?
What shall I speak of,
To blow your demons away?
Speak, up or down, my friend
For my love for you goes beyond my hate for me
Stopping my heart from happiness,
You call upon me time and time again
And with brutal words, you listen in pieces
So that I may sink into my absorbing softness again
As I say to you, so gently,
“Please, go on…”
Will you hold me when I weep?
When my mysterious silence disturbs you?
Or will you continue to speak,
As my demons devour me?
Go on......please...
Fingertips click a
desperate breakbeat
as eyes glaze over
in blue light baptism
please overwhelm me
Binary jungle,
you glowing cesspit
through the clipping
curtain echoes a choir
of post-post ironic
agoraphobics.
Dopamine is a myth,
an expired meme
deemed mega cringe
Let the file rot into
informational abscess
Here we all wait before
Heaven's blockchained gate
tired of partaking into
a satire so removed from
a cogent solution,
It is simply void.
Here is coldest oblivion in
this stupid cyborg machine,
but the world is so
Y2K heat death-core
Whatever that means
It turned a generation
made us abandonware
Just to feed us nostalgia
for times when we
would bother to care.
We are going to see a lot of changes, happen in the days to come
A time of serious reflection, into the many places we come from
As we are faced with challenges, we will stay united and strong
Everything good is worth restoring and we resist what is wrong
Patience is worthy, while truth and justice have a way to prevail
The time for celebration will make its way to soon set sail
We will live life to the fullest, breathe each gifted breath of air
Clipping clamps from our wings, fly above holdings of despair
And as we fly like eagles through the open sky, thanking Lord
We will know, the American Dream is not lost, but restored!
Heidi Sands
10/12/19
A talent you shall have from the one up above
Words given then written from memory with love
A clever thought of wit and rhymes through time
Transferring them onto parchment written down
Thou shall never look to another for praise
For praise feeds the ego filling the mind with haze
It is the soul that touches others blending one another
These written words shall stay in the heart like thunder
Clipping with roaring wonder though your mind
Each placed together as an orchestra of harmony in time
For the shallow mind will only see blank pages
But, a deep mind will see these memories in stages
Created with letters placed together into one melody
With eyes wondering in thought with intriguing meanings
Reading your mind as if you have become one
A simple poem created by a mind with wonder
that being:
You!
Walking up the hill
Head on straight
Strapping on gloves
Sitting on the gate
Clipping in the petals
locking up the brakes
leaning
standing
sweating
shaking
waiting
and then
Slam
Observe the bending of tree & flower.
To rages; a gale… in tempestuous hours.!
Rain deep in curtain, makes interplay;
Fresh night skies, await the sun in power.
Morn air stirs, Lady’s chinking; breakfast crocks.
Day-streams 'cross backyards, endless blocks..
Splashes as sound; tables, are scrubbed..
Cars all hues; white thru red, too! radios rock!!
Sprinklers now silent; birdsong calls,
Gardener’s clipping the creeper on walls
Children’s cries are echoes around
Fountains splash in foyers & malls!!
Gundog flushes the dove; white ahead!
Tools are re-sharpened in timber shed,
Lilac buds blossom! Midst threaded verde,
In abundant gardens, Man & Woman wed.."
© Joe Maverick.co.uk
To know more about this poem (well you know)
For most of his
Bumming around days
He was lost
In dead end jobs
Once in the gym
He became a silhouette of youth
Weaving like a cobra
Slipping
Countering
Learning how to hook
Footwork and poise
A moving target
Possessing speed
And brutal power
Waiting
To connect
On
Flesh and bone.
All his life
He searched for what was missing
His dream
Was to be champion
Months
Years of solitary training
Was the price he gladly paid.
The ring waited
Patiently
Knowing that he lived for the moment
When all was a blur
Of sudden activity
Moving shadows
And the roar of the crowd.
Years go by
Another decade
Another time
The city moves on
In a singular rhythm all its own
For him
Time now stands still
In a quiet place
Of warm sunlight
Streaming through an open window
A place of
Old fight posters
And faded photographs.
He won a title
Had good times
Some laughs
Traveled with an entourage
Met the famous
Parties came and went
And so did his money.
Holding the yellowed clipping
The old thrill
Returned
He felt strong again
The bright lights were on
The roar of the crowd
Was louder than he ever remembered
The smart money and the ladies were in front
All eyes on him
Bobbing and weaving in the empty gym
He stopped to catch his breathe
Raising his hands in triumph
He knew that in the bottom of his gut
No matter what anyone said or did
In the ring
He had fought and lived like a champion.
We might not be rich
we might not be poor
Happy with what we have
but we ask for more
Nothing too expensive
nothing too cheap
Something for our pockets
so we can get some sleep
We need food on our table
and gas in our car
What we have in the bank
won't get us very far
Having each other
that's what counts
Clipping coupons
and getting discounts
Lighting a few candles
instead of the lights
Not having a heater
on those very cold nights
Better days are coming
just wait and see
I promise you that
my family
I sense that there are stories
Bigger and more grand
than I can comprehend
That I'm a part of somehow
But I only see this
Cooking my lunch
Clipping my nails
Thinking of unpaid bills
And unwashed dishes
Feeling smaller still
With no heroic deeds
Just living my life
Utterly normal indeed
Is this my story?
Seven cities sat* silently in the sandstorm**
Waiting as the wind whipped around wickedly**
Dun walls draped with dirt and dust**
And the darkened sun desperately seeking a dim scenery*
But as the unsecured boards were battered and broken about
Clapping clappers clipping** the next scene
The humans huddle in the hovels hiding and hidden**
From the farce of the ferocious furor, full of fear**
But then, as suddenly as it started, it subsides**
As silence settles** and the sand sifts** down
Down to the ground and gravel
And carefully eyes peek out of slits and keyholes
Seeing the first rays slice through the haze
Defining from pastel to watercolor to crisp bristle brush
Even if the voice of the cities are still hush*
There is a stirring of life
Of hope
In the end of stormy strife***
*personification
**alliteration
***metaphor
The old man lived out by the desert, selling postcards and gasoline,
He sold road-maps and Navajo silver, and True West magazine.
And under his Gabby Hays beard beat the heart of a dashing young man;
With arthritic fingers he cleaned off my windshield…he once was a Dapper Dan.
He said “Take care on the desert, carry plenty water to spare—
And look out for mirages that float like a dream—there’s all kinds of dangers out there.
“And you better watch out for that sweet senorita, the travelers all agree…
They call her the Queen of the Mojave Desert…but she once belonged to me,
Yes, she once belonged to me…”
I thought the old man was demented, from too many years in the sun;
But there in his gas station office I noticed a Winchester gun…
And I saw a faded brown photo—a Mexican beauty was she…
Right next to a newspaper clipping…about a murder in 1953…
Then later that night on the desert, my car overheated and died—
And I saw the Queen of the Mojave Desert…with a bullet hole gaping wide!
So I hoofed it on back to the station, ‘left my automobile behind…
And that grizzled gas station attendant, he told me one final time—
“You’d better look out for that sweet senorita, the travelers all agree,
They call her the Queen of the Mojave Desert…but she once belonged to me,
She was unfaithful to me…back in 1953…she was unfaithful to me...”
They stood poised to rise like sons
A collective of kindred spirits to wars
From this squadron pose they chose
They rose to face their foes
Arise like thorns from bulbs arose
Thrust their blades into their souls
Of war cries and the songs of idols
Their fears worn like sculls on spears
Prayers like a kite to the heavens
Courage like feathers to the winds
Crows poke at their startled eyes
Disappear with their gaze like a haze
Fake alliances and poor strategies froze
In this battle defeat is reward for the skeletons
To dowse forever their ignited fuse
Refuse their mummies escape from the killing fields
To amaze the masses arrested in the maze
Kaizer shooting instructions like fireballs
The enemy retaliates by clipping our feathers
The Glamour boys simply regroup their wings