Best Flaked Poems
Am I dreaming
or have I dreamt myself awake
I can’t seem to discern
between real and fake
What’s right
What’s wrong
which direction
should I take
Am I reasonably responsible
for the many mistakes I might make
Backward bouncy walking
Crazy ticketed talking
Following the run
in a pretty girls stocking
Unafraid of anything
Willing to do what’s shocking
Sarcastically mocking
Listening to head voices
My brain has lost it’s sane
my body’s rocking
My mind skipping
from Idea to Idea
You weren’t there a second ago go
but now I see you
Wait a second
I can see right through you
Black isn’t white
Yellow is now blue
Bending over
To take a boulder
out of my shoe
They were old yesterday
and now they’re new
But instead of one pair
I’m wearing out two
The room is shaking
Momma’s in the kitchen
Half baked
Pieces of everything
Tender flaked
The tiles under my feet
vibrate to the beat
Hey momma
“Trick or Treat?
Give me something good to eat”
Suddenly I’m covered by a sheet
on a cold stainless table
being processed like meat
sliding on a rail
Door closed
Fire burning
someone turning up the heat
Bell ringing, ringing, ringing
WAKE UP, Wake up Rick
If only I could
That would be a cool trick!
I feel like I’m being beat with a stick
Shake, shake, shake
“wake up Rick its Eight,
you’re going to be late.”
Get out of bed you fool.
It’s time for school.”
Eyes open, “I‘m up, I’m up!”
But wait
You can’t hear me talk
Because I’m an unwound
broken old clock
no longer able to tick or tock
I only have hands
so I can’t even walk.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Things that make me go hmm. The second hand of clock or watch is actually the third hand. ;0)
Categories:
flaked, allusion, anxiety, child, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
"These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
~ Robert Frost
I'm an echo of the salient sea,
weeping in cascading embers
that cautiously creep through
vintage and vine shadows of
a velveteen spirit.
Swept by the corrupt assonance
of graphite seafoam, I float in
obsidian lullabies hummed by the
translucent tides, along darkling
dawns of crepuscular daydreams.
Beautifully blackened in
gold-ochre beams of the
paper sun, wishfully I wither
amidst pale thistles of
decaying dusks as mellow rays
melt in ice-blue vapours of
camphor oceans.
My heart is a severed garden,
strolling as an illusive memory
in perpetual plains of misted ache
and rotten apple-skinned reminiscences.
Laced as a serene embroidery
of turquoise chrysanthemum
weeds in chocolate veins of
marshmallow coffin, I rise akin
cinnabar smog upon cactus-valleys,
For, I'm as elegant as those shiny
fuchsia stars studded along
coral-peacock lawns,
yearning to kiss the ebony silhouette
of crystal-coal midnight.
Will His sapphire fortune
envelop this graceful ghost's
etheree-like shadows
in an emerald-maroon sheath
of pastel herbs and heal every
cell, tangled in cobwebs of confusion,
within shrieking seconds of flaked hours?
Categories:
flaked, death, deep, emotions, meaningful,
Form:
Free verse
" In titanium haze of love,
truth is but a mere lie,
never unlocking gold vaults
of feelings, for,
honesty weeps somewhere
in perfumed odes of
inkless pages,
hidden in our forlorn fate..."
If twilight roses were
reincarnated angels,
they would carve
a zillion destinies
with feathered letters,
flickering beneath
butterfly glitters,
adhering glossy
wings of rosemary,
like a balm to
invisible scars
and encasing
my soul in a
hundred hues
of blood.
But, I never knew,
the secrets of
nebulous-cloaked
vengeance which
infused in
nightingale's
forevermore fortunes,
echoing eerie whispers
in elora moors of
scarlet jasmines,
at the jinx of
midnight's omen;
for thou emerged
as a lover in
ninety-nine novels,
but a guised
killer in the
farewell fantasy.
As I float by,
in the swan lake,
losing myself to thee,
I wish upon
defrosting your eyes,
that got submerged
beneath icebergs
of betraying harbinger
and bleed my soul
in frosted heart's
snow-sealed
milky ways,
as these flaked
clayey leaf
pamphlets of
sakura scents
aren't enough
to erase thy
fingerprints from this
poisoned chalice,
that sung sinful
serenades in
deadly paradise
of Eurydice
and sliced my spirit
to sooty shreds,
in this diamond dungeon
behind sage valleys.
Laced in
ash grey lies,
I'm a corpse
enveloped in
crimson croons
of confetti,
whilst lips
soak acrylic
dewdrops of
melting roses,
that once
blanketed our
eden in the
arms of heaven,
with starlit petals.
So, as Nymph,
in the orisons,
with hemlock
fused heart,
be all my sins
remembered.
For, love is a
smoke raised
with the fume
of sighs, demising
to sacrificed
meadows, where,
this kismet tale
departs in the
very ecstacy
of cradling mist,
and thus,
with disoriented
twilight's kiss, I die.
Categories:
flaked, angst, betrayal, deep, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
Written: August 25, 2025
*********
There was a crack in the ceiling.
Above the lamp, above the silence, a crack—
thin as a vein,
but pulsing with something devious.
At night, I stared upward,
its jagged line, such a question
I couldn’t answer.
The plaster flaked as aged skin,
and dust fell in slow confession.
When she climbed the ladder,
she traced it with a fingertip,
then with pencil, then with tape—
measuring the damage
as if it might reveal a diagnosis.
She patched it gently,
not to erase, but to soothe.
Later, she painted it
the same soft ivory as before.
Not to hide it—
but to let it rest.
And now, when I look up,
I perceive nothing.
Or rather,
I perceive everything it once held.
Categories:
flaked, analogy, truth,
Form:
Free verse
a diabolical grace ...
dark, deep, warm-black arms of
an endless night wrap me ...
head thrown back in abdication -
arms spread wide in surrender,
falling backward, back, back, onto a
hard dogwood blackness ...
nails of my own stark weakness
fasten my hands to a
weighty tree of terrifying introspection ...
poison saturates my blood,
courses with its curses through the
very vessel my soul inhabits ...
dictates to me by the minutes the
movements of my muscles,
states of my vapid organs, thus ...
responses and emotions, true,
like the visceral, mighty hand of some
morbidly jealous god, squeezing
the true and the good from every last
cell of my being - the strength
and health built by a lifetime of good
habit and task, torn asunder
by a guileful beast - a duplicitous, faceless
monster that I invited in from
wintertide like some pitiful, starving fawn ...
oh, it IS pitiful in its treachery,
and it starves - oh yes, it starves ...
with a hunger for souls and
lives and accomplishments and truth,
and it eats them ALL with a
lust unending, and a ravenous fury,
laughing at you with a Cheshire
grin, your own warm, crimson blood on
its shining, chiseled teeth ...
and while you tremble in horror at
its stark visage, while you
stare transfixed into lifeless black eyes,
the face changes, the abomination
transforms into a beauty so pure and
compelling, that your only
thought and desire and compulsion,
is to drink it in with a kiss as
deep as the Universe itself .. to pour
yourself into it with every
passion and emotion you can scrape
from the ice-flaked walls of
your conscience, to merge with it, join it
in all abandon and care and
affliction, and give yourself whole to the
dim, shadowy vehemence
complete, while the deafening roar of your
own screams and scratchings,
plays a somber requiem, final - a sickly
sweet song ...
of obliteration.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Brainstorm" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
flaked, abuse, addiction, analogy, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
You stung me with your waspish words
Injecting poison into my very soul
Again and again with those stinging syllables
Your words buzzed around my brain
Still you flew in and continued your scathing attack
It all came so easily to you
Viscous vitriol freely flows from your foul mouth
Deeper and deeper the venom seeps
You just stood there laughing at me
Continuing the little jibes and digs
Constantly belittling me
Criticising the way I look.
Mocking everything I say and do
Telling me I’m useless
The only thing you could never find fault with was my cooking -
I trained as a cordon bleu chef
My tears no longer flow
They have dried up like my self-confidence
Finally I can take no more
So I’ve cooked up a tasty little treat for you
Added my own special spice to your curry
I sprinkled flaked almonds on the top
They should mask the taste of the cyanide
Bon Appetite!
Dark and Twisted Contest Sponsored by Nathan D
09~21~15
Categories:
flaked, abuse, bullying, dark,
Form:
Free verse
Once upon a long time,
The silence blanketed my world
Like snow covering an arctic forest.
The nooks and crannies of my days
Were filled with the wispy webs of quietude
Worked by whispering limbs
Mine was a vast tundra
Of silence
Across which great unheard herds
Of thoughts could roam
Freely, gambol and graze
Encountering nothing to disturb them
Rivulets of words
Gathered and trickled
Over the schisty shingles
Of my mind
Eons passed
But one cold, silent, snow flaked January morning
A pioneer strode manfully, meaningfully
Into my wilderness without warning.
Falling in love with all that he saw
He began to sharpen his axe.
Now the hordes of herds have all but disappeared
And the rivulets have been dammed and channelled
Into a thousand subterranean pipes
And there is TV and MTV and DVD and MP3
And my world
Is rich with sound.
Categories:
flaked, environment,
Form:
Blank verse
Botched Artwork Saves Town
Sometime last year, in late August 2015, something unusual went viral..
It was an ancient picture on the wall, vastly unlike its original art..
A piece of botched artwork, unfinished, and yet all over the world it enthralled..
People, the tourist kind, they made a quick bee line, to see for themselves..
Ecce Homo, a seemingly priceless ancient painting in a church , upon one of its wall..
Time has ravaged its brilliant colours , and its paintwork well flaked off the wall..
One artistic old lady of 83, she took it upon herself to try restore its beauty..
Painstakingly she laboured upon days on end, as expertly as she can..
She meant well, it hurts her artistic soul to see the priceless artwork fade..
She tried her best, but the colours, they ran and it was a difficult task..
She had to go away for a short while, she left behind a half restored art...
Someone in church, horrified no doubt, took a picture of it as a matter of fact..
The uploaded picture in the internet, it was shared and quickly it went viral..
Many found it amusing, there was so much scorn, it was soundly ridiculed..
The Ecce *****fresno, or Behold The Man, it now looks like a monkey or a porcupine…
A picture of a mournful Jesus is no more, in its place is an artwork that is one of its kind…
Poor Cecilia, a widow and amateur painter, she never had a chance to finish her effort..
Her failed restoration effort rocketed around the globe and then a miracle of sorts..
People started thronging to this church in Borja, Spain, it was a pilgrimage of some kind...
After the viral picture on the internet, people just had to see and view this new find…..
Now that 150,000 visitors have come and gone, Borja is a town rejuvenated and restored..
In this village of medieval palaces and winding lanes, this botched artwork has the town resurrected…
All the free publicity from a botched artpiece, it has been a breath of life to the local economy..
God works in mysterious ways, it explains the good fortunes that follows from the smudgy renderings..
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/15/world/a-town-if-not-a-painting-is-restored.html?_r=0
Categories:
flaked, appreciation, beauty, blessing, celebration,
Form:
Free verse
A blank canvas
That is me
The unmade bed
The formaldehyde
I can have it all
A pure white frame
That is me
The dissected shark
How I suffer for my art
Only just begun
The paint pallet
Untouched, until
I paint my eyes
Below the brow
A shade for an occasion
I could follow any path
Too young to fret where it leads
Against a wall, I start to sleep
Aged and flaking
That will be me
The oak tree evaporated
Set in stone, a fountain
The zest for life drying
A frame stained by hands
That will be me
The aging process
Stained in silent protest
Nearing the end
The paint flaked
Touched, until
I paint the wrinkles
Now no one wants me
A shade of white for an apparition
I regret each path
Too old to complain, a vault for a tomb
The aging process from canvas, from womb
Categories:
flaked, art, life
Form:
The Faded Garden Swing
If the flaked paint on the old swing
could speak, it would tell stories of
days long ago,
Of children's laughter and their bare,
muddy feet,
Of fireflies caught and imprisoned in
empty jam jars,
Like the fireflies, my memory flickers,
trying to recall who lived across the
street.
The faded swing’s rusty chains creaked
loudly under my weight, an old familiar
song,
And the scent in the air from the aged
honeysuckle, still going strong,
An old familiar perfume of yesteryear,
At this moment, suspended between
the then and now, time stands still.
Once the echoes of children’s giggles,
now a silent yard,
Images of scraped knees, loud cries
and a lemonade stall,
In the distance, the sound of an old
church bell rings,
Here, on this faded garden swing,
I sit in the past with the weight of
what was and of what can never be
again.
Now, shadows linger in silence,
Where children once soared with
dreams,
Oh, faded swing, a keeper of stories
of joy and pain,
You hold the essence where memories
remain,
At last, I am home, in the place where
time stands still.
Categories:
flaked, flower, garden, remember,
Form:
Free verse
III.
But I had a much higher purpose now,
damned or not, I would serve the True God,
for thirty years I served with my brothers,
upon a humble path I faithfully trod.
Maybe I wasn’t a miracle worker,
though I saved lost pilgrims in my time,
age etched lines in my brothers’ faces,
but it had no effect upon mine.
The abbot swore newcomers to secrecy
about the truth of my vampiric fate,
and I guess I believed I’d just go on
serving an eternity in this way.
But one day as the sun started to set,
I looked out upon a terrible sight:
A small girl running, screaming in fear
as a wolf closed on in for a bite.
I hesitated for just a moment,
the sun was high enough that I would burn,
but the terrified cries of a five-year old
were not something from which I could turn.
I sprinted out with unnatural speed,
instantly my skin erupted in flames,
raced past the girl, thrust my burning hand
to the wolf with jaws of snapping rage.
The fire seared both myself and the beast,
with frantic yelps of pain he then ran off,
I staggered back, my pale skin burned to black,
bits of flesh had flaked off and were lost.
I made it back to the small gatehouse
and I collapsed in the shadows within,
the abbot ran close, with my fading strength
I weakly tried to say goodbye to him.
But he just looked down, said,”We need blood.
Run to the chapel and fetch me the wine!”
A brother raced off, returned with the jug,
made no sense to my greatly pained mind.
He filled a chalice, look to the Heavens,
said,”Lord, I know that I am no priest.
But if he must die, let him drink of Your blood,
let him take part at last in Your mercy.”
I felt this would be a fitting way to die,
burned by the holy blood of my Lord.
But when I drank I did not feel the fire,
in fact I didn’t feel pain anymore!
I didn’t see it myself, but they say
that the charred skin beat a fast retreat,
and through the haze I managed to feel
a deep breath and a steady heart-beat!
When I sat up the sun came through a window
and it fell harmlessly upon my skin,
I felt true hunger, thirty years overdue,
by His power I once more was human!
They said In Him All Things Are Possible,
and I suppose I am the living truth,
strangest of all I still looked a young man,
blessed with the power and passion of youth...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Categories:
flaked, change, dark, evil, faith,
Form:
Epic
Watch me creep upon your virgin abode
without a husbandry humping request
to take what is mine from no/mo/mojoe months of
exsocietal solutiservititude of sexlessages unimpressed.
Finally, the the universaladity of our fauxphysicosexual spirits melding
into a one promiscus misspromise delegated by past powers
at be to a false fulminate the sexual prose prowess that we hide
in the nether neath of neutral neuder nuisances hopefully negating
turn raging torrent treasures into mystical monument molecular
memories into that never non-known nil complacent coiture of everpresent
For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge destitiute desires, drearily socialsoft
shifting freefall forever orgofaked fawned populace pleasures deso
designated by an eager ego-stential ergo everpresent freudian fliked flaked frail fixed feverent list of lost lucid loveless latent ladies and gential guised gilded gentlemen to go gonad gender hide a post penal predisposition to pissed off passionate penetration for the sake of wifeful wishes and mistress missed moments of heretofore hideous hiden and psuedo sexual seek/sought preluplentitudes to the other side of a risky/retro recreational ripe respite religiousness that alter states the sociosick
sanctioned **** covert severences, residue that fecal foments our current agast crestridge a----ffairs.
The TimWeiner takes all is fair in love and Warr-----anties;wishful textinking.
E X tendedness will costco create yr penalpussypoliticoplentypiousness. Third party poster plates plenititudes procrastinating???
Fair and balanced banalaties beliguered by biased bigot blogosites. Get Real and How love stinks?
Categories:
flaked, education, freedom, love, political,
Form:
Free verse
A nearly full bag of fries in a trash bin
is a little tempting to one not having eaten all day!
Somewhere is a single mom scrubbing floors
so her kids can eat a PB sandwich
smeared with a little jelly,
or maybe
she will leave them with generic macaroni,
a Kraft substitute easy for kids to fix alone -
but no big juicy red apples because
those would cost twice as much
as packaged macaroni for several kids.
At least cheese in little packets is calcium for bones.
Or is it?
When it’s the season to be jolly,
potatoes are rather cheap and versatile.
You can boil, fry, bake or microwave them.
You can buy them flaked
for cafeteria style mashed potatoes.
But there is something special about salted French fries
put into red containers bought at McDonald’s although
they get tossed out barely eaten with half-drunk cokes
in the same way that people throw money out the door
almost any time they go out to eat.
Eating out! That is such a luxury for someone who is poor.
I’m ok; my belly has its fair share of fat.
Folks like me can always last till we get home.
But tonight while it is cold and dark,
I hope someone will find those fries I spy
sitting at the top of this garbage heap.
I know they’d be a treat for someone truly starving,
and they’d appreciate them more than he
who was eating them when they were nice and hot.
Even better, of course, I hope all those in need
can find a way to feed their families and always have
a place to lay their head down for the night.
For the Garbage Poetry Contest of Anthony Slausen
Categories:
flaked, food,
Form:
Free verse
Running cracks of lead flaked paint, spiders across the front door like a grandfather's
forehead.
Its hinges squeal from years of inattention and forgotten maintenance
Floor boards moan a song of dismemberment and forgotten age
While musty gloom thickens the air – inhibiting, restricting, compressing breaths
Entrance ways lead to hallways which culminate and connect enclosed spaces,
hovering in an atmosphere of haunt and mourn
Conversations linger, echoing within walls of dine and feast
settings arranged from ritual –
two plates,
two bowls,
two cups,
two knives,
two spoons,
two forks,
two napkins,
two chairs,
with only voice and ephemeral trace.
Twisted unleveled stairs, escalate to second stories
letters to love and hate cover ancient mourning boards.
Segmented space divides the infant from maturation.
Cracked spine, chipped rails, exposing the wooden crib core
Superficial angst and rage characterizing the infant's facade,
yet delicate love exposed in clean white linens pressed and laid in perfection
sets the bedding stage for stuffed bears and embroidered blankies
Toppled bookcase defecates bound knowledge across adult wooden bed frame
disheveling sheets, rugs, and right angles,
its half fallen posture exposes entrance way to hidden passages.
Between walls, moving slow as not to catch thread to exposed nail, pipe, or wire
shoulders grazing support beams, pace entranced by flattening florescence bulbed ceilings
Each step enclosing space tighter and tighter
Climax turns to anticlimax as exit opens to
a hermetic cell of textural paint echoing skin blotched and boiled.
Surrounding walls of tattered gold, ulcer red and puss filled purple,
each based with blotched skin.?Encircles full length mirror exposing views of deceased
discomfort –
Black glass glows within frame of ornate wood
spiking and curling with baroque transcendence
Reflecting back a ghost of future deceased persona.
Categories:
flaked, artlove, space,
Form:
Ekphrasis
JACK FROST
January crushed the life of all
Angrily encased winter in the silence of ice,
Caustic cold burning the surface of the lake,
Knifing winds severing the threads of sunshine.
Frozen - in the moments of their hesitation
Ragtag groups of flaked snow mold themselves
Onto the shivering frames of twisted trees,
Silvery statues glistening in the blue moonlight
Traced by the fingers of the artistic Jack Frost.
11/26/2015
submitted to – Acrostic : Jack Frost – Poetry contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton
Categories:
flaked, january, winter,
Form:
Acrostic