Best Crinkles Poems
Meeting my homegirls Wilma Neels
and Kim Van Breda with shrieks and squeals
hasty introductions and we're on our way
for a night of reading at Poetry Café
We've Yasmin to thank for arranging the meet
with fellow Soupers, a veritable treat
Yasmin the sneak had their names withheld
we're apprehensive yet still by curiosity propelled
My fingers are crossed to meet Eileen
fave poetess mine, the Passionate Queen
dare I wish to meet hamsome Ryerson
not to mention Anne-Lise Andresen?
On first glance the café seems somewhat rowdy
from one of the corners a chorus of "Howdy!!!"
heaven help!! I'm rooted to the spot
all my fave poets from the Souper pot
The Queen of Passion, my special friend
Eileen Ghali, an angel heaven-sent
with open arms and that beguiling smile
that's touched us all over thousands of miles
I spot our Father Christmas, Jackie Ellison
Oh my, mercy me, the hamsome Tim Ryerson
then the beautiful being, Anne-Lise Andresen
and our pretty young doll, Anne Poetess Currin
Andrea, crack writer and popcorn freak
and Nette Onclaud, Madame Linguistics
the talented and sweet Leonora Galinta
oh, for a long time I've longed to meet her
There's the much-loved Reach-Out Lamoureux
a stylish gentleman, delighted to meet you
our very own Linda who happiness spreads
memorable the day as Brown Licia meets Red
He who writes poetry with a golden pen
bestest, fantasticest, hamsomest friend
Rich-Heart Seal-ed Door, my bruv from abroad
by his smile I'm bowled over; by his charm I am awed
I'm jumping with joy at my fave poets meet
befuddled, bewildered; who first to greet?
midst the mountain of talent I'm on a positive high
overwhelmed, I simply break down and cry
This one needs a whole lot of polishing and smoothing
out, but I was too excited to submit it. I'll iron out the
crinkles soon. LOVE TO YOU ALL, LICIA
NATURE’S DECAY AND REBIRTH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Flowers fade and decay through wintry hours-waiting for rebirth." Constance La France
in October's harsh, brittle light
the once emerald leaf crinkles,
curls, and crumbles like burnt paper edges
descending to cold soil.
the creek forgets its silver song,
its throat choked thick with mud and reeds.
heron stands watching minnows turn to ghosts.
fungi blooms on damp logs.
then frost arrives with teeth of glass.
snow muffles doe's fallen carcass—
her ribcage a cathedral for ice and wind.
silence stays ‘til the thaw.
deep beneath steely, stubborn ground,
a seed split open by the cold
unfurls and drinks the melt of winter's tears
pushing through death's veneer.
soon, sap ascends the maple's spine.
new ferns explode in fractal line.
wet-nosed, wobbly fawn stumbles, blinking wide.
life wakes from the decay.
Your beauty extends
Into the heaven
Whispering secrets of
Happiness and affection.
You look up at me and smile
With crinkles in the
Corners of your eyes.
The smooth beauty of bare skin,
Soft stroke of hair like feathers.
I'm lost in the smell of
Your hair & skin,
Your eyes pierce my soul.
Gaze upon me
With those eyes again,
I'm longing to be lost
In your embraces.
You are exquisite fire,
A smooth burn of wild beauty.
Your curly, long, light-burgundy hair frames
An exquisite blend of exotic beauty.
Your touch sends me over the edge,
A longing which no verses can describe.
Last fire before summer
Come snuggle in close
Lay your head on my lap
While I play with your hair
Tell me of how your day went
Your hopes and your dreams
While we ponder on forever
And what life really means
All my attention you have
While the sagas you tell
Crinkles around your eyes
I know oh so well
Tracing your lips with my fingers
Your face with my hand
I laugh with your stories
And formulate a plan
Keep talking my darling
Your voice like a warm pot of molasses
Soothingly flows through every part of me
Sliding my hand in your shirt
Resting my palm on your heart
Feeling the beat and rhythm of your life
My hand slides down your arm
And the strength I find there
Still makes me take notice
Then my eyes meet your stare
We pile the fire with wood
Throw pillows on the floor
Your whispers so tender
Your lips to my ear
Then spoon me close and hold me near
Soft smiles and sweet kisses
And forever reminisces
delicate lace linked by crochet
labyrinthine stitches a doily a day
counted by repetitious candlelight
motherly hands of preponderant foresight
twisting and surrender of silent threads
tucking each one into intricate spreads
lovingly lace reflects persistence of face
a warm cosseted Victorian embrace
from hands that stumbled with wrinkles
forlorn and gnarled knots, catastrophic crinkles
yet the warm, soft hand that comforts her ill
a kin that kindles the fire and spins with skill
she’s mastered the lessons rendered at the knee
of longsuffering love and mother’s humble marquee
The parched sycamore leaf
Walked across the patio
Past the portal of my dwelling
The alder slab was immobilized
By a decorative door stopper
Arranged to let the warm
November day work its way in
I snapped out of the life I was leading
Amongst the absorbing pages
Of a well written book
With my space saved and novel snapped shut
I arose to meet the weary traveler
At the threshold of my hut
There before me was an empty meadow
It's vastness leading to my oppressor's home
I live here
I am my own oppressor
I burden myself with
Great weights of unjustified restraints
I use unused corners
To keep my quiet complaints
I am well aware of my inabilities
To cut myself some slack
I speak poorly of myself
Behind my own back
Never the less I yell
Demanding a presence to be shown
After several minutes filled with
Absolutely nothing at all
A second weary traveler crinkles
As it somersaults by my feet
Tricked by a tumbling leaf
There is no one out here for me to meet
The melted basil plants
Have returned to the ground
From which they have came
Once formidable weeds
Are now all laying lame
Once fruitful tomato vines
Are now blackened with
Nobody but the frost to blame
The land is ripe for winter to claim
There is no one out here
Nobody but my oppressor
Who demands I retreat inside
I revisit the position
I held in my large armed chair
Easily returning to where I left off
With no acknowledgment
To the bookmarks job well done
No appreciation to it's
Silent steadfast work
Trapped through the ages
A life pressed between the pages
It is here I will remain
Free from the steady glare
Of my all consuming oppressor
Free from time restraints
Free from reality
Free from idiosyncrasies
Free from the world
In which my position is unclear
It is here I will remain
Till my eyes fall heavy
The last page is turned
Or I'm disturbed by my next imaginary guest
3/5/18
Drizzle and frizzled hair crinkles,
such sounds demand a symphony;
Clammy cold showered with sprinkles
there’s a vibe that says ‘Be easy.’
Stock up the wood burning fire place,
it’s raining I’ll send you a song;
Smoke creates a treble clef trace,
that rhythm will help you along.
There's this guy, he's tall, wears glasses, brunette, thin,
He's so sweet, always nice and respectful.
The way he crinkles his nose and looks down with a smile,
She could just watch him for a little while.
He blushes ever so slightly when he speaks to her,
As if he's nervous or maybe a little giddy.
She tries to keep her cool, act like she's not phased,
But inside her heart is racing, she's dazed.
His laughter is a symphony, a song in her ears,
Washing away all of her worries and fears.
She loves the way his glasses slide down his nose,
And the way his polite, respectful demeanor shows.
And when he talks, she feels like the only person in the room,
The rest of the world fades into a hazy blur.
She gets lost in his eyes, a beautiful sight,
And the way his gentle, innocent smile shines so bright.
When he finishes, she feels a little weak,
Just savoring the gentle, respectful way he speaks.
Hooming in the near lorizon,
another girthday makes me bloomy
The yays, the dears are massing paster!
I am diserablly mepressed, and in a date of great sistress!
Age, you may agree, is rot for nissies!
More crinkles fill my worehead, more frowsfeet crame my face!
My shin is cagging, my doobs are bropping, my wackside biggles to and fro
One turn in front of glirror mass, and blaring gack is not the ass
that I had yorn just westerday!
My cimples are just dellulite, and jormones humping out of whack
My face gets sedder, I rurrender
Hig a dole and put me under!
My grair is hayer, my wips are hider, and travity has taken goll!
I'm binking, too, shrit by shrit!! Creaking, leaking, a shinking sip!
My femory is going mast! I search for lames and they've been nost !
I lander off, and then I'm wost….will you check the fost and lound?
Getting old has dot me gown!
I cannot wee sithout my glasses, I need a mozen dedications
My dibido has all but lisappeared, I fear the nend is getting ear !
Some may fall me rather coolish, but I would truly like to know
is the yountain, fouth for real? Deed me to it, I will link some
'Cause crowing golder isn't fun !!!
_____________________________________________________________
3/2/16 For Spoonerism Contest
Sponsored by Roy Jergen
I have walked for a mile
in her footsteps.
She
offers a cooling balm
for the heat of my frustrations.
Leaning against that solidness gives pause,
to stop and drink in
the shade of her wisdom.
And I
marvel at the juxtaposition
of her willowy to my thick;
her smooth to my rough;
my prickly attitude to her leafy logic.
How she
lends a new perspective on
an idea ripening, dropping and withering;
a heart left in a mulch pile or
a dangerous flicker of doubt to be snuffed out.
Mirth crinkles in the corners of her eyes
as she too
carries faded battle gashes
where love has loped off
a once extended branch.
Her grove collectively offers comfort
for fruit born of loins,
falling and nestling
within rolling distance.
No more soothing a sound can be heard,
than rootsy laughter of womenfolk
of trees of magashi.
Copyright © Sandra Sealy, 1999
*First published as Guest Poet @ Poet Whispers
http://poetwhispers.wordpress.com
She doesn't like her jowls and wattle;
her wrinkles, crinkles and her mottle.
She rubs in a lotion
then applies a potion;
if a little won't, maybe a lot'll.
Was tired of my wrinkles
and crinkles around my eyes,
the ones around my mouth
and my forehead on my face,
and couldn't afford the real thing
so thought I'd use
some clear duct tape,
applying it around my
mouth, forehead and eyes,
that way my skin will
look newer and smoother than
a baby's behind,
and then thought
oh what the heck
I'll use it on my boobs
at the same time,
stretching the tape out
and wrapping it for
a lift all around my chest,
that way it'll look like
that area gravity had missed,
and then I thought
might as well apply
some to my rear end,
applying the tape
so my butt looked tight again,
and then being on a roll
I took some more tape
to my thighs and calves,
to make them look more sleek and toned,
like a models in Cosmopolitan,
but then I noticed trying to answer
the door after the bell rang,
that I'd become sort of like the tin man,
because I couldn't walk and talk
and desperately needed an oil can!
The little things about you
make up the man I love.
I love the smallest things about you
that make you who you are.
The way your nose crinkles a little bit
every time you smile.
The way you seem confused
when you first wake up.
The way your breath catches
every time you say "I love you."
The way you break out into a grin
every time our eyes meet.
The little gold specks
in your beautiful eyes.
The little freckles
all over your back.
The goofy, playful laugh of yours
even when I'm not that funny.
The way you get so protective
when you think that something's wrong.
The way you get frustrated
when other guys flirt with me.
But of all the things I love about you,
the thing I love the most is
how you always know just what to say
to make my day a little brighter.
I wear my wrinkles proudly.
In fact, they aren’t so bad.
They show I’m used to laughing
and I’m hardly ever sad!
These crinkles in the corners
of my sparkling eyes of green
reveal an inner child
who’s as sprightly as a teen.
And though I’ve tried to zap them
with peels and botox too,
these lines have strong immunity
to staying out of view!
They’re little rascals, just like me,
so clever and headstrong,
that they resurface within months.
They can’t be kept down long!
And why should I erase them?
I still don’t look my age!
I guess I rather need these lines
To look a wee bit sage!
I can’t look TOO much younger
than how I am perceived,
or saying I’m a grandma,
I might not be believed!
Imagine me parading
With a face as wrinkle-free
As that of Cher or any
Other rich celebrity!
Well, since I have no money,
to all I must declare:
Embrace the lines that you might have,
for mine I'll proudly wear!
For the Contest of David Lindsay
Crinkles in our sheets
Are like road maps to the love
We'll make beneath them