Best Elbowing Poems
beauty, blessing, January, magic, moon, sunset, winter
A SEASON’S GLOW ©
‘Bastille’ winter-lodes wait anticipating the reserved and affected invasions of the sun’s setting rays, to lay its' mark upon her surrounding ice-capped winter hood---
Fortifying ‘arms’ now stand saluting at attention to the expected deluges to carnival delights from the setting sun….
Applause from ‘knightly’ lances carry a shadow-display, when brought to arms;
'toe-elbowing' their stances to a light bright multiplexed review….
Eventide’s soon to reach cosmic nighttime ceilings and is brought momentarily to stands aside, to hushed warnings off snow iced platforms gaining cheery fire-light at each kissed by-pass retreat….
At devotion ‘arms’ stretch their winter façades 'drawing' close their 'painted' ‘four o’clock’ shadows; that mark out each stance---
Alas, the playhouse ‘adieus’ end with sad commendations; when staged dimmed lights snuff and flicker out to blackness.
Nighttime slants and an interval is at hand, for waning sun’s rays, to dismiss their stationed sentinels over to moonlit beamed doom---
Night plagues with harmonizing rhythms; as ice-tinkling ‘icicles’ from branches high salute the night time, sky-faerie's lite and dance upon a new stage!
Down on the pier, the midmorning bright,
Thronged wives, husbands, lovers,
And sons, friends, young daughters,
All eyes perusing the grand and gray ship
In long-simmered hope of glimpsing one face,
One much-beloved grin, among antsy sailors
Arrayed in white jumpers along the tall deck,
‘Til, filing like ants, crew at last disembarked:
A long, gangling line descended the gangway,
Dispersed and filtered, absorbed by the crowd,
One young and trim yeoman elbowing through,
Enfolding his wife—petite, trembling gal—
Into long, lanky arms, her buxom breast pressing,
Squeezing tight to his chest
And stoking, thereby, his half-a-year’s yearning
To hold and be kissed,
To kiss once again this doll from high school—
And the assemblage transformed
By thinning and ebbing away from the pier,
While that sailor still kissed, hugged his wife tight,
Past months dissolving, by love overwhelmed,
‘Til, still holding close, they silently strolled
Relieved he’d returned—
He’d come home to his wife.
brother elbowing for some attention
an inkling of jealousy
her being too darn cute
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on January 8, 2018
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Do not stretch out your hand for everything you see
For evil is the eye that makes your tongue seek
A delicious, diverse platter better left untouched
To allow you peaceful slumber and a tummy unclutched.
Let not your tongue hang out for the tasty display
And have you elbowing diners out of the way
For a little bit of honey is enough to nourish the soul
Than have you sleepless and vomiting the consumed bowl.
Look at all that food, says the glutton to himself
As he serves the variety on the large dish spread
Doesn’t the glutton know that wakefulness over food
Would do him greater harm than the food consumed?
For nobody is fond of the greedy man’s eye
Nor do they long for the tongue that cries
For the platter of delicacies laid for a king
Unless he is mindful, women will take wings.
Wow!! Mark-down in aisle 8.
Gotta run, I can't wait!!
Fight my way through
the surging crowd,
Elbowing others is allowed...
Gotta save that 50 cents!
Sure do make a lot'a sense..
Broken rib, small price to pay,
Just think how I saved today!!!
There's a pile-up of people,
A football player'd be proud,
Lots'a screaming,
They're awfully loud...
I see a manager smile with glee,
Hopin' the same would happen to me...
Retail's low pay and hours long,
But it's moments like this,
That make his heart full of song...
He can incite a riot, and
crimes so foul,
Make people do things,
they'll even howl...
So, save your bucks,
Wait till there's no sale
And buy what you wish
Cause so nasty is the
world of retail
'Twas the night before Christmas and throughout all the land,
Shoppers were swarming Penney's and Walmart without end!
Wild-eyed mobs were elbowing each other without cease!
'Tis another annual brawl! So much for the Season of Peace!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The house came with ghosts.
Not the subtle kind, either—no
wistful sighs or cool drafts,
just full-blown poltergeist tantrums.
Cabinets slamming at 2 a.m.,
spectral remnants of old arguments
rattling the windows, the smell
of burnt toast no matter
how thoroughly they scrubbed.
Still, the buyer had insisted,
"It’s got good bones."
And it was true: the skeletons
were stable in their stasis.
Antique mahogany banisters
curved like ribcages cradling
the heart of the house. Windows
leaded with panes' frames
mettle enough to turn an afternoon
light into prayers. A fireplace
cozy enough to roast the marrow
of an ox into paralysis without
its animal sense even noticing.
But bones have a way of remembering.
She hadn’t counted on the ruinous
creaks of staircases groaning
as if mourning her descent into ruts.
Nor the basement walls whispering
stock tips from the 1920s—sell
steel; buy radium.
She certainly hadn’t considered
the attic, where—let’s just say
she never liked Victorian dolls,
and now she likes them even less.
Why buy? Why outbid?
Pride, mostly. The rollercoaster
of the auction, the plummet
into calamity sweetened by
elbowing the slick realtor
with his laminated grin. The thrill
of the gavel’s fall, the weight
of a binding contract. She didn’t care
about the dangers of yellow wallpaper
or the weeds growing through the parlor floor.
She didn’t even really need shelter.
But sometimes the juiciest deals
aren’t made with forethought,
only with hunger.
And what’s the value of hunger
without a little haunting to shatter
your comfortable sense of status?
Heaped in the same organic embryo
Forget the last ditch effort
To choose beyond the pail
Trading thin-ice thoughts
For a politeness to perpetuate
The flimsy manner of excuse and apology
Your relationship to One
Like the poise of a rising Sun
That same energy to give or take
Stacking collapsibles or elbowing for some space
Sowing a seed to make me bleed
Fear is a laden earthen farmer
Dirty is the solemn stain path
Filthy plummet plans of wrath
You break in me a spirit charmer
Sowing seeds of destructive aftermath
Winds of fear slowing ongoing
Sowing a seed you make me bleed, scored
Dirty filthy fear tiptoes bestowing
Demon fellow you plant in me discord
Like a waling wrestler ongoing, elbowing
Fear farmer you’re a liar help us Lord
2/7/20
For Rhyme Time 8 Poetry Contest
Rhyme poetry form only.
Picked #3
Sponsored by: Lu Loo |
Stark realization, I harbor sacrilegious objection...
Against merry christmas premature blowout,
(or otherwise) ejaculation galore burnout,
hence I feel like the odd man out
neither yours truly, nor the missus
spends money and/or
time at checkout
avoid madding crowds like the plague
elbowing, hustling, jostling,
pushing, racing, shoving...
seconds before blue
light special closeout,
though neither of us
reformed practicing Jews, nor devout
mass consumerism capitalistic fallout,
we steer clear taking refuge within
our underground (arched)
all in the family bunker hideout
remain hermetically sealed
courtesy NASA tested grout
hunkering inside spatially
roomy subterranean getaway
created viz 3d printing
immediately after rollout
ready to take nesty plunge
steeply, perpendicularly, giddily... south
to go down rabbit hole,
where we carouse, cavort,
thermally heated cavernous redoubt
reaping efforts after donning
(MAGA) hardhats constructing roustabout,
whereby protruding innocuous periscope
allows, enables, and provides
mean ways to scout,
since Marshall Mathers Law
declared, mandated trumpeted
courtesy special ops stakeout
regarding our subversive
passive actions hashtagged illegal
if perchance discovered vis a vis,
we Americans express timeout
before changing role as seekers
playing wargames no matter
suddenly Nor'easter creates whiteout
futile search until spring thaw
melting snow exhumes
mister and missus Santa Claus
thank you climate change
regarding attributed drought.
Commencement writing this poem
began December 24th: 08:04:03 PM
ended December 24th: 09:23:17 PM.
Soon Auld Lang Syne
sung bidding goodbye
adieu two thousand nineteen
uttered from every gal and guy
transfixing living mortals
with good cheer well nigh,
while awesome pyrotechnics
light up night sky.
All across world wide web
hope springs eternal
rocking and rolling creatures
woke out their hibernal
phase, where new year
rings optimism jockeys
to thwart diabolical, infernal
offal, venal... bare beer bellies
race with full bladders
elbowing way to nearest urinal.
Infinitesimal metaphorical eye blink
yet,... utopian wishes
transcending personal resolutions,
while champagne glasses clink
booze legitimated, liberated
to quaff another drink
who knows mankind, and
all species may become extinct
climate change if anthropomorphized...,
a party spoiler rat fink
aye bet same phenomena,
that also caused human missing link
wild hypothesis, I admit
yours truly did misthink
merely speculating as
fingers spuriously plink
MacBook keyboard
upon completion, I will uplink
rhyme without reason,
than succumb to zeeland,
where dreams conjured courtesy
rapid eye movement lidded wink.
Though veritable stranger
to thee dear reader,
I read dull admit,
nonetheless hope ya summon true grit
threading thru maze of life adhering
to credos, dogma, ethics... mostly legit
yet take to the activist streets
if necessary and ABSOLUTELY vote
if prior to election day,
ye complete eighteenth orbit
cuz, commander in chief,
he will not concede nor quit
power monger loathe
to relinquish presidency
grounding country into
Grade A s*¡t
(use your imagination, and
sure call this mister a twit.
All joking aside,
yours truly wishes ye well
write and share, cuz
no doubt you got lots to tell
plus the writing process
cathartic, fantastic, therapeutic
to express concerns, emotions,
far out predictions... eke quell
or greater than mine,
an ordinary garden variety fell
ho...ho...ho... within Schwenksville I dwell.
A load of unfixed weight,
We ourselves sum up or rate,
Sometimes pegging it to a kilogram,
Under lesser stress to a gram;
Either a chosen or entrusted role:
Office with files taller than a pole …
Going ahead to father another baby
Which one must not skip in budgets not the lady
Plus Grand Pa long roaming The Earth,
Not wanting to end a Methuselah Birth!
More burden fixing back enemies’ sandals
Than fending off neighborhood vandals,
A gown releasing to a hated sister
Than a dozen to an outsider, a mister;
A lingered chat having with the proud
Than one’s way elbowing though a crowd!
along the toll path, worn by footfall,
I walk as a water colourist
tracing the canal's hidden track,
hewn blocks are daubed,
washed by mildew green
silver weals etched like faded liver spots
on its pock marked granite face.
The shore's serrated edges
leach into reed beds
when a heron on stilts
swivels in still-life freezes
stranded
where he brushes
elbowing bullrushes
bleeding corn-yellow rustlings
with stone grey-blue ripples
straw stiff legs
poke through marshiness
bubbling micro bubbles
splattering in varnished water
poses in profile taking a selfie
on the lake's mirrored lens
piercing light with inked beak
I dismember my easel's gauky frame
flinging over stiff shoulder straps
bending sharp wooden joints
as the heron cranks its kite like wings
pummeling the air with its tints of blue
cutting the sky like a pallete knife