Best Crinkled Poems
I wish to claim
My boyness
My yesterday sillyness
Innocent shyness
My crinkled nose grininess
That hide and seekiness
Spin the bottle
kind of geekiness
Getting caught
My hand in the cookie jarness
That pushing too farness
Collecting comic charminess
Pulling pigtales
Stolen kisses
Hidden playboy kinda business
Cop a feel inquisitiveness
Being a bit
Self conscience
A true life witness
Loving the mysterious
Laughing more than being serious
Feeling delirious
Not afraid
Somewhat curious
Wondering
About adultness
What it was all aboutness
Thinking that it leads to freeness
I'd know just how to be-ness
Eating what I want
Staying up late kinda keeness
Now I wonder
What was the rushness
To reach adultness
Full of it's doubtiness
What's it all aboutness
I witness it's dreamlessness
It's no longer about me-ness
More mundane
To much saneness
Routine and sameness
No one cares if you cameness
Less is less
And more is moreness
Can't see the trees
Through the dark forest
So grab onto your girliness
I'll bring my boyness
There will be more
Way more
Yesirey
Hotdigity
Joyousness
No more boringness
We'll spin in circles
Enjoy our dizziness
After all
Having fun
Is a serious business!
For Nina Parmenter’s Tongue Twister Contest.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing it.
I have a butterfly in my pocket,
that will never fly again.
When I think back to yesterday,
it’s a pretty reminder of my pain.
Butterflies aren’t meant for pockets,
you my dear were not meant for me.
I have my pretty reminder,
that without me you are free.
We kissed in the sunlight,
a butterfly landed on your toes.
It elicited smiles and laughter,
I loved how you crinkled your nose.
Bright skies filled with clouds,
in just a matter of days.
A butterfly stays just a season,
how I miss your delicate ways.
You left me without warning,
I saw our butterfly on the ground.
Like you no words were spoken,
my heart made a breaking sound.
So I put our butterfly in my pocket,
imagined you flying again.
I’m left to ponder my sorrow,
with a pretty reminder of my pain.
When Do We Start To Live
Collaboration poem: Space Cadet and Darren White
Voice: Wesley C.
How do I know we’ve lived?
If you’re certain then tell me when?
When? When have I lived?
Do I live now?
Is it the tap-tap of my hand against the window;
the drum played by my fingers on the chair?
Is it the slowed back-beat, or the snare drum speed,
under your hand at rest,
on my chest,
in this 2 AM discotheque.
How do we know we’ve lived?
Is it a faint notion, or
movement in my legs:
A lotus reed on my calves
I'd never felt until it tickled me?
How do I know I’m still alive?
Is it when the ice-blue swaddles
me in abyss, of
inky darkness?
Or when I’m a borne flutter of this butterfly
crinkled away in my chest
cavity?
Or as sun rays play
with light and words that tumble,
crumble, and fall to pieces,
in their own stubborn way,
here,
on this paper?
Is it found in a friend’s voice
that pulls me from dark,
penetrates a radiance inward,
up from me, out,
to my face,
ablaze with why I'm here to exist?
Welcome to the Bijou
Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.
The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with
down dropped corners.
Layer upon layer of age
ground in dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.
The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.
The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.
There are those who have always been
mesmerized by age
absorbing filmed content
wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
for those who follow this path
there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes.
Rambling around, gardens greet us,
faint scents permeate the air.
Late sunflowers start to hang their heads,
crinkled celosia "cristata" adorn haughty patches,
while blue Agapanthus demand queen reign.
In wooded areas once green, all color mutate:
ash turns to yellow, maple delights in red,
while dogwood almost precious pink.
Nature in Fall gives us her best.
Written: March 28, 2024 For Constance La France Contest
Quote: (The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.) Marcel Proust
__________________________________
Slumber unwinds within crinkled cellophane,
Enigmatic visions come to life and sustain.
Geometrical shapes skin to pyramids, expand,
Cruising fairies sing through shimmering sand.
Hey, Captain! Ferry sails across any hurdle,
A searing streak splits the sky as a starved squirrel.
A prize is won, dock shuts, and crowds cheer,
At night, memories of you come back so near.
Delicate spiderwebs hang as stars in the sky,
Mozart hands waltz ivory piano keys sigh.
Galaxy emits a lambent, milky-white light,
Tapestry Highways sails by my a quilted sight.
A cosmic queen embarks on a cynosure journey,
Slicing over a glistening ocean during night mercy.
Colorful pathways in the sky are formed by sea swirls,
Mermaids glide fluffy waves of glistening pearls.
Behold a sturdy sail, a tough and bold ship, oh heart!
As bleak as the gnomes at dawn, it's time to depart!
On deck, the skipper is fierce and red-dripping,
Meanwhile, my soul lingers in frigid buds snipping.
Captain! Rise and hear chimes; to you, a flag raised,
You gained fights and flights, and doves amazed.
The ship has sailed safely and fulfilled its voyage,
He gulped distance, sea, time, and buoyage.
It was a time of jubilation and feelings of love,
During spell hour, they shone brightly from above.
Dived in the chaotic bliss of love, this waned,
In a misty past, the spirit soared and stained.
Rivers rush down slopes, and peaks loom tall,
Rafters ride via waterfalls as bridges never fall.
Deer graze in fields, and craftsmen, work away,
Sweets and meals sizzle on burner, made to stay.
Chili, pasta, beans, and maize are all we need,
The Alpine guy eats grits, Angus, and meat, indeed.
Riders hold on tight with flying manes and fish dives,
West Virginia alpine star twinkles and jives.
You never said the words yet I heard them
all the time in your eyes as they crinkled
in laughter when you lifted me on your shoulders,
as I ran to you when you came with the dusk,
with the gold in sunset and silver at moonrise.
You never asked me not to cry, yet I saw
the dark chocolate in your eyes turn sour
at the salty waters running down my cheeks.
You went on a plane and I wished to have wings,
to travel free over your desert flyways for a while.
I never dreamed your dream, and had I known,
O, had I known, I never would have said yes.
Then, you never would have had to go away;
I wouldn’t have had to meet you, now inside a box.
My glass too shattered, I damn the river in my eyes.
Devices :Alliteration, Allusion, Assonance, imagery, metaphor, mood
For Cyndi MacMillan's FIVE PROOF: FREE VERSE THAT SHOWS IT AIN'T NO PROSE
21 January 2015
When flowers die,
they die slowly-
edge by edge
the petals curl,
still, silently,
without complaint....
Unlike us,
cut flowers
should be let go before
the first tinge of death
while they are yet
radiant in deepest color.
We humans, however,
must stay alive long,
long past our first bloom--
till we have crinkled and
brutishly browned from
the excesses of time.
Yet we have
what flowers have not:
our love for them
dies with them
while our love
for our beloved blooms
ever more resplendent
with the long years,
lasting past the fading,
lasting past even death itself....
Listening to the Blues on this cerulean night,
my mood dark with visions of ecchymotic dreams
leaving chalybeous bruises in my crazed mind.
I waited for the turquoise twinkle in your smiling azure eyes
to soothe the despondent indigo thoughts I'm feeling.
Like a vitreous vapor I could feel you, but you did not appear.
I guess your cold cyaneous attitude shouldn't surprise me,
it's what I deserve, after leaving your beautiful mind filled
with empty, brooding, questioning, mazarine emotions.
Now I sit here alone watching the aqua liquid of your cocktail
throwing slowly fading teal reflections on a crinkled napkin
as the argon Curacao sign blinks lonely above the empty bar.
Liquid slowly pools in the corner of my cesious eyes.
You used to call them your sapphire visions into my soul,
now they're just old and faded like our cyanotic love affair.
It seems you have finally had enough of my broody blue moods.
I don't blame you, they've cost me more than just you in my life,
as for now I'll just wait in my livid sorrow and listen to the lonely Blues.
02/28/16
the smell of Carmel corn
fills the air – I think of you Dad
your hand in mine, four steps to your one
the carousel music scores happiness
bells of laughter ting-a-ling-ing
Cotton candy, pink as bazooka bubble gum,
melts to sugary paste on teeth and tongue
you are there Dad, hanky in hand
spit bathing my four year old cheeks
moon-faced, eyes crinkled
lifted skyward as the horses stop
I pick the girlie one but sit straddled
you pinch my knees and pull down my skirt
muscle man strong -- your hands strap me in
they rest after on the small of my back as I rise
then I come [the brass pole all gummy
from my hands]
last week we walked the country fair
my hand now as big as yours
aged like two apple dolls, we meander
you buy me cotton candy
spit on your thumb and wipe
it from my cheek
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Don’t Get Me Irish Up
Me glasses were sitting a-top-a me head
the jam I was spreading was next to the bread
my knees were together but me spindly legs spread
I’m either half way in ---or out of the bed
I have to look down when brushing me teeth
and glue them in tight before chewing me meat
and as for the callous that grows wild on my feet
I find sanding them a sensual treat
Me fingers resemble cold, wintering trees
aging icicles hang from my elbows and knees
the slightest of movements puts a scent on the breeze
and to make matters worse I pee when I sneeze
Me back’s slightly bent, me forehead is wrinkled
when reading a menu, me eyes, yes – they’re crinkled
when I fall asleep they say “ the old boy’s Van Winkled”
and me stories they say are all “Blarney sprinkled”
Me slippers are worn, me legs freshly shorn
the skin of me cheeks soft as the day I was born
but when they break out the corned beef and stout
all of me parts start to dancing about
John G. Lawless
© 3/6/2017
Frost carpets the fields
sloping to a crinkled sea.
The air,
cotton crisp
as spring leaps in.
Satin crows
descend from a silver sky.
Squabbling, they graze
on chilled dewdrops.
The sunrise,
a red ribbon glow
warms tall tree trunks
basking in gliding sunlight.
A flame horizon
burns a candy stripe sky
on a tangerine morning.
Where the water washes white surfs across
Sand banks porous with green dreams in our hearts
Where the sun surveys the wet desert of loss
The salt thread like blood stitching together our parts
Find me there wandering the wailing shores
I am a new citizen with ancient desires still
Living on the restless rim of of crinkled azures;
Watching history bleach my memory of will.
Here I pine to see my mother whole as I am
Here I pray for justice from the impaled lamb
This Caribbean sea that pens my rage in me
Water where my ancestors footsteps no imprints leave
Of vast voyages now void on the Atlantic lea
This Caribbean sea in modern voice I cannot grieve
My people sundered like a broken ship
Mastless, anchorless, drifting drumless on weed
My people bleeding from tongue lash and whip
And no Cudjoe, Tacky, or Boukman to intercede
I am a citizen of the rim, a place undefined
In the subtle representations where I'm maligned.
Here in this world of diverse languages and shade
Across the bloodless salt of shrivelled water we trade.
I want this cold Winter to be over-
longing to hear all the little birds sing;
just love beautiful Spring with skies azure,
I wish to be in forests green ambling;
and dipping my toes in a stream babbling,
and picking the wild flowers unfolding.
Over the meadows wild the north winds fly-
making all the small white daisies tremble,
Summer is knocking- Spring I say goodbye;
I do enjoy hot steamy days blissful,
and bright red roses hanging so graceful;
and butterflies in my garden jungle.
All the trees lay down their emerald gowns-
there is a great whirling of gold and red,
all the Fall leaves are now crinkled browns;
migrating birds fly high with their wings spread,
and rain is falling on my garden dead;
and Winter is coming soon- that I dread.
How pretty the first filigree snowflakes,
soon, I will be making Christmas fruitcakes!
____________________________
January 20, 2018
Poetry/Urban Sonnet/Come, Come Sweet Seasons
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1112-561-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.