Best Dig Into Poems
"Letting Go!"
Behind that garden rail
Where worms squirm and roam,
They dig into every bad part of my day
I feel them crawling, making my hide their home
They feast on my will and my dead walking soul.
Slowly I am fading away into a cloud of nothing.
I find myself reminiscing the moment I meet you.
With scars and guilt, I won’t let go!
I’m cold and miserable inside
Different emotions, I can no longer hide
I can’t seem to heal the deep cut within
Echoes twist the mood that has no meaning
I sit with a jar full of tears, holding on tight
Afraid of letting go!
The hollow walls slay in every way
The abyss of a waterfall resides in my heart
This throbbing starvation, repeats the taste it longs for
I have no control, I can’t feed without you by my side.
I won't let go!
by:PD
She storms into the room
there is fire in her eyes
and thunder in her step
rage rumbling reckless
She's livid
a live wire of fire
charged
She's on the move
To punish
Is it a rumor or reality?
He has explaining to do...
She rushes at him
Pounding on his chest
words pent up all day
rush out in deluge
drenching him
he tries to pin her hands down
to make her understand
to undo this "misunderstand"
but she pushes him
her pride scorching him
her eyes sparking
passion raging
~~~R*A*G*I*N*G~~~
He pushes her against the wall
pins her hands above her head
"Listen to me!
You got it all wrong!!!"
she pushes against him
breasts heaving
legs kicking
and he's inflamed
her passion burns him
combusts in his mind
and he crushes her with his body
she bites his lips
as they close over hers
he loses his grip
her fingernails dig into his bare chest
trails of red
Growling in pain
He forces her....
kicking and screaming...
down to the floor
Pins her again
"Listen! WOMAN!"
She looks up into his face
breathless
and he goes for her mouth again
Taking her lips into his mouth
sucking fiercely
his tongue tames
fierce...his need to possess
to claim
She fights to free her hands
and they are on his neck
Pulling him in...in
Her lips respond in like
his hand finds her hair
leverage...a grasp
he pulls to expose her neck
And he attacks
kisses...bites...His revenge
His innocence turned to intensity's indignation
she sighs...she moans...
the sounds goading him on
As he loses himself in her cleavage
licking up her perfume
His favorite scent...
sensuous sexy sweet
the storm is fever pitch
in a flash of lightning speed
He lies her bare
and thunders in the thighs
she opens for him...wide
eyes closed
she bites her lower lip
to muffle her cries
as he rides....rides
His victory ride of righteous pride
and she's left
breathless...spent
in a storm of tears
released...repentant
of her insane jealousy
the storm passes over
and in the stillness
he speaks...
his voice shattered...weak
in her presence now calm
meek
"Your anger is beautiful
your rage my relish...
but now...come,"
His voice a whisper
as he pulls her in to him
"Come into my arms
and know the truth....
You're my one and only
My Passion STORM
Is YOU....YOU
Serenity...is overrated."
Full of marketable commodities like xebec.
Waves of pure affection are slashed mercilessly.
Feelings: a sea upon which to wander carefree.
Devil swears to be a dove to trick people cursorily.
The doll dances on a string of yellow-golden hair.
It dyes its lips crimson with the blood of its lost prey.
It attracts people with its flirtatious smile and low blare.
Because of her, falls even the most religious people.
The ashes of destroyed rags cover the black eyes.
A sparkling smile covers Beelzebub's smile.
Her mistress is responsible for her spiritual slave.
A dark soul lurked deep within his radiant skin style.
Silicon's enticingly boosted slopes were xyloid-brittle.
Sword-like claws dig into the soul in sensual delight.
Obsession can be generated by female objects.
She does terrible things to helpless people fight.
The floral fantasies all turn xerophilous and prickly.
Salacious downpours became unending floods of sobs.
A terrible memory of a lost love left him feeling empty.
The reverberation of her laughing still throbs.
Written: September 15, 2022
Tragi comedy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Word bank:
*xebec-also spelled zebec, was a Mediterranean sailing ship that was used
mostly for trading.
*Beelzebub- Satan, the Devil.
*xyloid- resembling qualities of wood
*xerophilous- A xerophile is an extremophilic organism that can grow and
reproduce in conditions with low availability of water.
Time passing all around in the air
Seemingly so without even a care
On the ground an empty turtle shell
Off to swim the vacant waterless well
Watching from inside the tree so hollow
The Pied Piper plays and they all follow
Staring blanks into that black hole sun
Marching prisioners from the lost race run
Hark the demons and how they do sing
Calling out unto the sacred buried things
Echoing reverb in the darkness so vast
Spiral downward crazy how it goes so fast
Searching for answers in all that's unsaid
But left speechless and one of the undead
Anticipating that strife and all the misery
Quietly awaiting amid all that haunts me
Counting the leaves while they do fall down
During the removal of such a gifted crown
Grasping fiercely stubborn for what I may
When all the cherished goods steal away
Screaming silence and left in the wake
As the mirror begins to crack and break
Turning to the darkest parts deep inside
Bravely I dig into that cesspool of pride
Bringing winter's bitter yet sweet icy cold
Touching the shards of glass ever so bold
But the shattered pieces turn into icy stones
And while bleeding among them I cry alone
Copyright by Scarlett Sepulvado Anderson
I dig into the open wounds of self preservation,
and hear
...from way over there,
my love jingling in your pocket
as if it were the loose change
in your wet dreams.
You were always numb to the mirror,
taking comfort in the blind eyed
discontent you've reigned in
with hard strokes of denial,
making your makeup seem
a little more made up in the dim lighting
of reflection.
Don't you think?
It was never about making love,
it was about forgetting.
My hips were a glowing red exit sign,
on the route of
....screwing life away.
Each moan, a promise that
even though you were dead inside,
you could still make a piece of the
world shake.
Maybe even make something break.
And that made everything seem
a bit more tolerable...
until I started thanking you
for the damage inflicted.
The pain I felt, assurance
that I was alive.
I'm not sure why that
took the fun out of it
for you..
I still screamed bloody murder
when you sunk your teeth into
newly adjusted nerve endings..
The pain, more real than ever before.
I guess you never meant to
take a ride with someone just as
damaged as you.
You were hoping to be the only
ghost in this city, still bound
to a carnal playhouse.
But baby..
I was a corpse long before I had any change to spare.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Hit me
Punch me in the face
Kick me if you must
I need to feel your pain
I need to know
Understand
Where you have been
For with your gentle touch
I have been unaware of the depth of your pain
When you kiss me bite my lip
Let my blood pulsate with understanding
I will scream out the words you are unable to articulate
Let me push into the centre of your need
Until we both find release
Use your nails
Dig into my back
I am strong enough
I will not be broken by your need
Do not be afraid of black ink
Or metaphorical anger
Hit me
Pound upon my chest
Until both our hearts feel
Convulse with pleasured realization
No rules or limitations
Digress to primal urges
Find your earlier self
Until you are lost
Until
Until
You are fully spent
Exhausted
Consolable
For I am not afraid
I am willing
Yes I am able
To take
Your worst
and "your best shot"
If only you are brave enough
To let me absorb your pain!
For Casarah's Triple Threat contest
Written June 23rd.
Note: this poem does not advocate violence, it is a fantasy piece.
Dirranbandi River
Dirranbandi river, grows the cotton,
Waiting for the rains to come,
Dig into the sandy bottom,
Fill your bucket, water some,
Three years of drought,
And then the flood it comes,
Brown snakes are swimming all about,
See the Sand Goannas run,
Get the sheep to the higher ground,
Drown it will, if you leave just one,
Horses standing in the water, bound,
to put em on the sand hill son,
Kookaburras are a laughing,
Food drops on the station runs,
Bread an milk an butter carting,
Parachuted in the sun.
Don Johnson20-sep-11
Francine Roberts
Contest Name Flowing water
Growing, growing, tall and strong, vines and thorns they are,
Enveloping my body, leaving bruises, scratches, scars.
Only getting burdensome i try my best to flee,
But when i try to rip away the thorns cause me to bleed.
I stand still for a moment, and try to plot my moves,
But if i try to free myself I know that i will lose.
The trap intends to kill me, no matter how i try,
No matter how i fight it, I am certain i will die.
I once had hope but now i see that there is no escape,
Cuz i was born within these thorns, so see its only fate.
Some of you were meant to live, your minds will let you fly,
But some of us are anchored here, and born to live in lies.
Lies of hope, lies of dreams, lies of empty choices,
The only truth we understand, it lives within the voices.
Entangled in these voices, and thoughts inside our brains,
When everything is stripped away the voice is what remains.
So how do you escape something, the only thing you've known,
And how do you ignore it when the thorns dig into bone.
You can't, you see its always there, the voices let them flourish.
And since the voice is here to stay, you know the vines stay nourished.
Voices, thorns, they're two in one, they feed off of eachother,
So whats the point, its time you see that you're becoming smothered.
Is this it, is this the end, do you know where you are headed?
Its hard to say cuz to this day you're still deeply embedded.
I Wish I Could Tell You
By: Sarah McFadden
Grade 9
I wish I could tell you
How anxiety holds me in its chains,
Grasping me in its iron clutches,
How the shackles of hopeless, never ending fear
Dig into my ankles.
How sometimes it feels like there is rope wrapped around my chest
Growing tighter and tighter
Until I am choking on my own strangled screams,
Raising a white flag to my demons that won’t cease war with me
I wish I could tell you about
The black hole sitting at the pit of my stomach,
Draining me of my happiness,
Yet somehow leaving me as a shell of my former self,
As if everything that made me able to smile or laugh
Had been scraped out with a knife,
Leaving me with a sadness that burns like
Flames licking at the walls of my chest
How I haven’t cried for real in a long time,
But every time I shed a tear it burns my face like acid,
Bubbling, sizzling
How any spark of joy is evanescent,
Quickly metamorphosing into the deep despair
That I have come to know very well
I wish I could tell you that I’m okay,
That I am not broken beyond repair,
That I can ponder upon the world and see
Chances, opportunities, and reasons to be happy,
That I can think about the beauty of life
And not so much about the beauty of death,
But I made a promise that no matter
How many times I lie to myself,
I would never lie to you.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Three
Note: I do hope it’s clear to readers by now that – strictly speaking – in these ruba’iyat, I deviate from the original Persian medieval model, introduced by Rudaki in Ghazna, in that I do away with the 7-syllable hemistich and even the 14-syllable line of the couplet in order to create a longer more breathless ruba’i of my own. I adhere only to the intent and the tone at large. Apologies to Master Khayyam and his ilk.
Then as the dawn comes creeping through the dull cold listless haze
Shattered by nitpicking crows still in their tuxedo craze
Raucous squawks remind her to take that woollen mantle off
And stretch her legs just where her feet splintered the brittle glaze
Yet no one had ever seen her curious darling eyes
Her fronds of glaucous eye-lashes lie under thin ice
On some frosty winter morn gusts shake her locks threadbare loose
While some Himalayan pine bucked her will long bent with vice
No frog croaks nor cicadas cut into eerie silence
And the vapours of sticky unkempt limbs hang low and dense
The forsaken dame dreams on as on every December morn
No carbide stench of Bastille Day fireworks will choke her sense
On such lone nights when joggers dare not dig into her sides
She’d unclasp her python coils to search through shopping guides
For sherwanis and sarees to rouse Khayyam from his cup
While the svelte lass from Lahore wanders in her coils besides
Come winter! Come shine! This life’s nothing but a longing grind
Each in his own way dying to find his own special kind
If that happens, will this world be bereft of its only quest
For never does the search bring together two of the right kind!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
The Extinction of the Sea Turtles
By Elton Camp
Human villainy is a cause for alarm
It causes much environmental harm
If the sea turtle should become extinct
To deliberate human acts it is linked
Sea turtles take decades to sexually mature
Then their offspring are far from secure
Males and females mate out in the sea
But on the sandy beach its nests must be
To the beach where hatched many return
Only to be met by the selfish and stern
She hauls herself up onto the home beach
Digs a hole to put her eggs out of reach
Then she covers and hides them well
Just where they are it’s hard to tell
But people have been there on alert
And immediately dig into the dirt
Huge sacks of eggs they carry away
So there will be no babies another day
It is largely because of this disgrace
That extinction the sea turtle does face
I saw her sitting by herself in the periphery;
She missed someone I knew was better than me.
Two halves don’t make a whole,
But two is company,
And I’m fair with trigonometry.
I don’t care about your boyfriend in Germany.
I don’t care about all the baggage you brought over from Florida,
Your daddy issues,
Your paradoxical self-defeated self-importance,
How you’re yesterday’s big news.
Please, take off your coat, have a drink,
Slip into my ruse.
If we’re not so lucky,
I’ll introduce you to the person I keep
Battered down inside
Of me.
The side
That hides
Beneath the wide-
Eyed mind
Of helplessly
Restless nights.
I had years of therapists telling me to dig into that
God damned clamoring tantrum of self.
Of course, the only time I asked for help,
I got tenfold pitches for prescriptions;
I got a hospital bed.
And a broken-record of out-of-time doctors
That said it was all in my head.
And I wished I was dead.
When I was four years old,
My mother took me with her when she did men for drugs.
Or left me in her apartment, screaming;
She said, "Nothing ever shuts up."
The magazine says
I should consider a new medication,
And busy work and meditation.
Sweet girl, you probably don’t care for hell;
So call to tell him that everything’s swell.
In the morning I promise not to dwell.
Note to self:
If you’re reading this,
Please treat yourself well.
And quit chasing nightmares
That teach you about yourself.
THE PARENTS IN RHYMES: THEIR LIFE, DEATH AND TIMES
BY JULIAN BOWMAN
THE PROLOGUE
1
Ten months apart, both parents dead
Their stories swirling in my head;
Memories I cannot neglect,
Compel me to write – and to reflect.
My father wrote good poetry -
It scarcely trickled down to me:
He refused to rhyme, called it cheap,
Preferred to be obtuse and deep;
But now he’s dead it seems right
To rhyme some reason from his life.
And not just him, my mother too –
Who should come first – it is her due;
For she gave birth, shaped and steered me -
So this poem’s for those who reared me.
A year ago, mum passed away
Dad struggled on in deep dismay;
For sixty years together they’d grown
And he couldn’t cope with life alone;
So now suddenly I am morphing
Into a late, mature orphan.
But I’m blessed with strong family
And sibling solidarity,
Married with three blooming daughters
Life rushes on, barely falters.
How can I find the time to grieve?
Put pen to paper, I believe;
But I am fearful in every fibre,
Living with a leading writer:
I’m Amrita Thakur’s biggest fan -
Appendage, husband, bloke, old man.
In contrast I can claim no skills
Can’t even write lines with even syllables.
Always hated grammar and rules
Rigid systems are for fools.
But I’ll try to write, inspired by death
And just a bit by Vikram Seth.
This will be fact – it is not “fictionary”-
And will be aided by rhyming dictionary.
But first, let me share a small confession:
Whilst I believe in free expression
I want to share all warts and stains
So I’ve found it best to change the names.
Some writers thrive on blatant piracy
Plundering lives and breaking privacy,
But it’s not for me to expose
Those who want to keep their clothes;
It’s best to respect some identities
So I’m free to dig into obscenities.
Sometimes truth finds best proximity
Through the guise of anonymity.
2
The rest of this epic poem is available on Amazon - search for Julian Bowman The Parents in Rhyme: Their Life, Death and Times
Where are they now the fighters?
Fighting for their freedom as well as ours
Survivors of those turbulent war years
The silent heroes
Saving us
Sparing us the trauma they faced
Hiding from us their fears
And the actions forced upon them
The nightmare’s they faced
Were theirs alone
They sheltered us with their silence
And now we curiously pick at their wounds
Dig into the memories they tried to forget
So that their sorrow becomes our sorrow
Their mistakes not forgiven and forgotten
But displayed before a changed world
Silver spoons stolen, a tragic union
Children taken … so long ago
Even their stories are silenced by death
If only we could respect their hard fought lesson
That Silence is golden
If you shine a shoe you get a tip,
If you brush it well,
You get even a bigger tip,
If you denounce yourself,
And renounce your roots,
You get a reward...you get a nip,
Of the welfare and the system that keep,
Watching you and your progress in deep,
That you may one day cause a serious rip,
And betray your donor and give him a hip,.
Well done keep on brushing...and dig into the deep,
You are not the only one who sweats beyond the break.,
Who sweats beyond the bleep,
They’re certainly enough of you...
Very many...on support and on the drip,
It serves you right to suffer since you left your nest,
When you looked down on the mighty debris and the crest,
Of your beloved homeland that was the best,
Now be a living dead with a never-ending rest,
The way you look...the way you talk,
The way you walk and the way you are wrongly dressed,
Your land certainly keeps your head above and pride,
Your land keeps even quieter on your offences and hide,
Your land is still faithful to you..Generous and kind,
If you round the world...reach the skies you won't find,
So generous than her...so merciful...so brave it was signed,
By one million and a half million martyrs,
But today look at yourself...don't play the blind,
Look at your face,.
Look at your pace,
Look at all of you...which you won't find,
I think that all of you that was...had certainly died.