Best Creased Poems
It feels like the world
has been struck by a
plague of pathological lies,
where fictional truth
seems to sell better,
the allure of
imitation glistens
even brighter,
while superficial tongues
recite infected mantras,
praising slaves of Satan~
singing corpse lullabies.
And I can feel
my drained soul
descending
into darkness,
as this cathartic
sanctuary
slowly decays,
into odds and ends
of incessant numbness.
Spikes drive through
this splintered ribcage,
shackling my life force,
to silently bleed
in salvation.
I feel the scorching
iron ore entering
my splitting heart,
as they watch
the crimson flow,
mocking my
doomed empathy.
For kindness
is disregarded,
in a cynical world
that has no mercy,
falling into an
abyss of tears,
awaiting eternal sleep,
never to rise to
another devil’s trance,
whilst bleeding in
reckless reckoning.
I am the mistreated
mistress in misery,
stranded in the
midst of an
abandoned island~
cruising through
roaring waves,
in desperate hope
for butterfly bliss.
I trace
deadly deeds
in bloodstained
sea-castles,
pleading the lord,
to tether
the cold walls,
that hide all these
layers of brokenness.
Carvings of
chaos on my skin,
choreograph a
prodigious dance
of death,
commemorating
creased calm,
with prophetic
songs that
have no life.
For the coldest
breeze still
lingers in circles,
from the pits of
an out-burnt mountain,
reluctant to rearrange
dried up poison,
with their cape
of sentiments,
in cold refrains
and resentment.
Yet I question the
cosmic Peridots
scattered between
moonstones in
artless skies.
How can a poet
make the dead
seem beautiful again,
when musty maggots
are the only
fillings they would get?
Categories:
creased, angst,
Form:
Free verse
Ocie the Ocelot liked words a lot!
As a tot, words like dot and trot hit the spot
Then, getting older, the folder on her shoulder grew bolder
What was once handy stopped ringing so dandy
Craving vocabulary candy to bandy
She sought what she ought, to form lukewarm to hot
Mooshu, the emu guru, knew what to do
To bring notice and gain focus
Journey there, to the oracle's lair
The fortress of Morris the Thesaurus Tortoise
When she approached his door, saying, "I want more!"
His smile creased - he replied, "Your covet's increased!"
She confessed her distress at being a pest
But he said, "My dear, you're not stubborn - you're tenacious!
You're not merely aware - you're perspicacious!"
It's not only knowledge; it's proficiency, cognition, discernment
For ideas, impressions, concepts, brainstorming segments
Be bold, audacious, intrepid, resolute, gallant
Credit your capacity, flair, savvy, talent
Evade the cliche, the commonplace, the trite
Clamp on, lacerate, masticate, bite!
Hours freed, for her need to succeed
Then, at the end, one final creed to heed-
Don't fall a slave to the misbehaving knave
Sometimes, the simpler speech is the one to save.
3/4/19
Poem of the Day 3/06/19
Categories:
creased, children, humor, words,
Form:
Light Verse
The sun swiftly sits on the creased sea line, stirring crooning clouds of romance.
I sit in awe ~ mesmerized, for the millionth time,
watching the sky sing your name, filling the salty air with high-pitched notes of nostalgia.
For between the island of longing and mountains with willows of infatuation,
amidst the many gusts and gales of seasonal shifts,
between your ink and my canvas, I feel the warmth of your love-struck twilight,
as if we were wishing upon the same evening star, flickering opalescent flames of desire.
While fireflies flutter like aurora beams,
twirling like topaz that mirrors diamond dreams, above our skin,
screaming for a silent rendezvous,
where no wind or dust can blur or veil the musical memories of our unspoken poetry.
In this moment, I realize I am not alone. The seagull that visits the same spot every day rests still,
surrounded by ripples of honeyed turquoise. Perhaps she is lost in thought, just as I am,
as the way we both are in sync with nature reminds me of the ephemeral tunes of time~
how it unfolds Polaroids of promises, scattered like aching footprints in the moon-touched sand.
Maybe the dance of the seraphic breeze and flurry of hues would redefine unseen tomorrows,
as weightless crimson carries scarlet sonnets, sealed in spiced eloquence…
marigold secrets
etched within cinnamon sun~
halcyon heartbeats …
Categories:
creased, emotions, missing,
Form:
Haibun
All day the world has waited
for me to come and rest here,
to welcome me into a picture
it has composed with people
walking their dogs along
the water's edge and the wide,
seaweed strewn beach bathed
in the soft light of a setting sun.
‘See what I have prepared’
it seems to say, drawing my eye
to the distant clouds, the water
wearing a golden glaze
and creased by a gentle breeze,
birds overhead, the sand scored
in a joyous language written
by children's scampering feet.
I sit and take it in,
feast on the exquisite detail
that is layered and worked into
every inch of the scene.
Memory gives it a name as light
fades and I leave, re-entering
the dark that is waiting for me
just beyond the frame.
Categories:
creased, beach, sunset, world,
Form:
Free verse
The room is still,
Quiet but for wind and rain
Making music on the windows.
Empty but for endless shelves
Of leather-bound volumes -
The first editions you loved so much.
The desk is weathered, coated
In a film of dust.
The chair is old and worn,
Tucked in just where you left it.
I can almost hear it creak
Under your weight,
Hear you whistle in that absent way.
I can almost see you there,
Hunched over creased pages,
Reading Keats or Blake.
I can almost smell that familiar scent
Of fresh soap and musty books,
Of spices and cigar smoke.
Categories:
creased, family, life, loss, peace,
Form:
Free verse
Poetic words on
paper creased,
tell beauty of a
mind unleashed…
Pen is to paper - as
chalk is to slate.
Your mind is a
canvas - that I’ll
illustrate.
You’ll envision an
image artfully
crafted,
when reflecting on
poetry cleverly
drafted...
Secrets once
chained, and a bit
undefined,
will come into focus
inside your mind.
A likeness derived
from inspiring
scrawl,
unlocking the
dreamer that’s
inside us all...
Copyright © 2014
Published in Rhyme & Rhythm: A Poetry Collection (2017) A poetry book by Cole Banner available at Amazon.com
Categories:
creased, poems, poetry, words,
Form:
Rhyme
"Umpteen little moments of all living creatures are knitted together to weave the vivid fabric called 'Life' " ~ by poet.
The first wee sprout springing up from a seed
Bright sparkling baby eyes so fresh and pure
A wobbly calf standing first time for feed
Cute ducklings following mama for sure
Blooms that bring, to the dreary mind, a cure
Children diving into the pond for fun
Birds cheering us with their morning songs sweet
Peacock wooing peahen - dancing begun
Buzzing bees, wild, building their hives so neat
Busy squirrels collecting nuts to eat
Crows cawing and sharing food with their friends
Sparrows hiding under leaves during rain
Toiling hawker, his life in streets, he spends
Grandma's graceful smile - creased face - hiding pain
The fall of the leaves, nothing to remain
Date: 07/11/2022
Submitted for: It's All About Three Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme chosen: Life
Quintain (English), ababb, 10 syllables each line.
Categories:
creased, life,
Form:
Quintain (English)
Grandpa
a kind face
skin leathery and creased from years of working in the sun
long jowls like a basset hounds
sad droplet eyes
always a slight aroma of beer
brown wrinkled callous palms
dirt-stained fingernails were evidence of an old man’s toil
a blue plaid shirt now ashen from wear
a tall man
always unshaven with scrapes of gray hair that would scratch you un-mercifully if he asked for a hug
he walked with shoulders hung and bowed over as if broken
that of a man who had known the burdens of inequality all his life
the kindness in his eyes reflected a graceful acceptance of his fate
his tears masked a rage and unforgiveness for the destiny of his children
late afternoons he would sit out yonder under a huge black gum tree
a blackened wood briar pipe a pack of red man chewing tobacco and a can of snuff beside him
one jaw always popped out as the tobacco had to sit just long enough before it was time to spit
he would sit in that shaded spot for hours on end
up till sunset most days
always staring intently at something out there
was it memories from his past
or perhaps the dreams of a past that someone stole
eventually, grandma would call out to him
Henry where you be?
he would always reply
after awhile
I’m just there…
I never understood what that meant before
Until now
Categories:
creased, grandfather, grandmother, memory,
Form:
Free verse
September hues of school day smiles and bran new leather bags
creative minds as young as baby figs with eager hearts of lore
My days were full with mischief makers and bragging scalawags
but as the evening fell it was dad and I and paper planes galore
Lined creased papers pressed against father's smoky fingers strong
a wide tooth grin that said it all, while folding them in Ludwig style
Symmetrical wings shaped at the edge to fly through standby throng
inside a backyard airfield 16x24, .. we launched then bridged a mile
One was shaped like a prayer mantis one was fashioned like a jet
homework waited as we glided through a glide-path then a runway
Aerobatic landings that were much more thrilling, then a Lego set
oh the wanders of those days when we both knew, how to play.
August 13, 2022
Sponsor John lawless
Contest Name PAPER AIRPLANES
Categories:
creased, appreciation, dad,
Form:
Rhyme
Death is but life and life is death, I wonder,
Where does the spirit go when it's released?
Many beliefs have a different thought,
The body is just breathing that has ceased.
We wonder how many years we have left,
We live them like there is no tomorrow,
We dance in sunshine and run from thunder,
Death is but life and life is death, I wonder.
Everyone has their own personal sins,
Hiding in a closet they built of fear,
All have free will to have them unleashed,
Where does this spirit go when it's released?
So many religions do not agree,
The true path to God is forever sought,
I choose to chase spirituality,
Many beliefs have a different thought.
We all have struggles way down deep inside,
With cracks and holes and roads that have now creased,
Believer, atheist, agnostic, all.
The body is just breathing that has ceased.
All you've done is done, no reason to cry,
There is much more as far as I can see,
Did you once try to help humanity?
Is this your blown up personality?
Death is but life.
Categories:
creased, faithlife, body, life, ,
Form:
Rondeau Redouble
Old men in blue jeans
Dungarees – that’s what they were called,
heavy, blue denim, metal button fly -
form that followed function. The “cuffs” were
rolled up because inseam sizing and “pre-worn”
softened and frayed only occurred if you got
them from an older sibling.
Time has a way of softening things, Dungarees
included. They shaped themselves to your needs,
became one with your movements, stayed with you
through the tough times, went to town with you,
wore the scars and tears of youth moving forward,
taught the lessons of toughness and tenderness,
of reliable, responsible, dependability.
The clothes did not make the man, the man gave
meaning to the clothes, imbued them with his ethic,
his love, his success and failures, stood with him
in welcome rains and barren fields. The jeans,
flannel shirts, boots, weathered face - caught
between an ever present grin and grimace -
awaited each sunrise with a purpose.
The blue jeans are now faded by age,
highlighted by wear and tear, creased
in the rutted way of old roads – necessary
but untended. They offer the comfort of memory’s
warm embrace, the unspoken bond of a friendship
shaped by the demands of life.
They still walk together, these old men and their
blue jeans, more slowly but no less proudly,
for they have grown old together and know
that “the clothes did not make them men”.
John G. Lawless
1/1/2015
Categories:
creased, mentor, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
In the attic of my childhood home was a nook,
And there was a lovely window where sun poured in;
I just loved to hideout there all the afternoon,
There was a sweet thrill for the story to begin.
I started off reading books like Cinderella,
And I loved the story of Beauty and the Beast;
Treasure Island, Robinson Caruso, Robin Hood,
Lost in the story- but never a page I creased.
My mother and grandma knew where to find me,
Sometimes fast asleep in my nook holding a story;
Soon I was reading, Of Mice and Men, The Hobbit,
Gone With the Wind, now that was like purgatory.
"Frankly my dear, I don't give a dam!" my gosh,
I adored Rett Butler, oh he made me dreamy;
Romance was now my thing, I could not wait for the nook,
I got books second hand and some were steamy.
Then I changed, I wanted to read about real things,
I read Biographies of people in my sunny nook;
Nature and poetry books to me were so fascinating,
But I threw in a mystery or horror book.
Well that nook is gone, in fact even the house,
But in my nest, I have a special place to read and be;
Beside a sunny window cozy with many pillows,
I love when I can be alone there with just me.
_____________________________________
April 17, 2016
Poetry/Quatrain/A Book, A Storybook
Copyright Protected, ID 16-778-875-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, What I Wouldn't Give For A Nook and a Storybook,
sponsor, Eve Roper
Second Place
Categories:
creased, adventure, books, peace, romance,
Form:
Quatrain
I was newly thirteen when the seventies took me underwing,
then married and grown when they creased inside time’s fold.
I was not attracted to those scholastic or athletic,
but to those lacking labels and considered rebels.
Moving yearly filled my army-brat life with sad good-byes
that swerved my teenage years thru countless, deep cries.
When the decade first began, I had paper and pen in hand
to secretly write the poetry holding my heart slams.
At thirteen, poems first bubbled in me to be pen-freed.
I still have most as lost-girl written within my teen season.
In the seventies I fell in love with love, astrology, spirituality,
Kahlil Gibran, Thoreau, individuality as resonated in me
from Ann Rand’s, “The Fountainhead”, and lyrics on which I fed.
The Who wrote song lines I fantasized were mine, all mine,
Elton John, Crosby, Stills and Nash sang words for my thrills,
as did Neil Young, Carole King, CCR, The Eagles, and Beatles.
Rock n Roll beats and crying guitars inebriated my limits,
such music moved me in defiance of compliance to physics.
Thru rock’s depths and denim, I was a seventies thoroughbred
who has poetically wept since first the decade's innocence bled.
Categories:
creased, emotions, growing up, music,
Form:
Bio
Snowflakes fell, large and wet,
On that early morning in December
Our country home was soon enfolded
In winter's cold, white mantle
The noonday sun parted the somber clouds
With rays smiling and bright
It seemed to be saying...
"That's enough snow...for now"
Mother walked along the silent path
To where the mail was waiting
She paused for a moment and smiled
The untouched landscape, glittering white before her
Awoke the child within her heart
She began to play
Soon the beginnings of a snowman
Rested at her feet
My father watched the scene unfold
Through the bedroom window
His eyes glittered as brightly as the snow
A smile creased his face
And a chuckle escaped his lips
This picture is etched forever
In the corners of my heart
Forever I will see her there playing in the snow
Forever I will see him broadly smiling at her delight
Forever I will see them both so completely full of joy
So full of life
So full of love.
Categories:
creased, father, life, love, mother
Form:
Free verse
She is still a woman~
Even if she is weak and IMPERFECT~
But it doesn’t mean she is BROKEN;
Despite those pillars that have been CRACKED
when tremor came to her silent FACADE
and ruined her sanctuary~
Her sacred paradigm still stood.
She is still a woman~
Who sees what is beyond~
Despite the MASK that entangled her
to a liverish labyrinths of make-believe;
She still believes in you.
She is still a woman~
Who was TORN between time and space~
An all-time warrior, though wounded and FLAWED;
Traversed the quandary beyond untrodden paths
and climbed through endless heights;
And though crippled and creased, she rose like phoenix ~
to see what lies above each passing cloud,
to prove that she is not an ILLUSION
but still a real woman in your eyes.
June 22, 2021
Writing Prompt- Flawed- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
2nd place
Categories:
creased, courage, devotion, integrity, love,
Form:
Free verse