Best Dangles Poems
Crying River (The Untold Ballad)
Undercover waters of rain dash
Cold children, no smiling splash
Tragic sobs, epic force of the mountain rain
Beautiful as it may seem -shallow basin
---Dream---
She cries a tune,
Mocking the Maple lands, a beautiful tune
Crooked Cornwall, she steams with the moon
Oceanic dreams, monsoon season, she swoon's
Frozen, dead, ice skating rink
Her wind, Pretty Chains O Lake
Wet and Wild, the Elk drinks from her garden
Water falls from the lids of Jordan
Beautiful as it may seem with open curtain
When the ocean succeeds away from the sea
She's wide awake during winter's rain and breeze
Lost in the mud's of Bellaire's heartache,
River Blues, ice cold snap, bayou stirring up
Racing rivers crying by the western gutter
Silent, bells chime in the Black Mallard waters
Streams, blowing and drying dew droplets
Little rapid tears, everything spotless
Sugar, Swan waves down by Devils Creek
Listen to the thunder bay rolling deep
Beautiful as it may seem, she weeps
A northern world with streaks of falling rain
Pretty running white hair pane
A weather vane, snow dangles above her domain
Beautiful crying winds
In the Eyes of Michigan
~3/5/14~
A black cloud dangles
Effortlessly forms
A haunting image
Showers travel east
Daisy hides her face.
A Robin sings
A melody
The sun appears
Once more she smiles.
Grass uncoils
Raindrops dry
Web retracts.
Sunset
Moon beam.
Stars.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
I did a show in this tiny town called Longyearbyen. We went snowmobiling around Svalbard and saw Arctic foxes, snow bunting, polar bear footprints and almost got lost in a blizzard.
Bill Bailey
Footprint
Nonchalantly, the broach of a bear’s footprint.
Not any bear…a polar bear; and blizzard…
a blizzard to cover one’s tracks. Indeed, lost -
bobbing along on a snowmobile venture.
The twist and turn of fact and myth dangles
at the edge of a bluff. Still, I can see it -
a wild fox in a white fur coat, with its bushy tail,
and a snow bunting, in flight, with black-tipped wings.
A footprint is a funny thing…I am there,
transported to a frozen oddity. My eyeballs
ogling the path, digging deep, down into the tundra.
What more will I discover on the polar beat?
Will the bear follow me as I retreat?
2/18/2023
Writing Challenge -F
Constance La France
On days I read…
O dread
The poets are dead!
A taste of bitter
A tatterdemalion squalor
A thread
that dangles
in black death
in the abyss
The art is lost
in those times
The craft
on a cliff
Words swish
then spit
without mystical scope
Spring forth
O poet
Prepare thyself for thy muse
the amusement of thy readers
If thy words
hang upon
thy precipice
let it be stupendous
spectacular
Let them peer
perch
leap
glide with whimsical wings
Fly, poet, fly
Nose dive into the sea
Capture the depths
of eternity
Put a pretty bow on it
or a ghostly hue. Abscond
into the spider’s closet
fiddle on the roof
hang on baby
until you're foolproof
ne’er perfect
leave room for edits.
So the albatross
went diving
but it is the fisherman
that is thriving
up, up, up he goes
into the blue nose
his line
divining
reeling in silver and gold.
Treasures
to share
No dread!
The poets live! Live it up to the end!
~Marionette Master~
All my dreams evolve around my wooden floor
Candles and clowns the show must go on
~~~~
The Moon slowly moves its way into my room
Dust pushes through my window making shadow puppets on my walls
The talent on my walls dance, scaring my sweet dreams away
No cradle-songs tonight
Dangling artisans’ fingertips scratching down my core
Exquisite observation, an alley down “Death Street.”
Panic rattles my bone,
Stuttering a taste of ma' ma' ma' mama' off my lips
Grandfather clock ticks with every pull of the string
Invisible jellyfish puppets swaying their feelers that sting my site
A superior skill eating away at my fear
I can’t breathe,
I can’t move,
It dangles!
What can I do?
Carved Marionette figures locked in my head
A game in which trickery and deception are the main events
Staged with an evil sinister mask, sanctioning my nightmares.
No one to rescue me from the danger of this bedside playground.
The puppeteer engages to provoke me with my own dolls.
A dramatic performance throttles my mind …….
I cannot come out from under my blanket,
I cannot run,
My hands cannot reach the circus print lampshades!
A shadow show played in slow motion!!!
Realizing the moon can pull a world of strings with its own light
***
Suddenly, boney fingers from the sunrise show me the way…
I look down until my toes touch the cold wooden floor
I creep and creep,
Then I flick on my lamp.
The purple walls swallowed the orgy drawing inspired by the mooned night
A huge diversity of graphic illusions of puppetry in my room vanishes in one click
Mother please no more Pinocchio in my lullabies! ;-)
Numberless now ...
Many, the years since then
When I uncurled my toes and reached thru soil
Pushed up and spread out
While beneath me the richness of the earth nourished
Spreading tendrils through the dark and damp
To give me strength and secure purchase
Ring-by-ring my girth increased
Branches spreading ... reaching for the air
Capturing the weep of heaven
And bounding toward the warm of the sun
Water surging like blood
Chlorophyll coloring my bloom and breadth
Carbon dioxide like the breath of life
Deep in ... oxygen out
Little ones doing their work during the green time
And their bright, crisp, beautiful deaths
Autumn's blanket, their last deed
Countless, those cycles ...
Yet ... I stood strong over HER
Sheltered her from rain, child-to-woman
Shaded her quiet time in the summer swelter
Covered her loves in the autumn chill
Let her swing in my boughs, up to the sky and back
It was my pride to care for her these years
To offer my strength and cover
And mostly, to hear her sing to the meadow.
Yet now she swings again in my boughs
Dangles amidst my strong arms
Lifeless ... on a rope.
Oh, if only I were a willow
For then I, too ...
Could weep.
Written on January 7, 2020
N/A'd on June 13, 2020 in the the "I Am A Tree" Poetry Contest
Submitted on June 16, 2020
To the "N-A Re-Run 8" Poetry Contest
John Hamilton, Sponsor.
"There are some who bring a light so great to the
world that even after they have gone the light remains."
_Unknown
Anniversary
beautiful
charm dangles ever from
glittering heirloom
idyllic juju
keepsake
lovely memories
necklace ornament
palpates
quiet recollections
sorrow terrible
unbidden
valediction withdrawal
xoxo
yearnings zapped
_____________________
September 08, 2022
Poetry/ABC/Husband's Death
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1486-133-08
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Anniversary
sponsor, Sara Kendrick, Judged 10/16/2022
First Place
It was not that she was the only woman in the group, when mingling precariously beneath the bronze figure of William Booth, or her classic stance, when placing saintly, the newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly breached, but her opulent style, her contrast of attire, and as yet her hair unruffled. Although sparse of jewelry a gold ring dangles on a chain, catching the light as it shines in the noon day sun, a tinge of blood trickles down her neck. Her recently pierce ear lobe, bearing signs of some street wise ritual? Evidence of suave sophistication, exists with movements of grace and elegance, fingers more use to the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of a bottle of brown ale.
a fork in the lane
no signpost to guide one home
a need or a deed
Her head begins to lift higher and higher with every mouthful of distinct courage, every courteous act. Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle is released from her reluctant deep red lips, a senseless shake only proved her greatest fear. Suddenly to her aid came a wayward chap, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge. He commences to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit, with a mucus soiled cuffless sleeve, before passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly awaiting its return.
a lane to despair
not alone but in the palm
existence or life
After the corrosive day is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley park bench will be her abode with printed tabloids to cover her chilled exterior, her metabolism accelerating, to become one of so many, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will options for her begin to diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction rapid along the highway of completion!
first rays of sunshine
a trial or tribulation
the signpost renewed.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
the full moon dangles low tonight
and whispers sweetly in my ear
memories of fiery delight
the full moon dangles low tonight
graceful herons glide in full flight
I’d trade them all to hold you near
the full moon dangles low tonight
and whispers sweetly in my ear
AP: 1st place 2020
Submitted on November 15, 2018 for contest LATE NOVEMBER sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
and June 12, 2018 for contest MOON POETRY sponsored by KEVIN SHAW
Verse:
Calamity, atrocity...
Lord, if you please,
we need a little help.
Monstrosity, ferocity...
Here on our knees,
we pray for your strong Hand
To ease this pain, bring on the rain;
wash clean the scenes
of violence and abuse.
Nightmares and flares of hatred,
war and trafficking,
these days, are too profuse.
Chorus:
Set us free.
O Lord, we beg You, set us free
from the wickedness that strangles,
the temptations that it dangles;
this world's knotted up in tangles.
Set us free.
Verse:
We know you care; Your love for us
beyond compare;
we doubt You want our fall.
We've come so far, so many scars
show who You are;
please, harken to our call.
Humanity can do so much,
but so much still seems
way beyond our reach.
We've gotten ourselves in this mess,
we do confess;
Your help we now beseech.
Chorus:
Set us free.
O Lord, we beg You, set us free
from the wickedness that strangles,
the temptations that it dangles;
this world's knotted up in tangles.
Set us free.
Verse:
I've never really asked before,
but I implore You
please, don't look away.
Help pave the way for all astray,
those lost, uncertain, in decay
and those who really
could not love You more.
Please make anew, this world askew,
' least clean it of its vile, foul debris.
Help plant the seeds of dignity,
of righteousness and unity
with hope, joy, peace, and love
always in view.
Chorus:
Set us free.
O Lord, we beg You, set us free
from the wickedness that strangles,
the temptations that it dangles;
this world's knotted up in tangles.
Set us free.
Set us free.
O Lord, we beg You, set us free.
Even though our struggle's real,
we can't deny Your presence here;
be ever with us, Lord, until
we are free.
Set us free.
O Lord, have mercy, hear our plea.
We won't give up, not giving in;
we'll keep on trucking to the end.
Oh, won't it be amazing when
each broken heart is on the mend,
and we are free?
~Jodie 2024
A crescent moon, shining it's silver smile in the midnight sky
so beautiful, yet so desolate and alone in the vast galaxy.
But, tonight I can see that she has found some company.
An enchanting fairy sits within the crescent
one bare foot dangles off the edge,
into the endless void of the black universe
the other bare foot rests on the moon's surface.
I wonder what that feels like?
Perched with her hands on her knees she gazes at Saturn's rings
watches the comets, with their glittering tails, as they fly by her.
The milky way, so majestic, as are the constellations
the stars wink at her and she reaches out to touch one.
I wonder what that feels like?
There is only the sound of silence way up here
no winds to blow her luminous blonde hair.
The heavens are calm on this night
as a few puffy clouds pass over the Earth.
This is her favorite planet to watch
you wouldn't believe how beautiful the blue oceans are from up here.
Each of it's cities have millions of lights glowing overhead
like a galaxy all it's own.
The wonders of this world aren't so wonderous from her view
so, once in awhile she flits her wings down here
to get a closer view of Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower.
Her favorite wonder, the Statue of Liberty
watches over a busy city, just as she watches from the moon.
While keeping her eye on things and embracing the moon's company.
On the edge she sits, a frail nonentity;
neither bloom nor spirit, nor secure identity,
as forlorn and shy she trembles, a man
asks her to dance, she must decline.
Stuck in a bubble, just missing the boat,
floating past maybes, a lump in her throat,
she dawdles and dangles, an inch from forever,
a chance to break open, but opting for never.
One day she will make it, step into the limelight,
and pirouette daintily, taking his hand,
there'll be no more jitters or lame-brain excuses
just confident motions in time with the band.
What a relief to be one of a legion
of movers and shakers who're down from the shelf,
she's gliding with grace while avoiding another's toes,
hugging her partner instead of herself.
*******
...autobiographical, you wouldn't believe how much!
There is a house on the cliff’s edge,
Around a quiet, unmarked shoreline
At night, the tide lifts high against a foggy moon
In the morning, gloomy clouds settle with the sea
At times, not even the birds are seen or heard
The house is left to nature’s caress
Home-crafted seashell chimes sway and sing with the wind
Crushed sand dollars lie together on the back porch
The shells were once whole, collected by the former owners
Long gone are they now, smiling with the moon
The owners are the very sound of the ocean spray,
Striking the rocks, announcing the cool dawn of day
They are not the dark, empty rooms,
The rooms that nobody thinks of as they go about their lives
The quiet owners are long gone—thought of only by one
A stillborn legacy about as tiresome as the sun,
When the clouds crisp out its beams . . .
A seawater puddle is in the middle of the dining room
Nobody knows it sits there, sinking in the floorboards
It used to be a far larger puddle after a storm,
Stealthily leaking into the house
But now it is small—so small—and the boards are moist,
Moist with its only companion amongst the instilled silence
Nobody thinks of empty, abandoned rooms
Nobody remembers the former owners
They were not much for socials and gatherings
They always lived their quiet, happy lives
Without a care of the outside world,
Far from anybody’s thought
Miles from the nearest home
Where the next generation comfortably lives
He never finished fixing that leak . . .
Sometimes the puddle gets bigger after other storms
And when it does, there is almost life there again
You can see the chandelier reflected on the unperturbed water
As a crystal dangles and falls from on high
The dark silence following the drop is as deep as thought . . .
Nobody thinks of empty, abandoned rooms
Nobody remembers the former owners
There is merely a house on the cliff’s edge
Around a quiet, unmarked shoreline
-March 21, 2013-
A lipstick stained Camel butt, on the full ashtray rim
A golden earring on the floor, how does this story begin?
The Smith Corona silent, paper stuck in the machine
When someone ripped it out they left a mess to clean
An air ticket on the floor, unused it would appear
What happened to the owner something’s wrong that is clear?
A telephone receiver burring on the desktop
No one put it down, the call they didn’t stop
A tissue on the floor, all shredded up and wet
A sign of great misery, a mystery still as yet.
A newspaper screwed up and thrown upon a chair
A missing child is found, she had better get out of there.
A body found, a Camel butt by her side
The car ran off the road, what a way to die
The madam of murder and mayhem will see daylight no more
And now the devil’s a waiting to open his fiery door.
A lady looking lost, approaches a child alone
She dangles one gold earring, with a pretty stone
This is for you child if, you but come with me
Another child is missing, didn’t anybody see?
One earring, one cigarette butt, but she didn’t work alone
Her partner in crime, a woman warned her on the phone.
Destroy the ransom note the child has now been found
The ticket is now no good, we must move underground.
For those unsure and there are some, Camel are a brand of cigarette.
©Mandy Tams
RED-
Pillar boxes that stand open-mouthed
Waiting to be fed.
And plump ripe strawberries,
Dipped in sugar,
Smothered in cream.
Or just popped in your mouth
And squashed between your teeth
YELLOW-
Buttercups that shine under your chin
To give away your secrets.
And hot corn on the cob
That drips with butter
And smacks your lips.
PINK-
Candyfloss,like fluffy cotton wool
That glues to your fingers
And disappears in your mouth.
And gooey icing on the top
Of long sticky buns.
GREEN-
Grass that prickles your skin
When you run barefoot.
And unripe apples
Hanging from trees
That beg to be eaten
Till your tummy hurts!
ORANGE-
Fruit that juices your throat
And dribbles your chin.
And bonfire flames
Glowing and warm
That crackle and spit
And reach with poker fingers
If you get too near.
VIOLET-
Like the flowers, and the lilac
In blossom time.
And sweet smelling lavender
That crushes itself
On your hands
And reminds you of Grandma.
BLUE-
Sky on a clear sunny day
That dangles above your fingers
Just out of reach.
And the warm sea
That plunges you
Into its' playful waters
And wraps you up
In its' waves.
And then there are
Multi-coloured things,
Like ribbons,ballons and streamers.
Kites that play chase with the wind.
The wings of butterflies
And painted carnival faces.
And of course the rainbow
That appears bright and magical,
Soaring high above
Houses and tree tops
On to nowhere land,
Lighting up the sky
With its brilliance.
Then is gone,
Scattering itself
To be remembered
Among colour favourites.