Best Clumsily Poems
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
Ellie was just three months old,
When she was brought to our sanctuary,
A safe haven was our fold.
She was an orphan, her mother,
Her sister, her aunt, her brother,
All chased and shot, and left to die,
From our sad experience we knew,
That probably a foul mouthed,
Red faced, sun frazzled man
Whose muscled legs would look
Disgusting,
And who with red eyes bulging
Would say,
What a booty,
We have in the truck today.
He would generate an excitement,
Of the atrocity they had
Committed, saying they would
Receive a bonus this month
Added to their pay.
And what was their booty,
A truck full of tusks
Elephants killed when it
Was still light,
Until dusk
Too dangerous at night.
A war between poachers
And rangers
How could rangers,
Gentle souls, who loved animals,
Equal the poachers trained brutality,
Who had not a trace
Of humanity.
Baby Ellie
Was found,
Starving, scared and cold,
Somewhere in the African bush
Almost dead,
But she survived a shot to the head.
We had other young orphans,
They all would play
As baby elephants do,
And slowly Ellie became stronger.
Her mummy who faced
Horrific slaughter,
Would have been so proud of
Her daughter.
Rehabilitation was done,
It was both work and fun.
Eight months later we all
Thought that it was time,
For Ellie to be with her own kind,
And knew she would find
In the African bush, a new
Family who would care
And love her.
Clumsily she got into the truck,
Perhaps it was fear that
Brought the smell of death near,
Awkwardly.
And hesitantly she walked
Down the ramp,
A mama elephant spied her first,
And with their recognizable gait,
And heavy weight,
Walked to one another,
Swinging their trunks,
And so, they met,
And side by side they walked
To the nearby water pan,
Our hearts sang,
As Ellie turned and let out
A loud,
But proud,
Thunderous trumpet,
Thank you she meant,
I love you too.
Ellie had finally
Come home,
To her own.
dancing clumsily -
shy blue cowboy eyes smiling. . . .
he swept me away
marriage fast foreknown -
no proposal from his lips. . . .
just lots of kisses
my man of few words
tells me, “I’ll always love you”. . . .
few words are true words
For the The Story of Valentine Poetry Contest
of Olajide Adelana
Flightless, the smallest such bird,
he’s hopping about madly now,
dexterous little feet grab what they can -
he lost his beak decades ago
to a merciless marauder drone –
here, some tiny, thorny little twigs,
there, a footful of leaves nearly blown by
among better leaves flown by.
The wind is relentless,
he’s never known it more violent,
but he hasn’t known it any calmer either.
It’s already blown tons of wisdom
whistling past and around him,
that airborne car nearly hit him,
the airborne fridge was even closer,
but he’s lucky to be small enough
to be narrowly missed
and able to find little crevasses
to hide in when he needs a rest.
The smallest flightless bird,
he might take involuntary flight
in the clutches of absurd winds,
but somehow he stays on the ground.
The frayed old edge of a dog-blanket
is next across his path,
blown from the prison out south,
and he’s got it ! He grabbed it !
Well done, flightless little rascal.
Everything he’s gathered
will be the scrappiest little nest
ever known to man or bird,
he’ll clumsily patch it all together
in the smallest tree
(he, of all birds, needs a small tree),
small as his greatest preconceptions,
strangely anchored by the deepest root
known to brainwashed man or tree.
The wind, so crafty, is drunk with power,
it might blow that mountain
against the side of a bigger mountain,
they’ll both be scarred
for a good few minutes at least.
But that ragged little nest will be built
and he’ll simply never leave it,
he’ll make it scrappier by the day.
19th December 2018
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Clumsily tripping, over our own feet
Sometimes, minds aren't meant to meet
perhaps we're off just a micro beat
thoughts obscured, behind glass covered in sleet
Sure there are those, who wish to exploit
but really in the end, what's the point?
We're all merely visitors, in this joint
Trying our best, with words to annoint
Cloisterd in shadows, wanting to be found
glimmers of earlier selves, clowning around
When others laugh, why do our fears compound?
Downturned mouths, strangled crying sounds
Embarrassing moments, last an eternity
Sometimes I'm my very worst enemy
Thinking hidden messages, are meant for me
Is that what poetry is meant to be?
I let essential words, roll off my lips
Credentials have no taste, when I take deep sips
Preferring a message, from a page that drips
My mind unfocused, takes many trips
I like the power, of words intrinsic
Flavors and texture, is what I like to lick
If it's too saccharin and sweet it makes me sick
My pleasure comes, from words hot and thick
So you see, I too like to word explore
Words found, behind a cryptic door
I start upright, end up on the floor
Keep on reading, until I can't absorb anymore!
Written at the request of James Horn.
Response to his "to Come Back Again" Poem.
Thanks James, our interaction led to a poem of the day!
ON RESCUING AN INJURED PIGEON
I.
sliding screen door screeches, pigeons scatter
thump of wing against breast, shockwave breeze
more frequent than in the past, shimmering necks
soundtrack squirrel zig-zags, new-green lawn
perches like the pigeons, await my departure
II.
he appeared in the night, a tattered statue
grey as the rumbling skies, white patch on his back
must be hurt, too painful to move, teal collar
my compassion swells, how can I help?
leave him seed and water, natural healing
III.
red-toed demon leaving bird-turd on my deck
can barely walk let alone fly away, railing perch
rain or sun sits most of the day, ruffled feathers
hit his head or fallen, maybe a scuffle with a cat
wants to be part of a flock, I move closer
IV.
day three I made him a coop, Bucky by name
Becky if it’s a girl, I’m not checkin’, won’t go in
moving better, flies a little, short bursts
still prefers my perch, watch him sleep, still
hours to days, nothing seems to change
V.
the four-legged’s have found the coop and feed
I become my grandmother chasing chipmunks, futile
Bucky likes grass, hacksaw walk, double-banded
looks strong enough to fly, abandoned racer
wonder, is it psychological or could it me?
VI.
trail of seeds brought him to the edge, coop and me
as I watch him he watches me, wide ruddy eyes
huddles in a ball on one foot, freckled vest
finally, twice today he found his way to the coop
sad he can’t go home, sheltered but dispossessed.
VII.
animal rescuer Howard came with a net today
tried clumsily to catch him, lift and accelerate
over the treetops he flew, circled back to land
from the rooftop he smiled down at us, relieved
proof time heals all wounds, in rock pigeon world.
Aug 30/18
In dizzy terrors, the ominous, relentless pull
of the numb night; sneers, shortcuts
clumsily trod; meandering the easy paths
where sins and lies are perfected and
nourished into pseudo truths that are
delightfully embraced. A credible potpourri
of slippery stones in a quagmire of guilt.
A quicksand of snickering gravity where
nothing escapes except the last one who cared.
Suffocating in our insignificance, too late for
sincere tears, too late to reach for
no one.
Singular and thus finite
begins the spiral's spinning plight
of eminent foretold collision
love commences in a vision
Unbeknownst before the time
an effigy that burns the mind
now filters clear, emotions raw,
the present image striking awe
Eyes and hair on perfect face
with pouted mouth, the heart doth race
into the thoughts, how to proceed?
laggardly? ...with godly speed?
Clumsily one gathers poise
do thine drums work? there is no noise
at the point, this cosmic stead
a vocal soul must forge ahead
Words abashed but striking through
perceived by them, return to you
is that a chorus sounding there?
without belief just simper stare
Lives become one single strand
as two entangle by the hand
joy begins to warmly swell
for fate's occasion, two hearts fell
I Am cautiously optimistic
I Wonder what I will do for the rest of my life
I Hear violins when I dance barefoot under the moon
I See Jonathan Livingston circling rainbows in the sky
I Want to be brilliant in a big comfy chair by the fire
I Am cautiously optimistic
I Pretend I’m an expert gardener as I clumsily till the earth
I Feel the cool breeze as it rustles through the pines
I Hold the sun in my hand and shed light on the darkness of the world
I Worry that my family will not know the depth of my appreciation
I Cry out loud
I Am cautiously optimistic
I Understand my integrity is measured by my actions
I Say don’t believe everything you think
I Dream that all my dreams will manifest in time
I Try to master the simplest things before I tackle the hardest
I Hope to make a difference in MY life today
I Am cautiously optimistic
I smell no Jasmines, Daisies or Geraniums this Summer
Nor my soul desires an ancient amphora
Crimson riddles my skin
My mind is an Amethyst.
An Amaranth a fixed star; an amulet
To which my neurons ebb and flow.
Purple radiates in shades
Violet Veins. My palpitations are magenta.
My heart is a deeper shade of purple. This summer.
Like a wound under a microscope.
I long to plot the anelemma of my thoughts
Protons in blue and electrons in amber.
Yet purple dominates my neurons like a clumsily drawn tube map.
In my mind, a soft ray of violet makes a lemniscate
Other colours, smells and senses, an oblivion await.
* This is an exercise in one colour :)
Certificate U
Poem
She was all that and much more
The child with the smiles and the braids
White dresses, friendly nods and compliancy
Muddy shoes, trees and cursing
Sent away from school and frowns
Cycling on one wheel only
Plastered with band aids
Quick glances in the mirror
Lip-gloss, eye-liner, brushed hair
Strapless dress and high heels
Stolen kisses in the dark of the alley
With that boy or that girl
Clumsily fumbling with straps
Or zippers
Hungrily searching not finding
Running away faster and faster
At the running track
Through the woods.
The girl with the curls and cap, and blowing hair
From her eyes
Refusing to look in the mirror
Refusing to face, face to face
Denying.
Multi-faceted and beautiful
The girl that didn’t dare to decide
And therefore decided to swim
Folded her clothes
Next to her shoes
Swam till her lungs were empty
And her heart full
And her eyes swam
Only when her body felt like loose pebbles
Held together by skin
She felt for the first time
She is all that and much more
She is beautiful, her head high
Sometimes she uses lip-gloss
Sometimes she climbs trees
She laughs soft, loud, teary-eyed, and often
She hugs tight and warm and infinitely loving
She gives love to him, her, and herself
Love her back, all of her
With gusto
***
Repost from September 2016
© Darren White
CAR COURT
Enter, the older heavyweight steel giant,
The bailiff, a 1954 Hudson, reads unhesitant :
On the docket for this morning : guilty by implication - a Trabant,
In close custody with a Cutlass Supreme for supervision.
Next on the docket: a Pinto for likely gas-tank explosion.
Third on the docket: an English-made car (any marque) - body corrosion.
Lawyer for the prosecution, a pretentious character, a gas guzzler SUV
4x4 off-road with winch - for Saturday use on driveway only -
Hangs out with Vettes; and uses NO2 in fuel. Who?Drugs? Not me!
Downbeat guy as the defence counsel , a solid no nonsense Hummer,
A real enviro-bummer,
Klutzy ugly and personality like a mack truck in summer.
Trabant coughed its way to the stand.
Clerk of court Volkswagen, order in hand,
Read the indictment quietly, efficiently, bland.
Prosecution began with noisy opening musical-horn tunelets
The jury, all serious-minded stolid Volvos and Toyota Starlets
Were not impressed. Hummer clumsily interrupted with an objection, “Let’s
Stop, on the grounds of precedent,” but at this point Pinto reversed,
Crushed its trunk and its gas-tank exploded, and worst ,
Hit the the English car : and into flames they both burst.
Cutlass argued with the SUV, which was winched away pending sentence.
Case against the English car dismissed from lack of evidence.
Trabant was deported back to Germany: no import licence
Overseeing all these proceedings : the ever-reliable, I-won’t-budge,
The I-have-a-spotless-reputation, I-hold-no-grudge,
The mechanical virgin, the silent Rolls Royce as judge.
...........................................................................................................
Wish I knew you when I was young
Wish I knew you when I was young
When journey of my desires had just begun
As lyrics of my romantic life were being written
And the song of my rhythm remained unsung.
As I encountered my dream of unknown theme
No one ever resembled your state of elegance,
Not knowing the pathway to worthy eloquence
I embarked on a course of least resistance.
Why do I feel so attracted to your presence
Mesmerized by your utmost shiny luminance
As you stand there gazing my lone appearance
Unaware that I'm already married to a gentleman.
Yet, I stay engaged in the game of hide and seek
Following your vibes to take a stolen peek
As you pause to shake hands with a firm grip
When I clumsily inform you my feelings run deep.
I decided to meet you knowing nothing about you
For urge tugged fervor unlike anything I knew
Getting lost in fables that seldom come true
Seeking refuge in secret wishes patently new.
And I felt playful as we stopped by for ice cream
Travelling back to days when life was carefree
Telling you coyly about my husband and children
Crossing norms of naivety with a reckless abandon.
You said goodbye as anguish flared your wistful eyes
Retreating hastily upon hearing my hesitant sigh
And I let go of your grip on my wanting sheen
Fascinating in solitude how things might have been.
November 22, 2017
Wish I knew you when I was young
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
First Place
I. Myth
A giant, I thought, fondly,
one that brought power first;
then, too, love, always love,
then, too, justice, wisdom;
you commanded the supplications
just as surely as your gods;
I thought it would reside in you
and preside over me forever.
II. More
Far more, I thought, fondly,
and gifts of bounty at hand;
then, too, power, always power,
then, too, justice, wisdom;
so, then, more the reward of good
and more the power of the reward;
you were sure it was yours
and divinity would surely follow.
III. Less
No less, I thought, fondly,
it was always these, I assumed;
then, too, those, always those,
then, too, less the malignant seed;
but assumption is deepest folly,
and greater exactitude held sway;
gone the lesser virtues,
less than the virtues pledged.
IV. Of And Or
I surely walked into a hemisphere
darkened by my own design;
but perhaps you walked, or lurched,
or clumsily something elsed;
perhaps into a hemisphere darker,
unwittingly darkened by folly;
I won't know until I get there,
and even then I might not.
27th June 2020