Best Crumple Poems
nobody sees you the way I do
in your wheelchair
with your unopenable arms
where everything crashes to a gray twisted landscape
my brother
alpha male
of demon strut clashes
in our shared childhood
once you flipped your hockey stick between my thin legs
to see how many stairs I'd tumble down
your yells to me to "toughen up"
cursing a younger brother
"bookworm sissy"
"vanilla boy"
to expletives that ran like tap water
when proximity was a contact sport
at the care home
to your lips
I spoon in pudding
its dull tranquility
vanilla
into a body that feels itself liquid, limbs pliable and porous
I'd like to re-touch our brotherly photos
to change them to accuracy
or crumple them like a wasp nest knocked to the ground
for nobody sees you the way I do
for nobody knows you the way I do
I did not know that one could feel death cold in summer sweat,
as images of you flash lightning fast, the wind remains still and vigils
past the midnight hour, no relief comes from the short rain shower.
But images are not enough when the cold of the night yearns for warmth;
for the bed never used to be this big, the sheets this chilly to one’s touch,
the hours never used to be parched lips waiting to be moistened by your kiss.
If only dealing with feelings was as simple as watching scenes from old movies
where in despair, the heroine can just crumple the letter to throw in the bin,
only to pick it up later and lovingly remove the creases, to be read again.
So as a patient farmer waits for the grains to grow from green stalks
and a mother who calmly expects to see the face of the child in her womb,
I will soothe the sorrow in my breast, till fate deigns for me too, to rest.
12 July 2015
Open Poetry Contest - 6th Place
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
I can see us now Luv,
pettin ponies, musing in warm moon light,
free versin in satin style, a smile born from genuine form,
Two hearts too stubborn for apologies or effigies of maybies,
sunburned by stardom, kingdom of monsters fathomed,
forlorned by the "Cloak and Dagger" of fox hunt horn,
withholdin my love from you feels like a wasted martyrdom,
The riverbanks of apocolypse may swell over my joy
but I will not drown Luv, I will not crumple,
winds of hysterical 'what could be' scratch my face
still I do not frown, I collapse not to the ground,
I am not a runaway from your palace of peeps & pain,
nor am I a tresspasser in your orchard of ecstacy,
I can no longer accept lovin you in the third person,
these masks of merrigold manipulation have become dreadful,
Much of my life has been spent defendin
against manipulators, abusers, haters, and mockers,
I needed to hear you say
that my affection for you was not taken for granted,
Thanks for being my Eve on those evenings of earnest thirst,
my Viper Rose, that it was I you chose, as God knows,
my love is not runnin, its stayin,
not prayin or playin
just gainin from the sayin,
love once levied is forever bevied,
gotta keep certain that my spine is mine Luv -
J.A.B.
On a hill, by a pond, by a tree, in the woods,
underneath a shining sun, tucked away and overlooked.
There stood a line of ants that had come from far and wide,
and with them each, a flower, for the Queen perched at their side.
what a marvel to the eye, to see the colors in a row,
from all creatures, save for one, who held fast close a pebble.
The other ants were curious, and some questioned the motive,
still, he had no taste for Daffodils, Tulips, or Roses.
This pebble he clutched closely was by far the least impressive,
no unique shape did it take, and not two colors caressed it.
It smelled of nothing special and lay heavy in his hands,
and the steps he took were short within the long parade of ants.
But no regrets had he, and no doubt would strike his heart,
for he would proudly shield his prize from rain, and light and dark.
And thus, the day arrived when it had come, at last, his turn,
so there, before the Queen, he laid his offering to her.
The Queen looked down upon the gift, then quietly to him,
she asked what had he brought to her and he returned with this;
"My Queen, it is a symbol, and no ordinary rock,
it is the ground, of which, I worship, upon which you walk.
It represents the love I have for you in its stern face,
though one color it contains, that color will never fade.
It will not dry and crumple up or ever blow away,
it shall stay for generations, and endure and not decay.
-and I know I'm one of many, but I’m grateful just the same,
my dear Mom, my Queen, my highness;
have a Happy Mother’s Day!"
I’m going to possess you as I undress you
Peel away every other dream
Layers of broken promises
That cover your heart
Fall to the floor
There with your shirt
Discarded they lie
Crumpled
I unbuckle your belt
That binds
The failed romance
I pull away from your being
In my firm grip
Suspended in space
For a time
Enough for you to see
My relish as I let it drop
With eyes fixed up at you
I unbutton each inhibition
That keeps your tenderness
concealed
Forcing the covering down to the ground
Helping you kick it away
As I reach for what you hide
There inside
I uncover your strength
Now evident, seen
I take possession of you
Bit by bit
As I take you in
And push out every other thought
Of anyone you ever sought
I....take....possession
Yes!
Keep your eyes WIDE OPEN
Don’t think
Don’t blink
I’m here
Look at me
LOOK AT.....ME!
In my eyes
No lies
No disguise
I mesmerize
Hypnotize
Make you VISUALIZE
ME
My flowing back hair
Your only true covering
All you'll need
I feed
Feel me take control
Body, mind, and yes….I'll take your soul
As I devour you whole
I nibble and taste
Not a bit of haste
Hearing you beg and plead
In need
Now….
yes….now...
F~**R~**E~**E~**D*****
FREED!!!!
And I sigh
Satisfied
I see you crumple
As down you lie
Depleted of self
Depleted of her
Depleted of everything
Everything but me
P O S S E S S E D!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Laugh a lot
Because when you do
The edges of hardened problems
Crumple away to dust... Smile!
Akkina R Downing
in my life-
some have tried to murder my spirit-
to assassinate my soul
with their single-mindfulness
nincompoops mean and nasty
torture brutal massacres relentless
running home for love
mothers arms
and kisses
from childhood to a young woman
I have found my ink
and I send poems wide and far
my soul bleeding
my crime for those with tunnel vision
I am part Ojibway-
in a world ruled by white
always different but not in poetry
except for some-
who come to kill my words
slaughter my poetic soul
murder what I love
nincompoops mean and nasty
sometimes I am befuddled
I stumble
crumble
crumple
puzzle
words are weapons
leaving forever deep scars
my house may be weather-stained
my garden ravaged
but the wheels of time have rolled
now, I have a strength unfathomable
a pride no one can kill
or slaughter
those who have words of misery
stay in your tunnels of hate
with your tunnel-vision
for I am an Ojibway girl proud
with flowing hair like a streaming river
and poetic spiritual soul
and the grandfather spirits in the sky
will ever and forever be my protectors
and I fly with eagles . . .
_______________________
January 28, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/words are weapons
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1324-456-28
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Murder in the Tunnel
sponsor, Kai Michael Newmann, Judged 02/12/2021
Fourth Place
I wake from dreams and sweating, stare;
and as the clock is striking three, the ghostly form appears to me.
'Oh no,' I say, 'it cannot be - just nerves affecting what I see.'
The figure floats around my bed.
It makes a fearful moaning sound,
its eyes are holes as black as night, its face a glowing shade of white,
and adding to that ghastly sight, it seems to move from left to right,
but leaves no shadow on the ground.
I close my eyes and pray for peace,
but sense it coming ever near - no words describe my utter fear!
I wonder was it too much beer? But no, this thing is really here,
and will this nightmare ever cease?
It speaks my name in eerie tones.
'I'm sorry that you had to die - I fired the gun...I don't know why,'
I murmur, causing it to cry, 'They fried you in The Chair.' I sigh,
and then I crumple, dusty bones...
written 1st November for Joseph's Rhymes Sublime contest
Someone once told me that
If I can feel the words on the page
In my heart, then I am
A true writer.
But if I am so great a writer,
What is the cause
For the writer's block
I sometimes get?
Or the poems that I write
That are extremely long,
But don't amount to anything?
Why do I sit down sometimes
To write, scribble out random words,
And crumple my paper up in frustration?
What makes my pencil
Refuse to spit out bright ideas
And brilliant words?
And why--how-- do poems bring me
Such pleasure,
When all they are
Are words on a page?
And if they are just words on a page,
Why are they so greatly appreciated?
Answer me that, and you will be
A true genius.
“Floating on prayer hymn the journey isn’t construed amiss,
it takes life through the stillness of soul to the bay of bliss.” – Quote by Poet
The unique landscape of life mesmerizing,
shrouded by the serene seclusion screen,
spreads the sensation of surreal stillness,
swathes me as I wander on my lonely journey.
The rippling breeze of spring beguiling,
captivates me with its charming cadence.
My essence roaming in the tranquility terrain,
gets suffused with the aura of rhapsody.
I walk on the fawn forest path meandering
through the shadow of the ancient trees,
shedding the wilted golden foliage of the fall
at the end of their verdant time.
My footsteps crumple the pile of leaves rustling,
making the morose music of aloneness
for my timeless journey within,
I am yet to finish.
At the sunset time trickling away unrelenting,
I saunter at the periphery of my livid landscape
toward the hazy horizon of obscurity,
to reach the eternal sanctum of serenity.
Flushed by the final flash of twilight tinge enthralling,
I am walking the last mile
on the remnant time-track to be traveled,
for the desolate journey in the domain of destiny.
________________
March 5, 2023
Word Chosen : Journey
Contest : Writing Challenge - "J" Words
Sponsored by : Constance La France
I was like a piece of paper
I was smooth and crumple free
And then a man did pick me out
And scribbled over me.
And then when he had done his work
He took me in his hand
He crushed that piece of paper, me
I didn’t stand a chance
Then came a day that he did think
He wasn’t maybe done
He took that paper out the bin
And smoothed it out again.
He didn’t see the scribble there
And again he took his pen
He scribbled more and made a mess
And crumbled me again.
Some time did past and then one day
Another time was found
The man who picked it out this time
Was angry and astray
He took that piece of paper, me
And again it was smoothed out
He saw that there was scribble there
But didn’t take a count
I had some wine that split on me
I had some crackers too
I wasn’t what he want me be
And nearly tore in two
He wrote some angry words on me
And vented for release
And then I found me once again
Just thrown on a heap
Now I sit here mighty soiled
With lots of marks on me
And I don’t care just anymore
For those who don’t want me.
i was created, much like a poem
not through love, rather penned
on a blank sheet of thoughtless words
that were spit out in darkness, devoid of feelings
wallowing in emotions that left me numb to touch
as i watched them ink me from the pools of crimson tears
that riddled every line of torturous scars atop child's flesh
then crumple me in little balls, and discard me as worthless
i wasn't their masterpiece, they never signed their name
i was the least favorite poem they ever wrote
September 27, 2019
Story of my life poetry contest
Sponsored by Silent One
My muse is like a carnival,
a celebration of kaleidoscope colors,
a dazzling display of light and sound.
Circling slowly until I feel dizzy.
Will I crumple and fall?
A house of mirrors
with peculiar shapes and sizes
evoking flustered feelings
and contorting my cognitive map.
Which avenue shall I follow?
A tunnel of love where my mind
lingers on the ways emotion
plays with my heart, at first
soothing, then exasperating.
Liberating or beleaguering?
A house of horrors where
I live out my darkest thoughts
and flex my remarkable resilience
to the beckoning of the dark side.
Can I be truly free?
The roller coaster is exhilarating
and sets my mind free again
the ups and downs of life and living
and the fear of death
Is that so wrong?
Titillating tilt-a-whirl,
multitudinous perspectives
twirling one side then another
seeing with curious fly eyes.
Am I, or my muse, to blame?
A crumpled thought
Unfolded
Asking questions
I felt their sting
“I came to you”
“you tossed me out”
“why will you not listen”
I watched it struggle
To un-crumple itself
Smooth its rejection
Stiffen its resolve.
My cold coffee
Took its side
Whispered from the cup
“you do that a lot”
“dismiss thought’s thoughts”
An oily film clung to my throat
As I sat
Pondering
A crumpled thought
Winter beach
09/08/2018
Cool breeze, Leafless trees, Arctic freeze
White cap waves, crumple and cave
Solemn solitary Seagull, pestering peckish people
Sandy seaweed soaked, covers beach cloaked
Frozen fisherman, fearlessly on rock stand
Baby carriages creaking, silent sleep waking
Boxer dog proud, breaks silence loud
Terrifying tike terrorises on her bike
Vast vista view, living large a few
Clear sky cloud free, wind swept jet stream
Smelling salts from sea, rejuvenation for me