Best Creviced Poems
Cumulonimbus lurking
peering over white-topped peaks
like childhood's hunchbacked monsters
waiting there to pounce
Shadows lick the creviced slopes
as white and green become gray
lights flash behind the drawn shades
of ominous clouds
Darkness pours into valleys
where rows of birches waver
as if nervously laughing
on the river shore
Relentlessly advancing
the storm growls and cracks and snaps
and the landscape disappears
behind wind and rain
God's angry swords slash the dark
each plunge deep with loud report
and all bow at its advance
some shatter and fall
Gone now like it never came
still grumbling as it departs
to disturb more peaceful scenes
beyond the valley
Halfway up the mountainside
the sun plays at the tree line
below a more peaceful gray
ushers in the night
March 31, 2019 / 2019 Poetry Marathon Final / Sponsor: Mark Toney
Published in a seasonal anthology Kind of a Hurricane Press
High on remote cliffs,
wildflowers huddle
between
wind scalped boulders,
heads kept down,
their roots weaved
into crevices
where a little soil has been
won from rain wash
and wear. They grow
surrounded by a constant
howl, just above
the clawing fingers
and thrown up fury
of waves.
Deep
in their creviced home,
they snatch only
a brief, upward glimpse
of a passing sun,
life confined more
to a damp sliver of shade
sandwiched between stone.
No broad vistas
but a claustrophobic crush,
a cramped space
from where they gasp
for freedom.
For centuries
they have lived like this.
Generations have come
and gone, the living
nourished by the flesh
of the dead.
Countless human wars
have been fought, lost
and won. Year after year
they bloom, yearning
to be noticed, fed
on the merest ration
of light shed
by a merciless sun.
Thank you, they cry,
Thank you.
Moonlight blushed as passion heightened
Hormones raged in aged bodies
Tongues spoke the language of moans
Fingers roamed across wrinkled plateaus
and into deep creviced valleys
Flesh was heated, engorged with anticipation...
We did not go gently into that good night
Morning found us entwined, weary and sated.
The Art of Snow
I sit and gaze upon the wintry slope
Inside my aged abode so drab and plain.
Engulfed by white, the blizzard moves along
To lather brilliant bright the creviced roads -
A sparkling path to Heaven on display.
Angelic statues once were naked trees,
But now are blurred as in a Renoir style.
A muted palette paints the lovely scene,
Contrasted by the blue clouds up above.
The snow maintains the beauty coating all,
Into a wonderland of white and blue
Until the cold departs and warmth returns.
Snow - Poetry Contest November 16, 2015
Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
The Greeter at a Museum
I am prepared to perform my mindless task
when they open the doors at ten am
and when the visitors enter I recall
my preamble and it goes like this
Good morning, folks where are you from
sorry no cokes or food beyond this point
well hello grandmother, I love your dress
don’t you look hot I mean that in a flattering way
unless your not hot that is
Wow, I remember Kent, MA
I used to live at Loggins Way
did you know Marth and Faye, oh Marth is dead
and Faye ran away with a younger man,
a poet you say it doesn’t surprise me
she always had a yen for younger men
enjoy the art and if you need anything my name is Barte
with an e at the end it was my mothers maiden name you see
oh your name is Wolfe with an e at the end
nice meeting you until then
Hi there, what a handsome child you have
he favors you I'd like to add
his creviced chin and ruddy cheeks
add character to this winsome lad
Hi folks, you need a lift ,oh your’e from England
its an elevator here in the USA
let me direct you to that spot cheerio and all that rot
Hi can I help you can I help you sir no I can’t
youv’e been here before well oh well
I bet you don’t know where the President fell
you were right behind him when he took that spill
but you didn’t see me on that day
I was right behind the exhibit display
to keep an eye on creeps like you
who don’t know the importance of my job
so leave me now artistic snob
oh I love to greet and I love to meet
knowing where the his and her bathrooms are
I can even tell you where to park your car
I think I found my niche in life
as to the who what where and why but
if perchance you know this place when you see me walk on by
*Dedicated to all the art interns at museums
I keep meetin 'em
don't really understand
why..
eyes always lookin ahead
calm..
slow to rile
yet quick to
lend a hand.
Kiss their mother on the cheek
sayin a last goodbye..
going off to chase their fortune
never knowin' why.
Boys most, not yet men,
practiced at the two step.
farmers some..
worked out on the plain
died in foreign holes
to lilting strains of
Lili Marleen.
So special a rare thing,
wearin a toothy smile..
singin' praises of home
we'll all be home
in just awhile.
Necks turned dark,
cracked and creviced
under so many suns
they were good sons
the ones I knew.
Such a steadfast course,
their bright future laid in,
hoping just the same
the pews they prayed in.
Full o' song with hearts unfurled,
now to waylaid dreams,
fine leaders of another world,
all better men than me.
Make it not secret
I am your loyalist friend or your deadliest enemy.
Sky writers write my name among the clouds.
I am everything.
Nothing you have ever seen
Nothing you HAVE IMAGINED.
And yet I see all thoughts.
I am the remedy for your wretched sickness.
UNDERSTAND I am the king Of mountains.
I am the lump in your throat.
I am your grace
Be careful
I am the faithe you must face.
I am the fate of all EXISTENCES.
MY heart is pure
Kiss the CROSS.
WAKE THE DEAD
Tears UNSHED
I am EVERYTHING
I am here
I am the sorrowful feeling crowding your chest
The Sun the moon
I am the grief of these dressed In black.
The vagrant of the Ville
I am the creviced creeks.
The river the ocean flowing DEEP.
I AM THE one in the crowd
You MAY NOW BOW DOWN
DO not FEAR.
I HAVE made this DAY.
I AM THE NEW BORN who knows.
I am the righteous
One who have been RUMORED TO COME
I am many
I am ONE
I AM HERE
the mighty MIGHTY KING of everything
Let it be PROCLAIMED!!
You SHALL take no further steps
Until you have SPOKEN MY NAME
What will you say of me?
TELL THEM
From here on ALL STEPS SHALL BE FAITHFUL.
OPEN THE BOOK
turn the PAGE
TELL THEM I am the ONE WHO was proclaimed
Tell them NOW.
I AM HERE.
The Perfect Site
Emplaced in the shade of giant fruit trees:
Avocado, guava, orange and mango
Nature, harnessed for fresh cool breeze
From leaves and the wind in an endless tango
The canopy of leaves, thus formed above
By tree-to-tree branch intertwine;
A haven, e'en for the heart broken dove-
Clock-round shade, e'en in noon sunshine
Donning a rusty corrugated zinc hat
To the earth, inclined at forty five degrees
Our childhood holiday habitat
Her eaves, now hives for honey bees
Cloaked in red, sun-dried mud
Now beaten blue-black by the sun and rain
The heavily creviced walls, housing many a bud
This shadow of her former glory - my pain
The courtyard where to our greatest delight
Grandma told morally instructing moonlight tales
Barring the rotten chairs in direct sunlight
Had lost not much in other details
Twenty six years after her peaceful passing
Seeking seasonal escape to the country side
Grandma's house is once more a blessing
'Twill site the country home of my pride
7/3/2018
A waxing crescent moon shed a sliver of mystified light on the silhouette of the lonely shadow of a woman.
She sat cross legged on a chunk of hard Earth overlooking a circular abyss of stones.
Different shapes and forms of stones interlocking like puzzle pieces in the Universe’s jigsaw.
Mature naturally arched trees leaning forward as a hunched back Mother Nature would.
Her long locks of leaves high enough never to touch the ground but bowing low enough to dangle freely with the breeze, tickling the woman’s’ brow in a gentle sway.
A barrier of green, a curtain around her sanctuary secluding her from the outside world of black souls and Godless structure.
Misty clouds of dusk play hide n’ seek with the moonlight, showering her vision with schizophrenic darkness and illumination.
She lifts her heavy eyelids, revealing glacial blue irises speckled with amber.
Cool under the shade of her fanning tinted black lashes.
A stray cat investigates a pile of abandoned possessions litter and decomposed plants beside the woman.
Its slender figure perched on top of the pile, gazing at the sky with fluorescent lime eyes signaling sorrow to scattered stars.
The woman’s chi topples over, unbalanced, her meditative state lost.
She is transfixed with the black cat’s hypnotic purrs, its indecipherable plea to a listener above beyond all perception and visibility.
The woman’s throat fell victim to a viselike grip.
A thief in the night robbing precious oxygen…her bulged open pupils losing energy.
Slowly, her strength subsides…her eyelids close like bedroom blinds between a Peeping Tom.
Her body drops against the multi creviced rock.
Alas, she is weightless.
The skull encasing her cranium cracks against countless stones as she is tossed into the shallow hole of the unknown.
Moonstruck
Many moons and seasons ago my five children
inquired where I was heading to on my journey
I replied ‘to the moon’ and to how to get there
‘with a ladder’ to astonished faithful suspense
Turned downsize up and ascending again and
once more over and above I should get there
so I took them along flights of innocent fancy and
smiled when they suggested a ladder from heaven
Then darkness descended in lunar concealment
little did I know do I know now for certain how
the fairy tell princess came to savour the pathway
Time place and place-time ventured departed
into vortexes of void switched on in the clouds
Somehow and only the Universe holds answers
my soulmate and lover emerged into the rays
‘I would fetch you the moon on a spoon if I could’
and she ladled lunar surprise to my orb of the night
Soul minds physical spirits union beginnings sprung
into the fore pushing and pulling mounting the stage
Spoons fetched celebrations of life passion wilderness
oceans overflowed wetlands of love and a lighthouse’s
coloured glass windows went embracing the rungs
Since those moons struck together just the sky was the
limit still plenty of riptides spring floods torrents abound
and whirlpools droughts desertification flickering lights
breathing shadows unfolding distant horizons untold but
The pushing and pulling oases spinning spoons
mooning spoons spooned mooned up together
lick orbital salts crack creviced valleys of life while
the moon struck home onto love and compassion
Many moons and seasons ago my children knew
of my journey much better than I and raised in
their question the meaning of life at the crossroad
and it does not matter how they knew that ladders can fly
17th July 2016
Written many moons again by the Universe and still writing all over, above and beyond...
Lust
The insatiable fires of sight
Singeing your flesh
Savoring your aching cries
She’ll whisper ecstasy
Succulent and nigh
Love
Pooling in creviced night
Suckled and smeared
Pulsating with every drop
She’s tasted your conviction
Serrated and wrought
Fate
Dried pungent hues
Immutable and imbued
Morning withered with dread
Silence speaks
Your marriage is dead
The Greeter at a Museum
I am prepared to perform my mindless task
when they open the doors at ten am
and when the visitors enter I recall
my preamble and it goes like this
Good morning, folks where are you from
sorry no cokes or food beyond this point
well hello grandmother, I love your dress
don’t you look hot I mean that in a flattering way
unless your not hot that is
Wow, I remember Kent, MA
I used to live at Loggins Way
did you know Marth and Faye, oh Marth is dead
and Faye ran away with a younger man,
a poet you say it doesn’t surprise me
she always had a yen for younger men
enjoy the art and if you need anything my name is Barte
with an e at the end it was my mothers maiden name you see
oh your name is Wolfe with an e at the end
nice meeting you until then
Hi there, what a handsome child you have
he favors you Id like to add
his creviced chin and ruddy cheeks
add character to this winsome lad
Hi folks, you need a lift ,oh your’e from England
its an elevator here in the USA
let me direct you to that spot bye the bye and all that rot
Hi can I help you can I help you sir no I can’t
you’ve been here before well oh well
I bet you don’t know where the President fell
you were right behind him when he took that spill
but you didn’t see me on that day
I was right behind the exhibit display
to keep an eye on creeps like you
who don’t know the importance of my job
so leave me now artistic snob
oh I love to greet and I love to meet
knowing where the his and her bathrooms are
I can even tell you where to park your car
I think I found my niche in life
as to the who what where and why but
if perchance you know this place when you see me walk on by
*Dedicated to all the art interns at museums
Premier Membership Expiration Contest
Sponsored by IrOnic ZiNk June 16, 2017
Natural beauty apparent
Weathered with time
A story book cover
Tales to tell with each creviced line
On the 1st Day of Christmas I trekked in the Sikkim high mountains
along the tortuous but exhilarating track
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 2nd Day of Christmas I reached an idyllic hospitable hamlet,
cradled picturesquely in the deeply cut green emerald valley
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 3rd Day of Christmas I ambled through the pine and spruce thicket,
that reminded me of the Christmas time I spent at home.
They gracefully stood tall and erect on the sloping ground
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 4th Day of Christmas I got up early in the morning,
saw the scarlet sun splash gold on the Kanchenjungha peak
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 5th Day of Christmas I saw the turquoise night descend
on the snow-clad peaks with silver sequins to shine,
and my joy reached the great heights
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 6th Day of Christmas I reached a creviced indigo glacier.
The cascade of ice crept imperceptively in the U-shaped valley
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 7th Day of Christmas I stood on the shore of a transparent blue lake,
reflecting the shade of the spotless azure sky
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 8th Day of Christmas I walked up the hill up to
the towering Shivling, the static symbol of God.
Saw enthralled its magnificent divine image on the calm lake
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 9th Day of Christmas I saw a flock of yak slowly climb the steep slope.
They dislodged the loose boulders that made
rolling rocky music that echoed in the valley
of the heavenly Himalaya,
On the 10th Day of Christmas I saw a red-breasted rapturous robin
fly out of the ticket, the wings fluttered
in the flow of the fresh mountain breeze
of the heavenly Himalaya,
On the 11th day of Christmas I crossed a slim stream surging on sculpted rock.
The splashing water made leaping pearls in the dulcet domain
of the heavenly Himalaya.
On the 12th Day of Christmas I sat still by the lonesome lake,
got immersed deep in the sublime state of meditation,
felt the divine touch in the silence
of the heavenly Himalaya.
Where Echoes Hide
An echo hides on the other side, of a valley wide and deep,
In the creviced walls of caves, where bats choose to sleep.
An echo hides in water, between the ripples of a skipped rock,
Wave images in motion, vibrating silently from the shock.
An echo hides in canyons, between plateaus and mountain peaks,
Where rocks form cliffs, that serve as steps, to guide the Tourist feet.
An echo always hides alone, until summoned by man or beast,
Then suddenly a sound cries out, followed by a verbal repeat.
“Hello”, “hello”, “hello,”
“Who’s there?” “Who’s there?” “Who’s there?”
Written By: Sarita A. Milliner © 1/8/16