Best Curlicue Poems
I watched you this morning.
When the cool of the air settled on the morning buds
leaving only the hint of moist stolen kisses
as golden rays slowly caressed the dew from the petals,
I watched you.
Your Cobalt beauty beseeching my gaze
transcending mere mortal allure,
playful and mischievous
the Goblin dancing in your eyes,
as your burning gaze pierced the darkness within me,
I watched you this morning.
Then turning away, as if I weren’t there,
you teased me with your tantalizing flirtatiousness,
pretending that we shared but a passing moment,
a furtive glance, an instance’s breath of longing,
your laughter sighing through the soft petals of your ardent lips.
I watched,
your slow feline body, lithe and graceful,
belying the fragility of your nature.
Your deliberate movements agilely swaying,
then you glanced back at me
with impassioned pout,
as your love lies bleeding in your mournful sorrow.
Through billowing trusses of Amaranth blooms
in the breath of breeze
that gently whispers through the curlicue locks
of your glistening auburn hair,
you comb your long slender fingers,
passing slowly down your neck,
straightening each beautiful tangle.
I watched you
and my desire to hold you overwhelmed me
but you ignored me,
making me want you, yet, more deeply.
I watched you
speaking to everyone but me.
How I wished to be each one of them
and bring this sad loneliness to an end.
I watched you
until at last with a single final look, intentional and lingering,
you brushed slowly past me, smiling sweetly,
as you gazed beneath silken lashes,
like those of Aphrodite, long and mesmerizing,
deep into my longing eyes
through the bottomless pellucid pool of cerulean
from which you enchanted me.
“Smile,” you whispered,
and my lips turned for the shortest of instance,
my grin mirroring the beauty of you.
Tenderly you touched my arm
then walked away,
and I watched.
11/20/2017
Southerly breeze at my back
Curlicue clouds in the sky
Folks sport sunny smiles
A privilege to be alive
It's Spring after Christmas
A treat for body and soul
Santa's stayed on in Chicago
Why rush back to the North Pole?
OUTSIDE THE BOUNDS OF SISTER CECILIA
the best firecracker
otherworldly seven hues
hiss, cackle, kaboom
Yes, dear ones, I want to own a pen that produces perfect penmanship, the curlicue calligraphy that Sister Cecilia would have hated. Each color, as my mood dictates would jettison from my mind to paper as a musical note, with hieroglyphic fervor. In unity and uniqueness as my lyrical words ignite each heart…each pen imparts the idea that never ends, heart to heart, light and dark, dear poet.
breathless, eternal
wax that never defuses
its bittersweet light
I can hardly stop to cross the t’s and dot the i’s. You, dear loves, like stars grab on - you little prince(s)! You travel light with faeries and dragons light as silk and mighty as giants. We muse together through the galaxy and time. In Athens, we sit down a moment to hear Saint Paul say, “For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’”
baptism of seeds
in the only plot we know —
glorious setting
inner poet can’t contain
as we head out of the grave
Sincerely, as we begin our journey, it never ends — it goes on and on with friends. Sparks fly - serious, silly, frolicking, frenetic and holy.
let not ruler scowl -
repeat curlicues fifty
times to accomplish your dreams
11/30/2021
Haibun- With A Message
Sponsor: Charles Messina
It's an ice cream day, they say
sherbet and orange cream
sky, a slow motion dream
Sprinkles brighten curlicue clouds
Lemonade sun bursts through
breathe deep ~ nectar's rendezvous
Sgt. Bedlam of heavy artillery reporting sir
Bedlam I want you to pick the runt of the litter
and turn him into an agent assassin
with the clandestine power of hypnotism
yes Generalissimo I am here to obey
decked out like a burlesque revue warlord
his Mauser cigar lighter on his belt
a curlicue mustache and a pie tin helmet
Opal his opium fiend gun moll squirming in his lap
was our Generalissimo
Bedlam weighed the coming abrasions
concluded we are our scars and furthermore
if adaptation is survival so is parasitism
cleared his throat noisily and bowed an exit
later that fate laden candle lit night
he made a deep study of his globes and charts
Europa Asia Oceana the Steppes the Savannah
the Scorched Hills of Malibu
a map addict re-educated in the cleanup of '89
his bell-shaped curve insisted love me
server and served a beautiful thing
if one enjoyed giant jungle arachnids and leeches
and centipedes that crawl up your butt
to lay millions of eggs when you sleep
where the laws of physics become
a tumbling burbling retinal stew
geysering steam and sulfur and mud and
where was I oh yah
yet a thing of beauty was Opal to Bedlam
he heard scratching and purring at the door
it was she incognito in an iguana skin
we must escape this hideous circus of shame
she coo coo rooed as her tongue dove into
the holy fissure in his brain
and he threw caution to the feral hogs
forgetting good posture he oozed upon Opal
I bet you think you make your own decisions
she cloyed and again he tossed caution
into a cauldron of grunting mammalian rut
for several hours perhaps the entire weekend
it's easy to rewire a human
you just give them a little epiphany
and bingo ownership
his hypnotic gambit paid off in ducats
the Generalissimo slept like a corpse
the pet centipedes concluded their labors
his ex-kingdom rejoiced at their new liberty
and that's anarchy for ya
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Cul-de-Sac
Quick steps slow to hesitate
The sudden curve of a straight white line
Into the mists of detour
Lined with haunting facades
Of blurred addresses
And faded street signs
Where echoes of curiosity bluster -
Magic or madness -
In proverbs of warning about blind alleys -
Mayhem or mystic -
Bending the lane
Like the nautilus inner ear
A flat arc where light searches
For the sacred
Past faceless abodes lining this curlicue
With a come-on to remain
Yet the heart knows to follow
The flamboyant contours,
Like angel’s wings,
Into the loop – not a dead end
But a recoiling boomerang
Leaving knots of doubt behind
Arms open wide to inquisitive's marathon
Then ride the hairpin rail out of gossamer inkiness
Leaving behind the rags of repetition
Into a rosy borning road.
2-21-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Theme chosen – Cul-de-Sac
Villanelle: The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
What were once cherished hopes serve only to nag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
All that one once fought for family position place
Lie now trodden by the wayside no sweat nor brag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The once fine psittacine nose at parties shone with grace
Now hangs pudgy a curlicue strawberry smudge a snag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
The ego shifts about the hidden interstices of the maze
Fears of the embattled siege in the psyche’s empty bag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
Sudden moments of anger take all spouse job and lace
Ego stomps out of the house grimacing grudge vowing no lag
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
Deserted one sits unwashed on the pavements in disgrace
Eyes avert insatiable molly-coddled egos which drag gag
The fall from grace is the shame borne as lost face
The first to fall papal pride in the purple stride of mace
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Cloaked in black she sat
with covered eyes from a broad rimmed hat.
Encircled in a wispy shade of cerise
that dripped to fade into the fleece.
Lines that linger on the chair
follow her finger like liquid air
as she stencils out the curlicue
depicted with pencils in her view.
Down the wall with a dilatory slither
and intent to enthrall by use of his myrrh
he skillfully eluded his own detection
making her mind his chamber of protection.
His volcanic eyes thrust into her thought
erupting the lust she longfully sought
igniting her vision like a candelabrum
an incision devising her to succumb.
Licking the salt from a lover's lips
speaking the scripts in hum
becoming embossed in indium
and forgetting fault of nothing but tongues.
Silhouetting the cast of questions surpassed
indulging in the treasure of temporary leisure.
Her guard was let down as she started to drown
in the light of the fire and her own desire
Unforeseen antecedently.
A scene drawn out by a welcoming invasion
she remains devout to enamouring persuasion
Still life flickering and unceasing to amaze
Like a liquor releasing inward
The inebriating reward of her very own blaze.
I brought home an axolotl
In a thin-necked ketchup bottle
Then I could never get the damned thing out.
I broke up with the mute Egyptian
Found his code was a crude encryption
Read the story of the life of a silent lout.
Waddlin' toddlin' down the track
End of the line and halfway back
Marry or bury me, I don't care
Fiddlin' a middlin' Irish aire.
Caribou smoked on a barbecue grill
Fed everyone from the curlicue mill
Then got stuck going home on the roundabout.
There once was a cute little girl named Sue
Smack dab down her forehead, a curlicue
She so much wanted straight hair
She planted an iron there
Now, instead of hair, she's got barbeque
Torrents of melancholy brine cascade from leaden skies;
Mirroring the salty streams of tears that seep from my sapphire eyes;
Folded limbs of bruised porcelain reach out to feel the patter of the rain;
Each stinging drop a tiny shard of ancient liquid pain;
Muddied pools form on a thirsty earth that drinks and drinks and drinks;
My own parched heart does nothing but watches, waits, and sinks, sinks, sinks…
With the monsoon comes a stultifying death of putrefaction to leaf and bough;
Matching the decay that stirs the topsoil of my soul like the blade of a rusty plough;
Snails drag their curlicue shells through promising forests of lush mossy growth;
Just as slow my sighing breaths sift through my lips uttering silent bitter oaths;
The monsoon season is a blessing to the earth and a curse to a trapped soul;
Bound by adolescent selfishness I think only of myself not of the whole;
Forgetting the urgent thirst of the ground for water I curse the curtaining rain;
Staring mutinously into the gloomy grey day with my face pressed against a cold window
pane;
Rain, rain, I murmur through reproachful lips, go away;
And please I entreat you -- return again some other day…
Somewhere far beyond this faux grin I wear
lies the fault…in all of its lined fashion
Emptiness lingering on a sifted thought,
reaching for anything that resembles what we had
It appears on a thin white stripe, as a banner
of frightening horizontal access…merely a tap required,
and I freeze…wide eyed, glaring amongst holding pattern tears,
scared to death while revealing what waits…
There was a time when this occurrence
was that of a beautiful sunrise, a fresh cup of coffee
and my heart would skip a beat…now it stops, flat line,
daring me to breathe
As I read your words, over and over…and over again,
like a jagged line in the vinyl, spinning slowly,
bouncing back to the beginning, my eyes search,
longing for a phrase, a chance slip in the ink
Dissecting each italicized letter, I find
fonts of beauty delivering curlicue pain while
draping my heart with paragraphs of brocade fabric dreams
shredded and left out to dry…fading in the sun
Even looking away it still remains, staring back,
spelling out the fault…I see it and I hate it, for
like my faint refection in this lighted screen…
I recognize it…and it is me
WHAT GOD INTENDED
i grabbed the soupy ceramic
without a doubt
basic white, and i’m blank
i choose a skybound color
a lovely tone of blue
and paint the inside blue
and the outside too
several layers
that’s what they told me to do
i grab some silk
a pretty curlicue
and blot with bliss
just below the sip line
with a lovely teal this time
gaining speed, a rose
with specks
they say it’ll drip
when they finish it off
so i say tell me the truth
does this look awful
and they say “yes”
but quantified, that after
the soup mug
feels the burn
and cools down
it will be what God intended
B E A U T I F U L
10/28/2017
Sunset waters ebb and flow,
in shades of silver, gold and blue;
megaliths arise, greet periwinkle skies
while warm sands, traveling waves embrace.
Eyes cast upon the horizon lines,
greet gulls in heaven's play;
a cavern frames old Sol's facade,
as curlicue waves knit watery lace.
1-23-2023
BRIAN STRAND CONTEST NO 1178 Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
We strolled the broken sidewalks
Of a little chilly lake town
Caught between mountains
Talking about art and money
Smelling curiously of aged wood
About who cared anymore for culture
And stopped in to lunch at
A corner cafe where two meals
Cost us twenty because we were hungry
I snapped a photo of the storybook
Book store's curlicue gingerbread
For a moment we were sculpture
Frozen, captured, cast in time
No one important was around to see us
Only a robot Santa and a traffic cop