Best Dry Poems
DRY MASCARA
Nobody sees through the shadow and the color of my eyes
The times I've cried are the only time you notice the trace down my face
This time,
The sorrow at heart is deeper than anything I've ever penned or spoken of,
an atmosphere of dark film and Revlon
Many times I allowed myself to die, only to return to the living
The numbness of my soul delivers weight nobody can lift
Talk of black eyes, the tale of my life reopens every scar
On good days, the sun seems to stray from where I lay,
Only to reveal the paste that drowns my face
At times I blank out the pain,
the depression compiles the close quarters of my room
Even then, I can't escape every past wound I covered up
Hiding was never the problem, the healing process was
Institutionalized, no longer able to function as a whole
Each cell inside replicates a tight thick wall with no escape
The laughter of nothing sinks into a gulf of tears
With moods more melancholy than most
I press the pain that echoes hard within my head
- I weep
Deep sadness flows with no mercy, no reason
Nothing to cancel out the voices that hush my inner being
In a whisper, I ask for H E L P,
- I bleed
Nobody sees me, nobody hears me, NOBODY.....
The mascara ruins another fake mask
Grief is somber,
a constant reminder to my soul that it can't hide forever
Silence - callous
Until I can't feel anything...
Empty - detached
I felt myself become numb
Emotions gone
I laughed at the end.
My inky echoes conflate,
atop mountains of ivory versos;
Blank pages into whispers,
like the sway of moonlight tides;
Papers dappled by my ineffable,
frays of jet-black cursive swirls;
My best ideas are forever found,
somewhere amidst silent worlds;
'Tis best to search for me right before,
the feathery quill touches to the page;
Arisen from the blotter, my hand held in totter,
but before I drizzle down the tar;
Where my psyche thinks loud,
with the rhythm and the rage;
A battle-ballet of coarse cashmere haze,
only then does my heart think to open up its cage;
Still I promise to always behave like a poet,
one who is the epitome of an idyllic odist;
Solemn ink be my savior, perhaps a mind lost in time,
resonant verse between blinks, my soul in the lines--
March 15, 2016
Did the gods meet at the salt sea and have a severe tragedy?
Where tears flowed from giant eyes and shook the earth in pain.
The puddle of tears is the remains of such a great loss of majesty
Saltly crystals must have dried from god's cheeks like rain
Creation of the world could be simply described poetically
Forget all the scientific reason, let poetic logic gain
**For the Tears contest
Within the quiet of the night,
amid the shadows of my pain,
the strength I held so fast to,
ebbs, as another tear does gain.
With out the giving of consent,
it brings forth a fellow traveler.
To follow a chaotic coarse,
across my cheeks, twilight pallor.
Bare of conscience thought, I brush aside,
the meaning each holds alone.
I hide behind my false bravado,
as my tears dry on their own.
She’s as dry as a woman can be
No longer wet from dribbling wee
She’s got 'Tom' in her pants
She can run, she can dance
No more leaks, she is now so carefree
30th March 2015
Thick white clouds
Retracing posture
Atop the layers of earth;
Foggy shrouds of white
Overclouded landscape
Clogging the sunlight
In blurry unclearness.
In brown faded bushes
Lies inhalations of dryness,
Catchy like the gasoline
In simple lit strikes
On matchboxes;
Spreading fierce fires
To four cornered angles
On grassy fields.
From silty bits of soil
Hovers clouds of dust,
Distributed casually
By several printed steps
Of slippers and rotating air.
The echoes of the wind
Screams with concurrent whirl,
Stirring up particles
In fiery harsh voices.
Innermost in the terrain
Glares cracking every way,
As the dryness sucks away
Final surviving drops of moist,
From pores of skin surfaces
And wooden doors.
Thence, in customary shrinking
Of shriveling leaves and bushes
Prowls the reptiles, fleeing away
In untiring searches
For cooler comforting abodes,
Resting forevermore
To the swift slashing cutlass
Of the cautious hunter.
When the river runs dry
When the river runs dry, tears of sorrow fill this poets eyes
The words just won't flow, as the blank page clearly shows
All life dries up as ideas and thoughts they get torn in two
All around us can see it and sense it they feel the sorrow too
For what is life without freedom of thought and it's expression?
All poets like their words to be heard and read without exception
Our Maker well knows our needs, knows us better than ourselves
When the river runs dry, He gives us clean waters found in his well
When we go to him and drink deeply of his fresh waters of truth
Our soul and spirit are invigorated renewed like the days of our youth
Our prayers are answered as copious tears shower down from on high
We drink it all in till we're dripping wet, that's when we understand why
When we rely on ourselves our own thinking from our imperfect minds
That's when there's trouble, the page is blank and so the river runs dry.
John Derek Hamilton
April 17,2016
Sensuous dreams, a love that was lost,
Wind over fire, rain after frost.
Willow trees blow, firecrackers spark,
whispers of love alone in the dark.
Lusterous hearts, undying love,
caressing your body, reigning from above.
Kiss me once my heart does plead,
kiss me twice, my soul shall bleed.
Raindrops patter in my face,
within my heart, I see his grace.
I love you more, he said in tears,
releasing his hopes, his dreams and his fears.
You'll live in my heart although I cry,
you'll live in my heart, until the water runs dry.
The well is dry hear the bucket sound
As its metal hits the dry ground
From the windless let way down
No ker-splash was there found
Dip the pen in ink
Far did it sink
So so far
Dry, dry
Clink
Some days ...
Not dank days, but bright
I go to the well of creativity and muse
Drop a bucket with intent and hope ... wait
It rises empty, oozing thru holes of apathy, procrastination
(Save for last sleep's nightmares, scratching inside)
I look to the inked depths, shivering
Red-eyed, a demon wags his bony finger
Mocking a twisted, condescending grin
I scream him to hell, yet he whispers back ...
"But Brother, we're already there"
Did he just call me ...
Brother?!?
Searching through the memories lost deep within my heart.
Of someone I no longer know that long ago did part.
The mornings gathered years of dust.
As the future I no longer trust.
Embracing tides that washed away.
That dust that gathered in the day.
Left empty slates to start anew.
But emptiness is all that grew.
Another page of lost horizons on an empty sea.
Where faded hues of daily blues continue inside me.
Weathered and forgotten in a voyage all alone.
The search for love inside a heart of someone that's unknown.
The curtains made of paper lace.
Uncertain shades we try to trace.
So quick to change in daily light.
As we try to win this losing fight.
A long goodbye as time moves on.
To catch up with a renewed dawn.
As Angels guide us to our moors.
To help us through these unknown doors.
The devil’s dry fields
dirt farm, not much yields
damn sun
one forlorn tree shields
Texas battlefields
the one
recline that appeals
low water reveals
not done
no reprieve day’s sun
no wind, land barren
poor crop
windmill slow to run
water still and dun
well drop
worn clothes overdone
unbleached and homespun
no fop
dry, dingy sweatshop
broken fence post prop
damn sun
blind heat nonstop
a silent eavesdrop
poor crop
bleeding fingers mop
hellish spinning top
Grandma
when dewdrops run dry,
and the sun warms the new day
one by one I’ll pick
the petals of cherry's blooms
gently falling in your palm.
16 February 2022
A Strand (1075) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
I can’t cry
Tears won’t fall
Dried up forever
A built up wall
You can’t hurt me
I’m too numb to feel
The lash of your sting
This time it’s real
I’ve lost the ambition
And drive to do right
I’ve lost the admiration
And the will to fight
I can’t cry
My tears have disappeared
I can’t give you back
What you stole over the years
© Stacy Lynn Stiles
Withering
shriveling all up
inside, I
cannot tell
how long I'll remain in this
hell of a dry spell
No rainfall
here, except for tears
and sometimes
they go dry
too numb to cry, too tired
to feel inspired
The words crack
crumble in my mouth
before I
get them out
primal screams and shouts silenced
by fear and self-doubt
Soul searching
something worth saving
amid this
gloomy mess
sorting out my worst, my best
while I pray for rain...
___
Yet another Shadorma poem...