Best Downturned Poems
Clumsily tripping, over our own feet
Sometimes, minds aren't meant to meet
perhaps we're off just a micro beat
thoughts obscured, behind glass covered in sleet
Sure there are those, who wish to exploit
but really in the end, what's the point?
We're all merely visitors, in this joint
Trying our best, with words to annoint
Cloisterd in shadows, wanting to be found
glimmers of earlier selves, clowning around
When others laugh, why do our fears compound?
Downturned mouths, strangled crying sounds
Embarrassing moments, last an eternity
Sometimes I'm my very worst enemy
Thinking hidden messages, are meant for me
Is that what poetry is meant to be?
I let essential words, roll off my lips
Credentials have no taste, when I take deep sips
Preferring a message, from a page that drips
My mind unfocused, takes many trips
I like the power, of words intrinsic
Flavors and texture, is what I like to lick
If it's too saccharin and sweet it makes me sick
My pleasure comes, from words hot and thick
So you see, I too like to word explore
Words found, behind a cryptic door
I start upright, end up on the floor
Keep on reading, until I can't absorb anymore!
Written at the request of James Horn.
Response to his "to Come Back Again" Poem.
Thanks James, our interaction led to a poem of the day!
Do you feel an ache from your virgin breasts,
as you paint the Madonna whom God blessed?
Your eyes present an almost haunted glow,
hands delicate barely hold onto brush.
Insanity almost seems within your reach.
You barely smile as you look my way.
I'm left to wonder where I should gaze.
Mother leans forward baby speaks in ear.
Are you cultured woman able to hear?
Has the Christ child left you in darkness?
Will light ever shine beneath your cloak of black?
Perhaps downturned lips will rise in ecstacy!
A child to love who suckles at your breast.
Secret joyful sounds a heart caressed.
Attempt at an inverted Sonnet for the renaisance
woman-- 2nd in the series contest.
Sponsor Cyndi Macmillan
Self portrait with her painting a picture
of Christ child wispering in Mary's ear.
Long to touch the rows u p o n rows of coneflowers,
but the bees, they b u z z, and the butterflies own.
Favorite intrepid host, the red-winged blackbird, towers
over the purpleness of his downturned petal throne.
Eyes flit back and forth as g o l d e n splashes cool
the p i n e y pond of koi. Serenity of zephyr scent
sends introspective id swimming like this school —
no longer in this worrisome world, exhaustion spent.
Traverse the paths of no work, no play - merely a b a n d o n
to holly bushes, lady slippers, roses with whimsical names.
Snowball hydrangeas, blueberries like goose pimples - stand in
the nether of shadow and sun, the hometown of God’s acclaim.
Close my eyes - bluster of multicolored petals from the sky,
cover my i n v i s i b l e frame… uninvited flocks gather
in an undecided decade of “don’t know when or why.”
P o s t u r i n g — shan’t get myself in a botanical lather.
Have faith, the untouchables are thriving with grace,
waiting for the usual feet to pass time, adorn this place.
7/31/2020
Silent one’s Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies! Poetry Contest
She has the tools to draw you in,
without such tricks as flesh or skin,
perfect orbs that stun unknown:
eyes that spoke, to me alone.
Every feeling would they betray,
want and hatred as clear as day,
love and need given full show,
fear and woe when she was low.
Never shall I again receive
from her the look that makes doubt leave,
or the glance to still my heart:
now are we too far apart.
In my arrogance, I can see
that her face darkened without me.
The eyes that once shone our way
are now downturned, without play.
What I would do to get once more
those lights to open my soul's door.
They will not though, through my fault.
Yet, my yearnings never halt.
Bleach floods over British Empire blues
Prussian wealth fragmenting into rust
Ochre pouring from the distilleries of eyes
Hidden downturned under peek-a-boo fringes
The lustre of ink wells overflowing where
The sun never sets. Lace and horses make
A violent mix like sulphuric acid, a maggot
Eating at the Boadicea face of pooling silk
Like the flag of an Antoinette bourgeoisie
A touch above the socket, dark in their discolouration
Hearty in their malcontent, those peek-a-boo girls
Tying ribbons on sheep transformed into roaring lions
A maypole of bondage, the Spitfire flies.
There didn’t have to
be a reason
no one thing
no trigger
it was always boiling
just beneath the surface
always.
It could have been
the number of soldiers
lying empty on the desk
next to the ashtray.
You know the one
the one that left
the two scars
the one into which you
stamped your anger
hostility
hopelessness.
I could always tell
in the car
Adele’s playing
the hours will not pass
quickly
it will be a long night
a call to arms
a call in the morning
“I won’t be in today
something’s come up.”
And blood
would seemingly trickle
from the corners
of your
downturned mouth
from your hateful
eyes
from chewing on
the razors of your
merciless
rage and despair.
So many
candle impressions
left on walls
breaking windows
staining chairs
so many treasures
and keepsakes shattered.
Amazing how everything
was always ready
for a new scene
how you managed to
replace the facts
change the clues
change impressions
replace the views.
But then
you were exceptional at
evaporating the mess
outside scrubbed tidy
(inside would always
be ugly spiteful vengeful)
you were so thorough
so vigorous
through your efforts
appearances were kept.
Not me
nothing clean here
filthy with horrors
dirty with dread
scummy with fear
on the inside
never knowing when
the other heel was going
to drop or when
peacekeepers would
appear skeptical again
arrangements were made.
In the end
you wrote a play
I was the unknowing lead
the irony the comedy
the blasphemy
great theatre
it didn’t win me awards
you got me put away
what a drama!
Your performance epic
your sad woman’s show!
No sweat
took on the bout
no man could win
no sweat
it was the principle of it
I wasn’t lying down but
the judge she didn’t see it
my way
funny that
k’od.
Oh, but now!
But now!
I have today
freedom never
tasted so good
sometimes I’m amazed
that I don’t
have more scars
but then again
your aim was never
that good
was it?
(click on the pic to buy my poetry book!)
no one sees them
as the veils begin to shift
and night falls
ghosts begin their walk
high heels tattered and worn down
jeans stiff from two days wear
jesus dangling between their breasts
at the corner of a downturned mouth
spit and a cigarette gather
jittering and itching they rub their arms
awaiting the next rush and run YEAH !
when the cops are around ? like rats
they scamper and skitter into the shade
will-o-wisp's they arrive and depart
and into unknown destinations they travel
for moments of ecstasy with new and old
'friends'
the hours draw thin the air turns moist
day is coming, and like vampires
they withdraw to the shadow of light
until the darkness echos once again
A Broken Mirror
A Distorted Face
A Shattered Heart
A Clear Distaste
A Fallen Tear
A Reddened Eye
A Downturned Mouth
A Year Gone By
A Loaded Gun
A Finished Fear
A Bloodied Wall
A Broken Mirror
I’ve seen the minds of my generation bested by their handheld mobile devices,
texting for a dopamine rush, tuning out the reality around them.
I’ve watched them, withdrawn from present company, looking for bars of microwave coverage, friending strangers, downloading angry birds,
internet junkies, living in the ether, looking for that server connection to fame gauged by the number of hits they receive,
who sit in restaurants with downturned faces aglow, oblivious to their dinner companions, to check who has Twittered® them in the last few minutes,
who drive distractedly, causing fatalities in order to update their Twaddle® followers with TMI about their state of mind on the road,
who walk into traffic, updating their relationship status or performing Binglehoo® searches for celebrity gossip or obituaries,
who envision themselves as divas, broadcasting narcissistic images of every party or event they’ve attended in the camera phone eye, imagining others care,
who live without discretion in the digital age, unknowingly or uncaringly giving up control over their destinies to follow the latest manufactured meme,
who look with disdain on anyone behind the curve of the latest cell phone product designed to track them through time, space and potentially subversive ideas,
who are GPSed at all times allowing local merchants to alert them to sales or law enforcement to track their movements,
who are trained to demand ever higher speed connection because they’re afraid to be, “so seven seconds ago,”
who fire up the Wiki at both ends eliminating the need for scholarly research or retention of thought,
who self-publish their diaries and essays as open blogs pretending that makes them journalistic writers,
who trust all their personal information to cloud networks they don’t begin to understand,
Black-eyed Susan, a Summer doll.
Bright, yellow, with downturned petals.
My childhood shadow skips along
the trail with honeysuckle scent.
Flow’rs stunning in a garden fete.
Her sunrays smile in a vast field.
Petals dance in a circle ‘round
Susan’s sun-soaked, ebony eye.
timeout
polished sandstone grains
fine trickle through time's measure
in downturned hourglass
made out of dust
man grinds man to dust
harsh words make quicksand for him
dust speaks up for dust
Elah unveiled
in Elah's vale
a stone's throw from enigma
gigantic hate falls
A Life
My life has three stages, I was young once
it didn`t last so long, and the downturned came
in my middle thirties, I sank into a gloom which
now is called depression, everything terrible happened
in quick succession divorce, booze and lose women.
I sought company with people who were my inferiors
and they took advantage of my need to be liked.
It took a long time to get out of this fog I never got the help
I needed all I heard was “pull yourself together.”
But dawn came into my life I went to live in Portugal
I discovered the joy of writing and the pleasure of silence.
I have lived a wonderful life for thirty years and let
go of my ego, to enjoy the day I have the freedom to do nothing
And feel good about it. Today I have been listening to music
on you tube until the strange cat that lives on the terrace
protested; well” the three tenors” sing loudly.
There is much poverty among the old also in Portugal should
I feel guilty because my life is good? No, I will not have slept
on a park bench I have been through the mill, and it was luck
that got me out of it, so I go on living as long as it lasts
I look into my child’s eyes
Brown pools of innocence
And I see my reflection
A silhouette of heartbreak
I want to go back in time
I want to hold her tighter
I need to tell her I love her
And I’ll never let her go
But I did that fateful day
Repeatedly I screamed her name
My movements were slow
Everyone else was frozen in time
The water felt like quicksand
My enemy in my time of need
Waves crashing, distancing me
With each fall, they laugh at me
Another soul they are about to steal
Adding to their marine collection
My cries, fearful, they go unheard
The seagulls fly past, mocking me
I keep running in slow motion
Like I’m sloshing through molasses
The unbearable pain in my chest
My heart gone by ocean’s erosion
The salt fills my lungs, burning with fire
Panicking in despair, I see her body
Downturned, arms outstretched
Flying with the ones that took her from me
I beg her to breathe, I demand that she listens
I call her name in frustration
But she never responds to me
Her silence torments my ears
I hold her in my tight embrace
I tell her I love her…baby, I love you
I want to see her smile at me
I try to rewind time but it refuses
The twinkle in her eyes, darkened by death,
Reflects overwhelming heartbreak
A paralyzing sadness turned into numbness
The water took two lives that day.
~
"Give me a whisper and give me a sigh"
Those soft words following the emotions in your eyes
exhale poetry on my whimpered dreams
Take from me all that I can give while
reaching for that sunset…a distant prism of light
"Give me a kiss before you, tell me goodbye"
Soft lips in sad shapes, downturned towards darkened fears,
moist as they meet in wilted wishes
Walking away…a silhouette of that which I long for
as tears drift on silent zephyrs
"Don't you take it so hard now and please don't take it so bad"
To know this feeling, I swear I don’t,
still calling out in echoed chants flowing naked valleys
Hoping you hear, praying you smile, asking you to listen
before the moon fractures in cosmic sorrow
"I'll still be thinkin' of you and the times we had...baby"
Eternal visions find you and me, hand in hand,
dancing on quiet shores, melodic surf rhythms
In memories of what can be, should be
as stars drip into anguished teacups pleading
"Don’t you cry tonight…"
Written with a little help from the Guns n Roses song, “Don’t Cry”
The italicized lines are lyrics from their song
This song came on the radio today and it reminded me I had written this poem.
I thought it would be appropriate for today…this is a repost
John Hamilton and Heidi Sands may recognize this
but hopefully it is new to you.
I hope you enjoy it.
Weaver birds near Escombe, where I was raised ...
Doing their weaving with palm leaves, cut precisely
With little beaks, for bare Acacias across the yard ...
Now nests like fruit: wide downturned mouths - not for hospitality -
But for raising another free generation in RSA
RSA: Republic of South Africa, changing while not!
The more it changes, the more it stays the same
Only the desire for dollars & MacDonalds are taught and caught
Not America's law and order, creativity & efficiency -
We forgive ourselves ... as pastor Anil Kant (YouTube) sings to me
The life of the Spirit speaks loudly, yet without language
"Live for things above, not merely for those on earth;
Whom do you really serve? With equal zeal for Jesus?"
All the wealth - of old the gold, diamonds - of Africa
Won't ever save one human. Hark angels sing to us ....