Best Cotton Poems
Down south of a dirty delta town
after double-winged dusters sweep low
White hats, bent backs and bloody hands
sway to the rhythm of summer snow fields
Backed by a choir of ten thousand crickets
reaching up to touch heaven with a song
Daddy picked his cotton
Six scorched days a week
Sundays were sunny gleeful
Cotton candy I held in hand
He took me to the county fair
Pink and pretty as could be
Balloons hid my child's tears
for the days he toiled away
My daddy loved to toss me
high up in the air
he'd yell, I love you
My pink beautiful butterfly
Ferris wheels and chocolate pies
Sundays truly I
the pink happy butterfly
One day the balloons all popped
Daddy grasping heart
Tumbled to the ground
there are no more
Candy cotton dreams
only
Somber clown
tears
Cotton candy castles
When you look closely at an idea,
it has no weight.
The holes seem to weigh
more than the thought itself
The idea can never happen.
It can never be real.
It is too preposterous,
too stupid.
The light is shined into
the cavity of a brain, and
the ideas melt away like
bits of spun sugar melting
in your mouth. Small, Insignificant
Fluff never to be seen again.
You try to save the fluff.
Keep it from the light.
But no matter how
the idea hides, it cannot
escape the scrutiny of the
world. The idea flees
from the light, and
collides with another
idea fleeing the same fate.
The holes from one idea
fill in the holes of the other.
The idea grows
Bigger, and collides
with more ideas. Their
holes gaining more and
more weight until
they are what the world calls
concrete.
Now the idea is something
to be reckoned with.
The idea could change the
world. It could bring an
alternate eternity
into life. The idea could
do ANYTHING.
It continues to grow
little spun fibers of
fluff gathering speed,
gathering power, gathering
weight.
Until the weight is too
much to hold the holes
together, and the idea
is scattered, like fluff
in the wind. The weight
of the wholes, is more than
the weight of the idea.
.
Pampas Grass' tassles
Shooting upward fresh new
Beauty filled short life
Summer's surf rising from ivory tides be her light...
Reflecting from an hourglass these prisms she sways
Breaking waves their eyes conversations ladies they gaze.
Charming patterns surround us,
whispering in
shadows of our lives.
Born as thoughts, painting our dreams
with landscapes
of greens, purples, reds;
abstract colors bursting onto our canvas.
Patterns chase us through
fields of watercolor wildflowers,
down slopes of wind-blown grasses
of lavender-tipped gold.
We find them in balmy, cotton clouds, wind-carved rocks,
and moss-covered stones
kissed by noisy waters.
They sometimes ride on a butterfly's wings,
often found in new flowers, a child's face,
a leaf turned up, where a ladybug hides.
Charming patterns: mysterious looks they wear,
they cause us to question, to wonder, to imagine.
Both elegant and bold, charming patterns always present
puzzles to unwind,
stretching our minds.
softer then cotton
warm as a hot cup of tea
cat purrs beside me
Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only,
for the birds in the wind.
He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
________________________________________
Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
The devil’s dry fields
dirt farm, not much yields
damn sun
one forlorn tree shields
Texas battlefields
the one
recline that appeals
low water reveals
not done
no reprieve day’s sun
no wind, land barren
poor crop
windmill slow to run
water still and dun
well drop
worn clothes overdone
unbleached and homespun
no fop
dry, dingy sweatshop
broken fence post prop
damn sun
blind heat nonstop
a silent eavesdrop
poor crop
bleeding fingers mop
hellish spinning top
Grandma
Sometimes
life should be about
nothing more than
swirly upside down rides
and blue cotton candy
for in the end
pasts can’t be taken back
only relived
and the truth is
I’d rather live
happily
with my blue tongue
than die
with the past’s
bitter taste
on my lips.
8-8-09
With cotton candy
Pink and dandy,
Funnel cakes, sweet
All you can eat
A Ferris wheel
To make you squeal,
The carousel
Sure looks swell
Toss a ring
To win something,
Pop a balloon
You'll get it soon
Try to get that prize
Go for the biggest size,
Win a pet if you wish
Take home a goldfish
Stay there all night
For every sound and sight,
Like a kid again, be
So much to do and see
Show off what you do
Win a ribbon, blue,
Shower what you raise
With the highest praise
Craft and quilt
By hands built,
Goodness canned
Grown on the land
Pumpkins and pies
To delight the eyes,
Each cow and pig
The biggest of the big
Farmer's best on display
Sat in a pile of hay,
Take in the dairy air
At the county fair!
I'm denuded from the extravagant
When the breeze, gliding icy scent
The season of valentine, birds chirping in their nest
Whence I'm stepping on paradise, on the cold cotton road
Now my costume is rustic, I'm listening music-folk
The bird of passage is starring, the sky so blue
The tall primeval wearing white coat greets "I welcome you"
And All around the camouflaged woods, covered in snow
Whence I'm walking in paradise, along the cold cotton road
I'm covered by woollen, I'm breathing vapor, so cold
It's quarter to ten, in the active city
My eyes are widened starring the angel's beauty
Since wondering mind acclaimed, wee lassie is so pretty
Whence I'm roaming in paradise, past the cold cotton road
I'm filled with joy, for the wonders I behold
A journey to paradise along the cold cotton road....
~Ashok Kumar Mishra
Cotton And White Clouds
Cotton squeezes spongy soft in sanguine undertows
Flows calmly through the gentle fingers slow
Babies feel them caress their tender skin and sigh
Thin fibers rise to weave a dream of pure new white
Through their tiny minds as they recline to nap
Invisible oceans come and wash thoughts clean
Clouds envy them within the realm of reason
Sleeping on blue skies like baby silent whispers
Marshmallow mountains of ghostly fluff move up above
Over the innocent bundles of pure love
Clean and clear, floating ever slowly
Evaporate as they draw close
Tranquil cotton finds white clouds in heavenly repose
Blissful just like Christmas snow
Before they disappear
Chunks like white cotton that
Can float in sky. Clumps of
Condensed water vapor
Cause rain on earth, bringing
Cheer in summers. Canvas
Countryside they adorn.
Could sometimes mean gloom too!
In the quiet of a morning
where sunlight spills over the edges of dreams,
I catch a glimpse of the lost-
a girl with tangled hair,
a heart wrapped in a paper-thin shell,
her laughter still echoing in the stillness,
suspended like dust in a sunbeam.
She wanders through hallways of mirrors,
each reflection a question,
each scar a story,
the fabric of her skin stitched with shadows
that whisper of battles fought in silence.
What does it mean to be whole
when the pieces slip through fingers
like sand through an hourglass?
Outside, the world unfurls,
a carnival of colors,
the pink of cotton candy,
the blush of cherry blossoms swaying,
yet she feels like a ghost
wandering a landscape painted in grayscale,
wondering if she is the canvas or the brush,
the artist or the art.
In moments of stillness,
the heart beats louder than reason,
and she gathers the fragments,
the shards of herself scattered
like leaves in autumn winds,
wondering if she can stitch them back
into a tapestry bright enough
to warm the coldest nights.
But time, that relentless tide,
pulls and pushes,
inviting the tides of despair and delight,
and she learns to cradle her imperfections,
each flaw a petal in a bouquet
that blooms in defiance of the storm.
Perhaps it is enough,
to stand in the center of the chaos,
to breathe in the cacophony of life,
to know that even the broken
can sing a song of resilience,
a melody woven from the threads of wounds,
the chorus of "I am enough"
echoing through the valleys of doubt.
So she lifts her chin,
gazes at the horizon stretching,
the sun a promise,
the clouds a canvas,
and in that moment,
understanding unfurls like wings,
the weight of wonder
lifting her toward the vastness-
that to be imperfect is to be beautifully alive.