Best Elbowed Poems
My little girl, she could not sleep
so toss and turn, she pulled the sheets
and, ba ba black sheep safe in tow
to our dark room she chose to go
A creak of the door and then there she was
she wanted to sleep with us because
she heard a noise, she was too hot,
she tried to sleep but she could not
I hauled her up to our bed at three
before too long she was fast asleep
but I, on the other hand, was wide awake
for, someone did my pillow take
and someone elbowed me all night
and had the blanket pulled too tight
Someone’s hand flopped on my head
(I wished we had a king size bed)
By six I finally gave in and rose
eyes swollen tired and stuffy nose
hair looking like I had lost the war
all out of coffee so I went to the store
and when I got back, when asked how she slept
my little girl sighed, and said “good, except...
I thought I would sleep all snugly and tight
but MOMMA bug kept me UP ALL NIGHT!!!!”
Form:
He was not more than twelve and I was just ten,
When in 1984, ‘they’ assassinated the PM in her den.
It was at her residence that the clay was kept.
Thousands of people reached to pay her last respect.
And we were one of them, daddy and the kids.
He was confused and afraid but for us it was the ultimate fun.
Suddenly the mob turned furious and went out of control
Nobody could help, not even those who were on patrol.
Carelessly people pushed and elbowed one another
Nobody thought for anyone, no one cared.
At that moment, two little arms surrounded me
And fought for my freedom,
I saw how he made space for me - my big brother.
Though he was crushed himself but helped me settle.
There in that dreadful situation he treated me like a petal.
It was when I was ten and he, not more than twelve.
Date: 05/01/2016
The violence in Delhi was triggered by the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the 4th Prime Minister of India .
friendship, imagery, imagination, inspiration, muse, poetry, word play,
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We are diligent with 'like-minded' myriads of stanzas that indeed marry and flavour our simmering soup pot!
A COPPER PENNY
The significance of a copper penny…
It’s part of our heritage
Being raised in the copper mining area
Of Ruth, Nevada
Fathers and brothers worked for
The Kennecott Copper Mining Corporation
Both abhorred and sacrificed for
It was a job
The dirt was copper colored
There was no gazebo
No water
No arboretum
The only wish made was for the bell
At the end of the day
Men
Working
Sweating
Crying
Dying
The copper colored beer with elbowed sleeves
On copper tile
Laborers draught
The copper penny
The juke box
Seen in the dance of the copper leaves in fall
Twenty and thirty years on
It’s not gold
An entirely different color
The copper leaves rake sweetness layered
Pilings high
Dancing in the breeze
A “Little” Fugue in G Minor
The Classical Power
Given by Time-Life living divided
Spent
Leaving
Wondering where it is
The beauty, the color, the penny
The room looks over and starts to chuckle.
An oddly beautiful stream of cider
Erupting from the nose of my uncle.
Kids waiting for a Christmas night rider,
All hoping to finally see Saint Nick.
Aunty Mary stands up and starts to twirl,
Nigh knocking over a lamp, she stops quick,
And she instead flattens the nearest girl.
Family running to see if she is fine,
We end up running into each other.
Dinner’s done, I head for the starting line,
And I’m elbowed in the face by brother.
It wouldn’t be family, well I assume,
Lack a trip to the emergency room.
A WALK IN THE DARK
The cold wind stung my ego
As my feet darted down the corridor of nowhere
The bitter push whipped through my skin
I slithered through the arrogant open gate
I elbowed my way into the dark world
Dinning with fear and pride along the streets and sidewalks
The sounds of the dark drums and
Strumming gongs echoed from behind
Dead skulls spewing and sparkling stench water on my face
While blood mixed with gin drooled from my chest
Like a tidal wave over a coral reef
My body shaking in a convulsing sobs
Reaching a state of total darkness
I fell into a painful and tortured trance
The moon had already sunk in the sky
I could see the gaunt solitary figure of guilt
I buried my head in the mangy fear
Crawling and groaning
Searching for Freedom
As
Sand still punched between my head body and my soul, caked with fear
I saw pain crawling all over my being
Suddenly,
Fear jerked to a stop when JESUS showed up
I could feel His touch even in the deepest dark
New buds of hope spring forth
Illumination poked my doubt
With a live coal, he touched my lips,
And my eking miserable existence in the dark world turned to light
Today, I walked through the balcony of light and life
With head high and future assured
Have you got Jesus?
Written by Awoh Kingsley Awoh
Dated: 25th January, 2013
Time: 2.15am
Location: Lagos
On my own, going it alone, ****, drugs lots of drink,
Then, tail end of '84 you came along and made me think,
You didn't see me, it was all set, an uphill struggle,
I tucked in under the radar, hiding in my self made muddle.
At every turn you'd find me smiling, but not high,
Oh Hi! I always just happened to be passing by,
I knew you needed time, you didn't see me that way,
I remember afterwards, one of your friends even thought I might be gay.
Luckily you were unsuspecting a little bit dope-pay,
Thank God! All the time I was plotting how to get my way,
By stealth, certainly not wealth, by perseverance and cunning sly,
And yet, you didn't notice, I'd always be passing by.
Poco poco, wins the day, slowly, slowly keeping the game in play,
Then, by " reading this book " by " going to see that play ",
I crept in; waiting for my chance to make hay.
And soon enough the Sun shone, I'd elbowed myself to the front, all the competition was gone,
Having be-friended your best friend and crept closer to your heart,
I waited and waited for an opportunity to start,
Weeks of patience suddenly spring to fruition,
Your friend called a spaghetti party, wine and nutrition.
Few invitations, the space being somewhat small,
I endured, guests left, early hours and coffee called,
What fortune! No milk a search party left, just you and I remained,
You dozed; I watched, excited, one eye closed; I feigned.
I'd slumped, cleverly, close to your resting head,
Poco, poco I slid, almost imploding, full of dread,
Your smile, beautiful,your relaxed angelic face,
Closer and closer, my heart at an explosive pace.
It was now, all or nothing, do or die, hit or miss,
Slowly, hardly breathing I pressed in for a kiss,
My body almost stopped, hesitating my advance off the boil,
I was scared, rejection expecting your recoil.
No, your lips awoke, responding, replying kissing back to mine,
The moment transformed, happiness, joy, love divine,
That was a seal, a bond welding an image so fine,
I knew, I saw every fibre sublime,
Our love was found, yours me and you mine.
How I took for granted, thee!
Now, reaching an age, I began to ponder.
Their truly outstanding history.
Hands that once with grand wonderment
stared at crayon colors.
Tanned, dimpled hands of a girl
Who on beaches made sand castles!
Whilst the waters of Lake Michigan swirled.
And above her pigtailed head,
Clouds moved in tender dance, all
shades of pastels.
In her tutu at the mirror she stared
Her hands loved that Ballef barre
Mother has her costumes by a seamstress
made, because she cared!
The mini Swan Lake-star,looked in her
Mother's tear-filled eyes and with
thankfulness, stared.
In elbowed satin gloves at age sixteen,
she bowed gracefully.
She gave that hand to her proud
father to rise.
A very proud parent of his proud
paternity.
The same hands in schools, years
later covered with chalk.
She made a professional decision
to teach in the ghetto schools of
Chicago and walk her talk.
Not just to say that a "few friends
of mine are black."
But to contribute to black children
getting the best education, of that
there was certainly,a lack!
These same hands who pen this,
poem,not only went to the theater.
But became an improvisational actress,
a stand up comic who held a silvered-
microphone later.
And later,with a beauteous daughter,
by God was she so blessed.
She still remembers the smell of
that angelic hair,as Maria,breathed ever
so softly on her chest.
Now, look at your hands, that have their
own unique history.
God given appendages,,so strong, so rich
with your life's mysteries and histories!
12/30/2020
2:45am PST
as our eyes met
as our eyes met
a thunderous spark
detonated in my heart
a sudden tsunami
of years of ancient history
in some telepathic wave
taking my breath away
i understood in an instant
it had all been a charade
how things really happened
the day we met
IT WAS HE
who noticed me across the room
and elbowed his buddy
who haphazardly reacted to the nudge
by flashing his big bright smile my way
and it just so happened our eyes locked
changing history
yes IT WAS HE
who was going through a rough patch
encouraged his friend to pursue me
and offer me a ride home
that’s how i fell for the clown
but today years later
his eyes betrayed him revealing
IT WAS HE
who had been in love with me all along
and here i'd been duped
ironically a victim to my very own version
of the classic Cyrano de Bergerac love triangle
dazed i stood in staggering awe
of what could have been
Read on air by invitation ~ April 4, 2021 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Posted on March 26, 2018
(reference to my favorite, the most wonderful and famous play CYRANO DE BERGERAC written by Edmond Rostand)
Drop dead gorgeous dark eyed bus boy chased
Peer assured status, focus of my fascination
High fiving idol guffawed and elbowed adjacent
Mates in droves, admirers in rows, dreamy Damon
Enriched to glimpse soap opera face as I boarded
From boys' school nearby, the greener gender pasture
Glance at my rolled up skirt spoke to thoughts sordid
His fleeting grin sent collapsing knees, mates' laughter
In typical teenage fashion for the times, mid nineties
Before social media blinked million comment designation
Our exchange over months limited to several niceties
Emptying bus afternoon he asked me out, supreme elation
Profile examined in mirror the evening of our due movie
Re primped the pair of socks boosting breasts non existant
Had my (only) half decent outfit chosen for past two weeks
Prospect of dating Damon held no heart slowing assistance
Uneventful night pursued, spun by overwhelming innocence
Being too naive to encourage moves, nerves running riot
Our chaeffered lifts to cinemas knew no lip warming kiss
Closely guarded phone each evening, obstinately quiet
A month later, bus reverberated his revised standards
Update explained to his mates, his tastes were narrowing
One percent of girls bore requirements Damon demanded
Variety other than curvaceous blonde, saw attention souring
Perfunctory level of awareness, lack of inner dignity
Allowed me to continue, lust bound, blindly desiring
During next year, Damon must have woken to scarcity
Blonde eligible youngsters for his affection aspiring
Mirror had become a somewhat closer companion
Make up added maturity, curves came, and confidence
Outside brick walled front of school, squinted in sun
Damon boldly suggested our courting should recommence
Sideways glance with my fiend, Suzie, enclosed chapters
Desperately I pleaded with my fifteen year old foolishness
To keep a straight face as I turned him down, lustre lacking
"I don't know, " faux deep thought, " Chance is one percent"!
2nd August 2020
Dusty Old Memories Poem Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background.
At the gates of Moscow
Tchaikovsky runs away
hands over his ears.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward.
From the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close.
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now shines like a diamond.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.
The night stops throwing cannonballs
at 1 a.m.
A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background, and because it has glitter.
At the gates of Moscow
weary French troops run away
hands over their ears, as Tchaikovsky
fires his righteous cannons.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward;
from the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close.
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now all shine like diamonds.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.
The night eventually stops throwing missiles
at the moon,
the girls, and women fizz out,
the kids continue to sizzle
until they are led away by dark-eyed dreams.
cracked faces
lacking style
forced me
places
dott
ing
smiles
liars laughing moons
projecting images
of
baboons
book knowledge
rocks
in
the
pocket
brittle stars reflection
whittle scars affection
try me with a spoon in your mouth
plant your thumbs elbowed man
wooly up your mammoth
brush my ivory tusks
blowing bubbles
with your
cracked
faces
?
Two scores and more years back, as I recall,
I find my left elbow pounding with pain
Mere bending it when turned a task no small,
And left me clueless for the cause for strain.
As unknown to us seasons oft set in
Early or late till one day forced are we
To tune unto change unwilling or keen,
But more than pain, impending plight peeved me.
The medic I met, cooler than what came
And surer more, called it tennis elbow,
To my protest, not having played the game,
He shrugged and left to leave me watch him go,
But turned: beware fame just follows my name,
Call it by any name, it’d pain the same.
If pain it’d all the same, I better plug
In, listen to him, alleviate my pain
And leave his door like unseasonal rain,
Took his drug list as if were a bad bug.
Pain persisting, gaining intensity,
The devil in doc felt vindicated,
Looking kind, stern-eyed still, nodded at me,
Happy to see his patient defeated.
Over-ruled, rebel on knees, out elbowed,
Bowed to submission, folding my sleeve
I submit, wait for explanation owed,
He looks up a grievous verdict to give:
There’s no escape if seed is duly sowed,
Yield to what pain proffers, plead no reprieve.
_______________________________________
Crown of sonnets | 03.11.2012, revised July 2023|
Poet’s note: Here are sonnets I and II of a sequel of ten sonnets constituting one single poem called a crown of sonnets. The last line of the preceding sonnet is repeated as the first line of the next sonnet, but not verbatim; nor is the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the last line of the tenth as is. The sestets are either a quartet and a couplet or two sets of three-lined Terza Rima. Hurt is the place from where light enters, and it did, I realized after my long-drawn medical treatment.
fragrance of
roses
growing wild
alongside
a rusty fence
musings
suicidal
elbowed
from his
mind