Best Collared Poems | Poetry
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Collared
by Needham, Phe
Blue Crested-Collared Man an original song
by Young jr., Clay
A COLLARED DOVE
by Strand, Brian
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The Best Collared Poems
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Thoughts that thrive on scattered dreams
shoot through the mind like laser beams
Hunger echoes a hollow song
Voices merge, intestines long
Lips are dry, and tongues are parched
Memories are pressed and starched
No miming board can take the heat
Hot irons that scorch the hands and feet.
Cold days flow into brackish nights
on borrowed hopes and collared pride
Answers wrapped in braided woes
Crushed, then scattered by angry toes
Worry stalks in cleated shoes
It leaves a track of pallid blue
Just when it seems to reach the rise
It folds then doubles up in size.
Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2012
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Krummes Holz gibt auch gerades Feuer
Crooked logs make straight fires [Work with what you have.]
Downcast eyes scan; the larger fear’s in deeds.
Germany thrives on the allied dollar
having culled the herd; they bank euro collared.
I, remnant of the tribe of David, take heed.
Full, again, of pride, the German strides
bold as brass across the pristine Alpine
scene, offering migrant shelter in line
with its own future needs as need coincides.
Who will be the tinder, the next confined
and the fly to the spider’s gruesome tale.
Prominence ignites dominance, the grail
binds with the golden eagle enshrined; it blinds,
yet, how few the choices, the wretched wail;
the tempted homeless yearn within the gale.
Published by Page & Spine 2016
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2017
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The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium,
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,
Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,
I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,
I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -
J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
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Today the darkness comes.
Music is subdued and low --
measured beats -- an ebb and flow
of oboes and of drums
to pace the sluggish feet.
I do not choose to meet,
this day of blacks and grays,
the collared priest who prays
but, ultimately, betrays
the cant that fills his days
with repetitious words.
I view the streaming hordes
descending from the church,
watch them as they lurch
about -- in apparent disregard
for any ordered exit from
the sepulchre, dank and dim.
They met to worship Him --
but I -- I try so hard
to suspend my disbelief --
to find, in faith, relief.
Yet, still, the darkness comes.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012
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"Howdy to you all from Colorado! This is Cletus Schlunk reporting,
Where gossip is fair and balanced and there is little or no distorting!
It's the home of the Rockies, Broncos, Nuggets and potholes galore,
And old mining towns like Leadville and Cripple Creek, full of western lore!"
"Hordes of gaping tourists from all over come to visit the Centennial State,
So I collared one to get his views and his comments to you I'll relate."
"Sir, could you spare a few minutes of your time for a little chat?
Tell me where you're from and where did you get that silly hat?"
"Ah'm frum th' great state uv Texus an' that's a hunder'd dollar Stetson son.
Now, don'tcha go a-makin' sport uv me - ah've cum here ta have a little fun!"
"Be forewarned that when sipping a cool Coors, respect the altitude here."
"Yup! Ah've figgered out that jes' one uv 'em will set ya' on yer rear!"
"What do you think of our magnificent mountains reaching for the sky?"
"Shucks! We used to have 'em in Texus an' they wuz nearly twice as high!
But ah'm here ta tell ya', they wuz flattened out years an' years ago.
That's why Texus is th' biggest state in the lower 48, I want ya'all ta know!"
"Have you fished our pristine streams, many that are off the beaten track?"
"Yup! Caught a 30-incher - he wuz a Texus minner so I throwed 'im back!"
"Well, folks, he out-bragged me so I brought the interview to a hasty cease!
Till next time, from Colorful Colorado, I wish each of you happiness and peace!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in the "Reporting Live On The Soup" Contest - July 2010
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
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Stubbing my toeses and whiskers on women
Stepping on nettles and by a swarm of bees bitten
Bounded like hostages tied up with strings
These are a few of my suckiest things
White collared phonies and bills piled in oodles
Bad smells and poop felled from schnauzers and poodles
Old geezers who cry when the old swooner sings
These are a few of my suckiest things
News from the presses with more stock value slashes
Cornflakes that grow soggy when in the milk splashes
Little wood splinters that felt like a sting
These are a few of my suckiest things
When the moon lights
When the glee sings
When I’m feeling glad
I stumble upon one of my suckiest things
And everything turns bad
<< REPEAT >>
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2011
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"Swimming"
Street corner grand scheme
she don’t need no tattoos
words all written on her tongue
make nuff dollar to ride her dream
meanwhile
Bareback, she’s pushin'
stars in her eyes, pupils eclipsin’
green bucks, so fried evergreen
by the hour, glamour puss admission
circling her pole
cat back arched bored
rendition splits captivation
slides tempation’s scales
holy collared
fistful of green
thinks he’ll save her
sitting perfect on his stool
observing through the glass
she’s "his" pretty Goldfish
swimming in her fish bowl
season of the wolf walks in
he’s her bareback
pushing
souls for admission
with grinning ambition
schooling "his" pocketful of Goldfish
to keep on swimmin'
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
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The air is crisp, cold weather
that you can sink your teeth into.
It's midwinter with a brief break
between rainy weather fronts.
My fat limping dog and I have
got to get out of the house and
find some wildness.
He lets me know of his happiness
and I ignore his comment about hypocrites
as I put his leash on and
he drags me down the trail.
"How will we ever find wildness
under these conditions?"
he barks at me.
"Maybe this time boss?
Maybe this time you will let go?"
We walk down the trail by
the storm swollen stream and
hear the same question posed in the air.
The storm stream tries hard to break free
and wreck havoc, but,
the well engineered cement banks
give it nothing to grab hold of and it
careens on past to the sea, harmlessly.
The river's only hope to spread wildness
is another storm to raise its banks.
The grass above the banks is all of a kind,
easily mowed, and no threat to the asphalt
path we walk.
There is some hope of wildness
in the windblown debris
left over from the storm.
Perhaps seeds of a hardier folk
will move in among the grasses and
the perfect line of trees
that border the trail.
Such strangers will have to hide
and take cover before the caretakers
of the trail arrive tomorrow.
They will efficiently find all wildness
from the storm and make sure that
it is all discarded and hauled to the dump.
Perhaps I am looking for nature
in all the wrong places.
Here it has been collared and leashed
and rendered docile.
Still it fights back.
My hopeful dog directs my attention to the stream
and points to an otter that sinks when I look.
"Maybe this time, boss?" he implores.
Overhead, three noisy geese, free as you please,
as insolent as if they were twenty,
announce their imminent landing
at the county water control pond.
Not all of us are on a leash yet.
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2008
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Out of the bath, in the mirror, check me
picture of spindly masculinity
talc on the feet, and armpits sprayed
now for the body a choice to be made
Hai Karate or Aramis
both leave the women in a state of bliss
(so the adverts say, yet no such luck
since thus far I have scored a duck)
tight Y-fronts are to my taste
and Oxford bags with a six button waist
big collared shirt in Brunswick green
and a silver kipper tie that looks pretty keen
nylon socks with a couple of holes
in black and red three inch platform soles
jacket in cream, collar up round the neck
with a red and green pattern of tartan check
hair centre parting wet the comb, keep it simple
for a look reminiscent of Anne Boleyn's wimple
out of the door, bemused looks from my Mum
so watch out, ladies- here I come!
( looking back on it now when I hear the old tunes
I can honestly say you've seen better dressed wounds )
1970's: the decade that fashion forgot.
Viv Wigley, to his eternal embarrassment, July 22nd 2015
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015
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Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!
Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.
The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.
The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.
The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.
Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting
of Circus Land once again great.
The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.
The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.
The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.
The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.
The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.
With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.
Humbled Empress on bareback’s hilarious,
parading her asses and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.
Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced balls.
Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.
The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.
The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.
Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were trumped by the Klan),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”
Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting shit in the face of the fans.
One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2016
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The Alphabet Contest
Sponsor: Alfred Vassallo
A Is For Anniversary
Their love story began on April twenty-third, nineteen forty-five,
two young lovers vowed eternity before their family's eyes.
There were hard days ahead living through the Great Depression,
an economic decline, raise in unemployment through recession.
World War II came and he went off to fight for his country,
only communication was through a few letters mailed monthly.
Back home with a baby waiting for him in his lover's arms,
war had ended and he came home to protect his family from harm.
Six children within twelve years, their family was complete,
he was such a hard working white collared man only wearing pleats.
She stayed at home to raise the kids, for that was way back then,
shopping for food and doing laundry, dedicated mother til' the end.
Children grew up and off to college or a marriage of their own,
while the loving couple became grandparents, oh my how they've grown!
Fifty years flew by and they kept the same routine everyday,
ten years later came great grandchildren they were so proud to display.
A decade later we noticed a decline in his health from arthritis and old age,
she also was getting frail very slowly with each passing day.
For now it was the children's turn to take very good care of them,
falling all the time, visits is the ICU, and hospice could never prevent.
He had lived to be ninety eight, while she is now ninety three,
his time on earth had come to an end, and he was finally free.
So many fond memories survived each one thought of with many tears,
this April twenty-third, they would have been married seventy one years.
I speak to the Lord nightly in thanksgiving for their love and His mercy,
I'll whisper to the sky, “I love you Grandpa, happy seventy-first anniversary.”
Date Written: March 20, 2016
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
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Out of heaven,the good Lord made
a garden that does not fade,
each Spring,His season,to renew
greeness with much grandeur to view;
Robins,starlings and sparrows new,
missel thrushes and blackbirds too,
nestling and nuture,here for free
just as He does,for you and me;
With pure innocence that I love ,
the soft and simple collared dove,
a fragile home of twigs and sticks
on which she, precarious sits.
This symbol of peace and love,to
we on earth,from heaven above
Inspired by Debbie's latest contest
see more at Gen 8 and Mt 3:16
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010
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I researched the earth's endangered species list and this is what I found.
There's everything on the list from A to Z - rare species just abound!
I'll highlight some of the more interesting varieties just to name a few,
That creep and crawl amongst us in this world-wide conglomerate zoo!
There's the Red-bellied Grackle, Pig Footed Bandicoot and Aquatic Rat;
Paraguana Mustached Bat, Zanzibar Guitarfish and the Andrean Cat!
A rare Whiskered Flower Pecker, Canarian Shrew and Amaragosa Vole,
A Peruvian Climbing Mouse, African Wild Ass and an Arend's Golden Mole!
Also listed were the Aruba Island Rattlesnake and the Okinawa Rail,
The Western Wattled Cuckoo Shrike and the Rolling Pebblesnail.
Something called the Philippine Warty Pig and the African Wild Dog,
And a Red-collared Mountain Babbler plus a Tanzanian Screeching Frog!
I also found a Banded Wobblegong and a reptile called a Bailey's Snake,
A Cameroon Clawless Otter and something called a Band-bellied Crake!
How about the Concave-eared Oderous Frog or an Eastern Bristlebird,
The Charming Thicket Rat, Common Yobby or a rare Dahl's Jird!
Some folks may find some redeeming value having these critters in our midst,
And I suppose to a certain degree we must learn with them to coexist.
But more importantly, if humankind can't learn in peace on earth to dwell,
We homo sapiens could end up on the endangered species list as well!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 7 on Amy Green's "Ode To The Endangered" Contest - June 2010
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
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Unquotable quotes – IX
You cannot have your cake and eat it, but you can have
your meat and beat it.
Sow your wild oats on a sow and your tame oats on a
milch cow, and reap what you sow.
See not evil, speak not evil but fiddle evil.
Silence is olden.
Blood is thicker than 70% of the body.
If you eat your fill, who will foot the bill ?
Since l’habille ne fait pas le moine, what if the monk
goes about in his birthday suit ?
Money makes Bunnies look funny.
When a white-collared worker marries a blue-collared
worker, they invariably produce a red-collared
sucker.
The only impermanent resident is the President.
It is only raining cats, not dogs.
We are just kissing cousins in the parloir but not in the
boudoir.
Wake not a man asleep and tell him his wife has given
him the slip.
Snakes and Ladders : To skid and fall is a blessing compared to climbing a ladder and falling from a height and being hit on the head by the falling ladder while the snake is waiting and hissing…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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I tore a collared shirt hopping a gate
and lost a button shimmying across the peak of a roof
just so I could cuddle in privacy
oh, life, what heights to climb just to float down kindly
on clouds or surfing crowds
the things that bring together others and fill with pleasure
the very emptyness in the sense of experiencing such realities
alone, they say we die alone, but someone told me to fear not
deep thought, carried on with a walk uphill, to find a peaceful place
before the sun showed its face
oh, life, what great fall to take
when tripping on my very own heart strings
playing a soft melody, lulling me to focus my attention
on the things that matter, beyond simply just matter
Copyright © Davin Payne | Year Posted 2012
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(The Clock and The Reaper)
Time, the adamant adversary
of all that breathes
and all that can be personified
but meets perish
at the end of an arduous linger,
The crowns of eminent royalty,
the sweat of the blue collared,
and the blood of the encumbered poor,
are made equal, and remain
as docile as a sigh within a tornado,
by the unvarnished will of
destiny's most capricious assassin...
Thus all are abated by the face of a clock,
a man made object that mildly frightens
its creator, for it is not the apparition known
as Death, but rather the pretentious beacon
which deftly admonishes his existence, to all
who wish to prelude his inevitable convocation,
Yet none triumph in eluding the bullet of his
touch or the chill of his paralyzing presence,
for he is a being untainted by remiss
Together, the clock and the reaper,
are bound by nature, a mother who
bore them within the same breath,
and binds them without ramification,
for once one is piqued by a name,
the other is given purpose, thus the verve
of the artist, and the scientific mind become
nothing again, and the sanctimonious platitudes
of the churches, are silenced,
along with the indiscretions of the sinners,
Therefore, as time and death are capacious
beyond infinity, neither will rest until starved
by an impasse, thus the parable remains pertinent
to all, cherish each minor moment of life,
live with the dreams of adolescent imagination,
and love with a degree of unforgettable compassion,
which can never be made mortal, and by definition,
shall forever remain impervious to death's hand,
and always pass the test of time.
Copyright © Audonus Taylor | Year Posted 2011
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Blue collared of the swindled lot, cannot resent just brace
Credibility so easily slapped for rough hide when pieces put into place
Daybreak compels list of chores into focus
Semblance to rain faberge for owners of circus
Stolid apparell for hauling load, a sanctioned acrostic of strength
Entered by destiny but no exit even if they desire from this labyrinth
Justice a joke in fractal trigonometry
Law a limbered warble for rich but austere for those in poverty
Dusk time in regailing assortment of means to satiate hunger pangs
Overlooking the shoulders, for the voted cult may suck scraps over tax returns
Samiha's serpentine gaze keeps vigil for mendacious ritual by rich perennially every May
Sustainance on others ration will ensnare them in a time warp of condemn and ruin someday
Copyright © samiha zubair | Year Posted 2015
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Three lying deacons
swim in a handbag -
and a lone, celibate pastor
paces longingly bemused.
Michael, the Arc Angel,
poses silently,
in dusty Gabbana drag,
cursing the lipstick-painted laymen
writhing in rancid attar -
naked
and intentionally
unused.
Four wide-eyed boys
dance on a daydream –
kissing ripped posters
of a white collared rapist.
Saint Peter understands
the jovial jokesters -
the foolishness
when blackened specks darken the void;
the flurried flutter of his eyelids
casts a tainted shadow
upon a fractured sexual ballet.
They continue to kiss
below the waist.
Three lying deacons
and a pacing pastor resides –
five lip-smacking nurses
massaging your head.
Four wide-eyed boys
caress your knuckles
as the well-trimmed priest
pronounces
a poorly
scented infant:
"anally dead."
Seven cardinal sins
slip and divide
into 3 venial ratios.
"Hi, Sonny"...
Greed, lust and vanity
are mortal crimes;
Father Fragrantly Fresh...
quietly proclaims:
"snuggle a bit closer and
sniff a hint of Genesis."
Say I’m to blame
and cause-count the afflictions –
smaller undetected lumps
hump the jaded addictions
brain dead and haughty –
the zombies
circle and laugh!
I wasn't born in a dark discarded
Parisian tunnel but -
can you Roman Polanski me,
please?
Kill the poet...
and make him pay -
below the waist.
Crushed words embody
a forgotten loner’s
epitaph!
(force him to stutter stupidly)
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
and within a last breath -
GOD...
"the string-strangled
puppet
conventionally chokes -
and quietly succumbs
(to a textured landscape)
of a youthful
silenced dying...
...swaddled
and swallowed
in a heavenly -
haloed chosen
death..."
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2008
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Brutus Iulius Trois Page 03
Grey eyed Brutus was truly a Trojan son
as he attended his father upon a great hunt
Jealous Juno hated this Brutus this Trois
her anger caused his arrow to slay
neither the black boar nor the collared hind
t'was Silvanus the fatal arrow struck
Banished by kindred unfortunate Brutus
abandoned Alba Longa for Chaonia in Greece
In Chaonia Helenus wise son of Priam
while a Grecian slave had gained all of Pyrrhus's property
Andromache, Hector's widow and poor Neoptolemus's crown
in Chaonia Helenus had rebuilt his Troy in the heart of Greece
Alas long dead was Helenus his people left in bondage to Pandrasus the king
once within the walls that were built from Trojan memories
Brutus was welcomed by all men alike
for his skill with sword, his youth, his sorrow
brought him friends from all walks of life.
here seemingly content the Trojan grew older
an acknowledged leader of men.
Up in the heavens upon the high mount
Aquarius the eternal, Jove's sweet faced cup bearer
eldest child of all the Trois, was weeping
unable to don manhood's mantle to save his patrimony
he bemoaned the travails of the surviving Trojans
Venus strode forth to stand before Jove
Ill have you kept the promise that was given
that all Troys children shall have safe harbor
free from Juno's deadly wrath
Yet in Greece in Juno's own land
Trojans live in bondage to her beloved Greeks
with them now is Brutus who Juno hates most
for truly is he a most Trojan son
descended from your own blood.
Aurora arose and answered Aquarius's crys
Look upon Trojan Tithonus and be glad of your youth
Venus how are you wronged
A generation ago Troy was taken by treachery
the survivors separated scattered yet still seem undefeated
My Memnon a king assisted Troy and died a young hero.
Your Aeneas a hero abandoned Troy and died an old king
I do not hear you weep for old Aeneas
Memnon's heirs still wander the wild-lands
homeless, hearth-less waiting for Juno's forgiveness
Copyright © Luann Pfost | Year Posted 2013
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Christmas eve
It wasn't quite a silent night
wrapping and bows had taken flight
the girls were stirring in their bed
cause egg nogg'ed parents had made their stead
They giggled and jostled through the packing
the presents under the tree were stacking
so, if you find a miss label or two
the cat deserved the skate board blue
the dog needed the harry potter
and lil' sis could use the collared trotter
Dad needed the pink sparkly dress
Mom loves the hunting knife from Hess
Big sis loves her cat nip ball
the family needed the toy barn stall
so, practice your nicest sharing
love of course is in the pairing
the matching of the gift to you
is in the magic as nut meg flew
so, Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good night.
-Lisa Treweek
Copyright © Lisa Treweek | Year Posted 2014
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After Sunday softball games,
us kids would run the bases
dad and I would then skip over to the River Inn Tavern
players would gather in small sweaty clumps
guzzling life
playing pool
devouring cold cuts
rehashing the scent of the game
the dirt on their uniforms,
a blue collared art
I collected bottle caps in those days,
had a secret wink with "chops" the tavern owner,
every time the cash register rang
the richer him and I became..
Big George was the first basemen
power hitter and powerful drinker
by far the biggest contributor to my collection...
My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale
it was a pretty pale green ,
reminded me of a quiet mountain lake
or the eyes of the little blonde
a few houses down the way.
Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn,
Dads heart brimming with dirt and diamonds
my pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes
both stinking of beer and bargain cigarette
both far beyond rich.
That was a million Sundays ago,
Chops, Big George and the bottle caps are gone,
don't know what became of the little blonde down the way
These days I glean beach glass from a pretty green lake...
chatting with gulls and the incoming waves.
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2016
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Collared Poem
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Balcony birds eye view
Tiny gardens as tin soldiers
Tight in a row
Some as spoilt cherished children
Desired domains
Some have dinked boxes
Former relished
Remains....yet still standing
One seems a foxes
Potential secret den
Wildflower prolific
Non specific
Design on the eye
Nor ideas of grandest
Grace
Just good honest wildflowers
Bursting micro colours over and out
Of their space....
Sparrows combined free falling...
Sight
Spitfires versus...... Focke-wulf
Engrossed in that oh so intense...
Dog-fight
Crash landing within the foliage
Of
The
Grandest tree
Exit sprite....one cabbage White,
Flits of hurriedly...
And the warbling starch collared wood-pigeon... settles
To sing his gracious sermon
Within the sparrow's demise
His dull low call, to me
Surreptitiously... stole the show
It was indeed a glorious
Sunday... Morn
And what happened to the battling birds
I confess..I do not know
Copyright © Karen Deeks | Year Posted 2012
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Collared Poem
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Cruising home from the driving range.
My collared shirt free of cigarette burns…
58 in November, hit’em pure
Pushed back against the wind flirted with woods
Everything should be peace Turners on; and I’m contemplating hard
A trip back to dodge way ,
bury me in project bricks
Surrounded by fresh needles and chunky cocaine.
Skoal Mint sinking me to the chair again,
Dotted pupils linoleum on my knees…
I”m pushing it all the way cause
I want me the ****ing ringing chased by black melting weightlessness..
Ohh where did I lose soul.. between rattling box car trains at the back porch in point breeze,
or the cramped back seat of my ford escort home… I still feel the abrasive fabric on my cheek…
Don’t think Ill find it in a 401k or wooden pin..
salivating at double seals again
I don’t think I can do this,
don’t think I can be high enough sober
,I ain’t never gonna recover.
A vibration sucks my lip dry, damn phone dashing fantasy.
It’s not locked, Alone, but a few voices behind me.
humming I can’t handle another decade of subs junk and booze..
I feel too much. sober
Drops of sweat on my back from heated seats flash call off leg cramps
Black trucks remind of exit door deliveries at Giant Eagle..
Uneasiness haunts back the anticipation of copping
Am I supposed to eat honey nut cheerios with a damn fork…
How am I gonna recover?????
Artificial warmth always distracts swollen veins and cherished loneliness
How am I gonna recover?
The drugs don’t know
this time
I’m fighting with sessions, a pen and ****ing numbers…
I can mask rage as calm conversation
Throw out chunks of feelings in self deprecation
And turn away from nodding strangers
I’m calling out to all my desire to die…….
.
Cause today I’m feeling high enough
Dave streett
Copyright © Dave Streett | Year Posted 2013
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Collared Poem
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I saw him, taller than corn, a high-collared shirt,
and wristy Rolex smile; beguile: the club, deep-dark
low, and drawing in the rich and not so
and then moving from the brewing bar, the jar of late
custom, floated to a sofa, sitting and announced,
”here’s the ladies, come to dance,”
and lacquered whores, employed with fizzy drinks,
circled him like robbers, buy a horse;
And he was hand-made, every detail Sachs, Dior,
light and shade; what silver spade had so fashioned,
I do not know, such a loathsome song of self-love,
and glow?
and later when he left, a monarch rising from his
borrowed throne, I thought perhaps he wasn’t bad,
or wasn’t good, nothing you could finger same, and say
Oh yes, it’s plain!
and he smiled a smile of self- love, not hope, passing me
as I drank; and when he’d gone, I fancied I’d seen the Devil;
or the Devil’s name, holidaying fresh from hell;
and quickly I looked the room; for candle, book and bell;
wondering now if I’d drawn in, his hellish earthly spell.
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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Collared Poem
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The process must work naturally,
Can't expect niceties when collared
brought kicking and screaming
to the printed page.
Even the lowest parts of speech
Deserve and expect respect
Some words fit together, snuggle
Seem quite comfortable with the arrangement.
When contented become a happy brood,
A Brady bunch expressing their satisfaction
Reading smoothly, cleanly and rhythmically.
Twins or maybe kissing cousins,
Words that hold hands, play, share.
Words that have a peculiar panache.
Aligned alliterations properly placed,
Artfully spoken by a Prince of Denmark.
Poor boy, death marked, mother poisoned,
Father murdered, done in by words.
Verbalizations live, giving breath
To dark secrets struggles of creation,
Expressing triumphs and tragedies.
For words are the crux and cry of life.
Copyright © James Gibbons | Year Posted 2010