Best Dirtied Poems
Now yellowed with age
a lonely music book,
hidden in every page
old musician dreams
of endless nights passed
struggling with melodies,
lovely trills and arpeggios,
etudes and symphonies;
a sentry keeping watch
over dirtied ivory keys
played and loved once
by souls of olden days;
labors of faceless men
held close to its breast,
strains still remembered
kept deep in the chest;
an old piano book stands
now sullied by the years,
within its torn pages live
dead musician tears.
Categories:
dirtied, introspection, life, music, nostalgia
Form:
Free verse
Finished off the casseroles
a while ago;
actually gave them to
someone with an appetite.
The neighbors have taken
your parking space.
The hallway’s unlit now,
but I still see the unhappiness in the mirror
even in the dark.
You always left the light on.
I cling to the railing;
it’s caught me more than once.
Each step leaves me breathless,
each ascent lifeless –
stranded and abandoned
without even a shadow.
It’s just as you left it inside.
I haven’t dirtied a dish.
The calendar still says June;
only the clock moves on –
ticking countdown.
Sometimes it’s too much
so I sleep outside the door
and guard what you left behind –
protect what was.
Slumber reunites us,
but daylight exposes me.
And the pity’s infected their whispers.
Categories:
dirtied, lossme,
Form:
Free verse
I roasted stuffed turkey, made candied yams,
Made holiday jello, baked pies, dirtied pans.
Made mashed potatoes to cover with gravy,
Glazed carrots and biscuits, I'm cooking like crazy.
My daughter came over with grandchild in tow,
Giving my holiday that much needed glow.
I love the holidays and gathering with family.
It's so good to see everyone gathering happily,
Laughing and joking and sharing good cheer.
I wish more would come celebrate with all of us here.
Categories:
dirtied, holiday,
Form:
Couplet
Cicada shells that sticky hands attach
to dirtied shirts
Humid evenings echo with jovial screams
and patient parents calling curfew
Morning dew and the crinkling of autumn
leaves on foot to school
Soon, blizzards bring free days for slippery sleigh rides
and endless sweet cocoa
The melting icicles mean days back outdoors
and hunting eggs on Easter
Then school would end,
and the cycle would begin again
Until it wouldn’t,
and I’d wonder when those times had reached their end.
Categories:
dirtied, childhood, holiday, imagery, longing,
Form:
Free verse
The rain didn't fall
last night so much
as it was thrown.
The wind didn't blow
last night so much
as it was whipped.
And a whip is
a thing which
lacerates, it cuts.
The day after
was the last day
and the next days
will be filled with
no more and no longer
until the next days
outnumber the
here-with-us days
and the days after those
days will pile on, unmercifully
as well. The whipwind cuts.
Whippy storm.
Shallow breath.
Dirtied coat.
Abraded eyes.
Right one swollen.
No bowel signs right,
and few on left.
Unwilling to move -
pressed rump-first into
a corner
facing southwest.
Signs of sweat.
"My other horse went this way."
she weakly offers
to the morning air,
to the isn't there,
foreshadowing shadows
and coming despair.
"I wish the doctor would
hurry up and get here."
though we knew he would,
he was, he would be...
soon.
How soon? We didn't know.
- - -
Shaving tummy,
seeking what's beneath,
what is deep.
Ultrasound inconclusive.
Which leads to a conclusion,
the conclusion.
Mommy cooing for hours.
She's brushing him now.
"He's toxic" says doc J.
"It's time." quietly said
to all who already know.
But the spokeness of it is
it's own gift.
The haunting guess brought into
Life, into the moment
into Astro's stall.
- - -
Outside, the crows cried.
The grey winds sucked
warmth.
"You're gonna like where
you'll be." repeated Momma K.
A stroke.
A kiss.
A nuzzle.
A forelock felt.
He thumped down.
Momma started.
We four knelt down,
knowing that but
three would rise.
Syringe after syringe.
Twenty two years.
"His heart's stopped now,"
says Doc
"That's just his diaphragm
tryin' to do its job."
Astro huffs heartily.
- - -
Blankets cover him now,
in a damp paddock.
His bridle off.
At long last.
He is still.
She shakes.
Tears from both.
- - -
The wind won't stop.
He seems to breathe.
It's just the wind
under the blankets.
He really seems to breathe.
- - -
"I learned so much from this horse."
Categories:
dirtied, death, death of a
Form:
Free verse
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
Categories:
dirtied, death, loss, mystery, philosophyold,
Form:
Free verse
Another day and the dishes have piled up yet again
So back I end up in front of the window
I do not glance up, but concentrate
On the dull, dirtied objects before me
I do not hear the voices from yesterday
I still wallow in the grime of gray
I smile in malcontent
As I lather the dishes with soap
Against my will, I look up
To see a lone, fat man opening a refrigerator
He is shirtless, bulgy, and he looks pregnant
My first supposition is to laugh
But I only look back down at the dishes
Not wanting to stare at the fat man
Not wanting to think he looks pregnant
For sure not wanting him to be my neighbor
Across the way
Against my will again, I look up
The fat, pregnant man is gone
I see ornaments on the refrigerator
Some pictures, some magnets
Family; not so different from my life
But yet, there is a transparent fancy of mystery
A flashy rage of difference in the silence
Oh, so quiet
The blazing sun sprays its light upon the hour
Not only are my hands wet from the soapy water
The deafening tone of quietude
Revels in me a mixture of loneliness and physical heat
A burning desire for something not seen
A desire for utter disgust of my newly found neighbors
But I find myself not disgusted at all
Until I look up again and see a fully naked man at the window
Across the way
Categories:
dirtied, absence, abuse, analogy, angst,
Form:
Ballad
The wilderness has been improved of late,
Or so they say.
The maple trees where sticky syrup oozed
Between the cracks of scarred and broken bark,
The wild apple trees whose crooked branches
Cradled clumps of crudely woven twigs,
Have been replaced by houses, row on row
Of painted boxes gleaming in the naked sun.
The narrow trail, a divine doodle
Traced across the earth and kept in place
By centuries of coyote and bear
And deer that bounded zigzag up the slope
Lies tame and straight beneath the asphalt sweep
That cuts a leveled swath across the peak.
The blackberry briars that pressed against the path
And tore the skin from little hands that wiped
the purple stain on Sunday clothes,
Are cut away, and soft green grass grows in their place.
“Superior development, and more to come,”
The realtor explains,
Not knowing that I was here before.
I scan the hills for one certain house,
An Improvement on a three-room shack
where squirrels chattered in the rafters
And wasps built nests against the eaves,
And berry bushes dirtied up the window panes.
The modern house is pink with snowy trim;
A cement sidewalk leads from drive to door,
And tulips nod obediently by the steps.
Beyond the manicured lawn,
The last undeveloped forest hugs the hill,
And stubborn briars spill onto the planted grass.
“I’ll buy the house,” I tell the man.
He sees me looking at the woods and smiles
Apologetically. “For a slightly higher fee,”
he says, “that bit of forest can be cleared.”
“I’ll take it as it is,” I tell him.
“The blackberries might still grown in there.”
Categories:
dirtied, creation, environment, mountains, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Have you ever seen someone walk into a pole
Happened to me once while out for a stroll
Had a poem in mind
To all else I was blind
Should've paid attention, dirtied my camisole
© Jack Ellison 2015
Categories:
dirtied, silly,
Form:
Limerick
I know what you know,
What he knows,
Whom he who killed,
But kept silent and blind,
I know what you know,
Who he muddled,
Who he murdered,
And dirtied the field,
I know what you know,
Who you slaughtered the soul,
Neither me, nor thee
Nay the remaining foul.
No hear, no see,
The law of Omerta is surely risky,
And dangerous,
He who does not now know,
But knows better than himself and you,
Who slaughtered the lad, bribed and fed,
Threatened and said,
No hear, no see,
Then smashed the calves in a bloody pool,
This evil monster, a son of a ghoul!
I have seen nothing, nor heard a thing,
Omerta is the rule and motto to survive now.
Categories:
dirtied, abuse, corruption, political, silence,
Form:
Free verse
Prized Possession
When was it that society and religion
Became so afraid of the sexuality of women
Or was it just men who became afraid
Trapping and turning beauty into ***********
To suit the idealism of a capitalistic
Ideology
Made women its prized possession
There was once spiritual prowess in her nakedness
Once long ago
The symbol of womb and breast
Gave birth to life
And a possession was once the sexual expression
Of both women and men
Connecting
Copulating
In an essence of a spiritual unity
Defined by the pleasure both received
In giving to life
So how did sex become a sin
Dirtied by morals
And then sold in a tin
Of instant readily affordable self gratification
When did your own sexuality
Become a commodity
For them to sale
And poor Eve, lead mankind to ruin
And she alone made responsible for the fall from Eden
So shall she pay the price in cultural centuries
Of Christian and Muslim oppression
Such is the weakness of men
That by muscle alone defends them
Such is the weakness of men
That their God must of course; be a man
Such is the weakness of men
That in the face of beauty
It must be their possession
Such is my contempt of those men
Who cannot comprehend
Where their own lives began
And who’s wives and daughter now exists
In a poor excuse for love and worship
Trapping and turning beauty into ***********
To suit the idealism of a capitalistic
Ideology
Made women its prized possession
Inspired by Brandy Megens poem “News at 5”
Categories:
dirtied, history, life, love, mother,
Form:
Free verse
Now that you have gone
I meander through lush memories,
of when we were young, and,
your heart was given so tenderly,
and my soul, rejoiced in receiving it
The years passed, and I saw the snow fall,
and I discerned, that you received it's chill,
with open arms...and open heart
my zeal and affection
was not enough to warm you
and the last of our embers died.
Why did you not have the courage or the will to resist the cold?
The stars I fought so hard to attain,
you returned them, without
so much as a thought, or a thank you.
I watched, helplessly as our life unraveled ,
as time and unexpected events pulled our
heartstrings in different directions
My cello and I have become
solitary companions,
and I stroke her strings now
and she resonates with me
but only in a soulful dirge
I used to bathe in our memories,
until you dirtied the waters,
and now I'm stuck in the mud
that you left behind
The stars have departed now,
I gave them their wings and
released them with a soulful sigh
I look back for one last time
at what was, but now is not
and will never be again,
I trudge onward, the path to
the future growing ever dimmer
now that you ... have gone.
For marathon poetry contest 15
Categories:
dirtied, absence, farewell, first love,
Form:
Free verse
I love you
too much for myself.
It’s cracking my lips
and spilling over the rims of my eyes –
and yet I feel
all those crimson stains in my skull
-the deep, irrevocable red that always lurked
in places of me I refused to look at-
growing –
burning, burning, burning
in the mud.
I’ll cup my hands around
and bring it to you.
Dirtied and dilapidated as it is
with fear and vicious traditions,
it will always be your personal fistful of fire.
It’s searing me slowly into liquid,
melting into the dream I want to be for you.
I’m coming, reaching out with sparks flying.
I love you
too much for myself
and I haven’t caught up yet.
All I’m asking you to do is wait.
Categories:
dirtied, lovelove, me,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
There once was a dog by name of Tiger
She belonged to Kendricks who acquired her
Doris brushed her teeth each week
With Jr.'s tooth brush so meek
When he learned, said, "Why?"..(She)I did not want mine dirtied sir..
In honor of Brian Strand....
Categories:
dirtied, animals, childhood, funny, pets
Form:
Limerick
synthetic heaven taking hold
changing all that's lucid, cold
down the gut or down the drain
coursing throbs to burst a vein
(bent to quell a wretched pain)
neural tap dance, bloody bold ...
dangled digits - dancing doll
damp, the skin, a fetid crawl
lines of white to tingle, thus
in the nostrils, dirtied dust
(fevers do what fevers must)
cordially, then climb the wall ...
skin as pale as pallid moon
gals drape alabaster swoon
chemicals, tho wildly worse
sipping bubbly from a purse
(coy to craft a college verse)
sinless, she'll be sullied soon ...
manic madness found a shell
every potion kings could sell
spending senses on each one
pounding pulses, just for fun
(hungers hotter than the sun)
banished aptly straight to Hell ...
lived, have I, a passion's dream
dancing short of Hades' seam
wisdom, more or less my own
sucking marrow from the bone
(shy the debts I've yet to own)
due whatever fortune deems ...
pain more horrid than it seems
(death as dark as devil dreams).
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Contamination" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
dirtied, analogy, dark, desire, metaphor,
Form:
Rhyme