Best Dollops Poems
Gray smeared sky like a quilt of rags
Winos sip rot gut from brown paper bags
Threadbare cloud crotch splits up the side
Rain pours down, you got nowhere to hide
Cheap umbrella from a street corner pimp
Turns inside out before going limp
Putrid puddles, soggy doggy doo dollops
Are artfully dodged by high-heeled trollops
A rat scurries by with a piece of bread
Like the ant that totes a leaf on its head
You too once held big dreams in your grasp
But they got drowned with a gurgling gasp
You told me before, no you don't stutter
Your genius ideas got washed down the gutter
Now like a scavenger after a flood
You salvage what's left from out of the mud
Ashes to crashes, lust to rust
In the end it only goes bust
Caught in between the future and past
You start out just fine but finish dead last
____________________________
by Brian McClain - Jan 23, 2016
Poetry for breakfast
Delivered with dollops of metaphors
Coated with delightful snippets of fun
Rolled in a skillet of imagery
My eyes dance with delight
As I read the words of my internet friends
Bringing poetry to life
Floods of memories
The tumults, the peace
The pitter-patter on rooftops
The passion, in dollops
The continuous beat
Driving away the heat
The smell of rain
The overflowing drain
Emotions uncontrollable
The storms, the lull
Inside, her scent strong
Outside, Nature’s song
Past recreated
Once again, nothing hid
The gusty wind, the ferocious lashes
The crumpled sheets, all the messes
The thunder, the roar
The desire… ‘Want More’
The ebb, the flow,
As in each rendezvous so
The shiver, the quiver
From him to her
The sun pierces the fog
He rolls down, a log
The pleasure, the joy
Comes back the spirit of coy
The rains abate
And thus ends, the love date
How often I have watched the sun descending into dusk,
and dusk, absorbing sun, exudes bright flavors for the eye.
It's eye candy, often variegated, splendid in its hue.
Those hues, dessert at end of day, sweeten with succulent delight.
What delight in skies of mango, cantaloupe or marmalade,
a marmalade of tangerine with raspberry mixed in!
Sometimes in vanilla skies are Crème brûlée or honeyed gold;
golden dollops of meringue above a lemon ball of sun.
Other times, sun lies concealed by clouds in chocolate skies,
or chocolate with the purple-gray of poi in cotton candy wisps of pink -
pink or bright red cherry heavens, sometimes luscious plum -
that plum reflected in blueberry seas; what treat in watching dusk!
Snow fell in dollops, in kite like laziness
too wet to stay white except in the margins.
The contrary air kisses each flake
melting each heart of ice.
Bittersweet the temperature falls.
Teardrops cling to greedy braches
reminiscent of hand stitched jewels
on a queen's gown.
The matted margin of lingering grass
crisps like spun sugar
snow flakes on the lash of night.
Hey children! Listen, I miss your zeal.
The world inside your mobile is surreal.
Look up!
See, I have fixed stronger glasses on my windows,
Get hold of your cricket kit, come back on the street,
I miss watching your games.
I won’t mind, smash all my window panes.
Hackneyed messages,
Dollops of unalloyed twaddle
Tides of trifling emotions!
Baby! You are locked inside your mobile.
Look up!
See, the stadium looks so barren!
Without your mischiefs and fun,
Your irritating jibber- jabber and nonstop run.
I won’t mind, come on burst my eardrum.
Your friends, your pictures, games, tweets and stories
You live in a fantasy world, that’s absolutely unsavoury.
Step back into this beautiful life, create beautiful memories.
Look up!
Don’t waste your time and energy.
Live for a cause, get up and push back your lethargy.
Open the notebook of your life,
Fill it with love, fame and prosperity.
No matter what! You shall thrive.
Don’t be a slave to mobile,
Life isn’t a game!
Dear! You have to survive, mobiles exists just to give a little respite!
11/04/2019
like a chocolate crust pie
is the flat-topped ridge
of a nearby large mountain
Topping mountain pie
as far as the eye can see . . .
luscious raspberry pink sky
high white coalescing clouds
trim the twilight’s slice of sky . . .
dollops of whipped cream
Dec. 12,2022
For the Triple New Charlieku Poetry Contest of Charles Messina
7/5/7, 5/7/7, 7/7/5 (checked by Howmanysyllables.com)
I've spent sundials of time feeding ghosts,
teaspoons of fear
dollops of regret
pecks of what-ifs.
Just to keep them pacified
'til I could grow some balls and climb
the cold cliffs of courage.
but the truth is...
I'll never climb to higher realms
-don't have the gift.
though it took some time
I've accepted all of it.
I'm a creature born of the ground
made my nest in the good earth
I don't breathe stars
but I do inhale dirt...
I've grown up(somewhat) and tossed the ghosts
into a pit called self-forgiveness.
I still feed them scraps from time to time
but they'll never get what they desire,
the main dish with all the trimmings
silver-wonderful -shimmering.
Dangling hair, girls twirl, drum majors,
Baseball turned cap boys, screenagers,
Gum chew boys, girls curls, tweenagers,
Just teenagers, just teenagers.
Pixie sticks tootsie rolls swallows,
Gummy bears m & m's follows,
Reeses cups hershey bars hollows,
Tidbits mellows, tidbits mellows.
Marshmallow pillow stuffing jams,
Strawberries dribble squishing rams,
Peach clings and lemon rings swim crams,
Dollops mouth slams dollops mouth slams.
Dressed up, lollipop, a cutesome,
Suit, tie, flowers guy, a twosome,
Hoodies, both moody, don't getsome,
Great into some, great into some.
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
raspberry pink sky
flat-topped mountain ridge beneath. . . .
chocolate crust pie
clouds coalescing
trimming twilight’s slice of sky. . . .
dollops of whipped cream
For Brian Strand's
SIXES AND SEVENS any form/any theme
only single six or seven line poems Poetry Contest
With heavy muddy feet.
The chambers of our hearts are Crisscrossed.
We were once light-footed and golden-leafed,
but time always unveils its true........ offbeat.
Shakes the color from every tree
rapes the berry from sweet offerings.
Ice fills December's coffee cup,
seasons removed from the smiling bud.
Roaches nibble on the bones of love...
Flitting down the path, yet another dove.
Throat rimmed in gold to cloak what's to come.
Rain freshened flowers, devoured by dollops of mud...
Crisscrossed.
From the pitch-blackness of the night
city lights glow like yellow stars
gorging dollops of dark matter
from an artificial universe.
Where luminescence disappears
then reappears differently
in magnitude and location
Each having their own tales to tell
both real and imaginary.
Dawn arrives and they fade from view
their nightly relevance worthless
in a world of bright beginnings
until diurnal hours wind down
and their brilliance shine once again.
While churning soil for my tiny Eden
I bumped into a cluster of stones.
They weren't jagged and mean
but smooth and friendly,
Like they once belonged to a sandy shore,
Very much out of place.
Like anything in life
when something seems out of place
we dig a little deeper,
deeper into
truth.
These stones were in a scattered pattern
perhaps a circle turned into a broken something.
There were small bones amidst dollops of dirt.
Then another and another,
Bits of cloth were bathed in time and faded.
Then I found it, a diamond-shaped skull of a small animal.
I held it gently in my palm, as any precious gem deserves ....
Half expecting it to say something, and it did...here are its words...
"I was a beloved pet
laid to rest in the satin of love and respect.
you wanted to create your Eden
but performed a desecration of
something far beyond sacred".
I wrapped the bones in an old satin pillowcase...
and as you would a little white lie.
Quickly buried the precious and the destruction together.
in the soft, cold, muddy mist
of a child's tear-torn pet.
There’s a soft glimmer of day on the horizon
As a vanquished sun is swept away by dusk’s dark flow
With a slender slip of a cloud stretched North to the South
That floats on the sweetness, the texture of marmalade glow.
Dark clouds above me are still catching last light
And the air is still fresh from a passing shower.
Overhead there are magnificent canyons of sky,
Clouds eroded by meandering rivers of air,
Untouched stars shining through,
And flashes of lightning that break dance further South
Reminding less attentive humans feelings are electric too,
Random flashes, like a child remembering how to cry
Without understanding when it is effective.
And the crickets are singing their harsh waves of sound
With combined voice that could wake up the dead
Or float lovers to their dreams with strange musicality.
What a chorus! It’s like they’re all suitors of one woman
Hanging out in the darkness under her window
Their legs resonating in an orgy of praise.
Is there anything alive that does not ooze sensuality?
I’m driving myself to a late dinner in Pierre
And there’ll be no one waiting to greet me,
But loneliness is not the same as being lonely
I even stop as I’m driving to write down these words
For when my muse speaks I almost always listen
For the music of the night is so fragile,
Though her words are my constant companions.
Like raindrops they cool me with their touch, to my senses glisten,
The thoughts she brings are flowers that follow mountain streams
And her rhymes, even when it’s cloudy, are stars in my night.
Arriving back in Blunt, the cricket song, seems somehow softer,
Though hardly less insistent, cries “Don’t you know we love you?”
I insert some extra lines and thoughts into what has come before,
Into an already flowing work, dollops of color added madly,
Just more cricket noise, hoping to touch your heart.
I wish that I had stopped once more beside the road as I returned.
“That was such a beautiful thought! What was it?” I wonder sadly!
Apparently the female that male crickets seek has not chosen yet.
But with this poem my day is done.
Brian Johnston
September 7, 2015