Best Flattening Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
The steadily falling cold August rains
Continue to pour upon Cheshires lanes;
Over flattening fields of soddened wheat,
Soaking the grass, splashing the feet.
Stands the Combine in the shed;
The unripened apples hanging rosy red.
Stands the caped heron all alone -
His glinting eye as cold as stone.
And in amongst the many puddles
We step around like our troubles:
So lurch ahead with our retreat
Like drunken fools in the street.
And through this months darkly frowns
The cleansing downpours wash the towns;
Scrubs the spire from ingrained time -
Absolves the guilt from the crime!
Dumplings
As I walk into the kitchen, for a snack,
my mother, her apron, night black hair, and jade bracelet,
makes me dumplings.
She combines the mixture of monotonous ingredients
into something extraordinary.
The water, like a youthful spring, rejuvenated the frozen, faltering fruits of nature,
Mixing the Yangtzee, Hei Long Jiang, and Chang Jiang into a savory paste of veal and kiwi green scallions and chives.
The distinct sound of chopping drowned my thoughts, easing my stress, and bringing a unique rhythm into my mind.
The dough, seeping under her fingers, was firm yet malleable
as if she was molding
the future.
The clicking of the gas stove, rumbling of the pot, flattening of the dumpling skins, the clinking of bowls and chopsticks, the scrubbing noises in the sink.
A rousing prelude to an intoxicating fugue…
Dinner
Little boy scales the snowbank
in Spider-Man boots
stomping snow,
relentlessly
a focused performance
superboy tantrum, gushing discontent
flattening worlds imagined
crushing lands gripped by villains
His mother, nearby, gleams
like heat under a stove pot
a wary gatekeeper,
extending love unmatched
to watch the giddy rush of boy
to dream a soulful future
to wonder on the needs of self
to view a son's awakening
in the freedom of spaces
Little boy
unfinished work
putting his stamp on joy
as bits of snow fly like a tale unfolding
As a mother watches the elastic bounce of youth,
till the real world runs away with him.
Poem composed: January 23, 2021
Revisiting our ancestral farmhouse
I feel this certain tinge of aloneness,
Which smudges the lively remembrances
About a big clan huddled together
Under narra trees, each Sunday…a frolic kindled
By Grandpa’s recycled stories about literature,
His passion for Cole Porter’s music,
And the grace of old jazzy temperament…
Oh, we would feast on homemade shrimp balls ,
Roasted calf, an array of fragrant tarts
While infants and elders jiggled
Under the chain-link glow of skyscape,
Where my childhood, teen-hood heart
Pulsed, was even fed with many a summers’ delight.
Then…in a dash, this rustic view quelled us—
It was a terror we called a slap of reality
An impertinent fire flattening our homestead,
Just like that, like that: How bitter this pastoral thieving
A madness of doom I need not wish to recall--
Except for a torn violin retrieved among cinders
Leaning now around my grownup arms:
I kneel beneath moonshine, singing myself to sleep.
-----------------------
Remembering What You Want to Forget Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues 10/7/2018
Wind circulates, lifting and flattening
an otherwise, benign, breathless world,
relying also on deeper, slowly moving
tectonics, belching foully, scattering
seas...effecting change. Seasons like Sun
rejoice and fold. An occasional comet or
meteor perhaps a compassionate
God-sent, heaven rethinking the dawdling
pace of destiny…. Man a defiant offspring,
rejecting patterns seemingly not of his own
making – good angels know better, dutifully
soothingly serving.
I Folded My Mother Up
I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.
We arc this abyss; tightening ropes over time.
We are not our worst intentions,
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping over
broken pavements of Being.
We are the not sum of our categories
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance
That keeps us falling forwards without stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.
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.
P ain devastation engraved on townsfolk’s faces
A s vile earthquake raked homes, claimed lives;
N othing but trauma lashed this chaotic scene
D eaths numbering ten, forty, and hundreds rose as
E mergency aid dragged from crushed infrastructure.
M inutes after, a city once rich endured shock-waves
O f confusion, famine and loss... each groan unbearable;
N ameless bones piled under rocks of torment… O children
I n a stupor, looked for their mothers freezing, pining,
U naware of a 7.2 grill flattening a paradise to the ground…
M isery! Misery only nature can tell, but she answered not.
8..04..2016
John Hamilton's Pandemonium Contest
~ The 2013 Bohol earthquake in the Philippines was one of the
fiercest disasters to hit the country since 1990. Famous landmarks
and attractions were destroyed, with 671,103 families affected. ~
In the rain I stand
pressed against your window glass,
warm and cold the liquid runs
where my tears mingle.
Do you see me here
longing for the warmth,
the embers stirred to flame
lighting the room
where she sits beside you,
appearing self possessed and free,
a fake-smiling mannequin of me?
Why can't I turn away,
walk out of this self barred prison
into another, happier landscape?
Weeping wallflower, trembling, naked soul . . .
the jagged flashes push me closer,
bright hot lightening bolts of fear
flattening me against your wall.
Copyright, September 9, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Nature, the destroyer
Unsuspecting morn,
All else left save old and kids,
In fisherfolks’ huts.
A rogue wave crashes
Into the coast , flattening
Them out in a flash.
Bodies, four hundred,
Dumped and under debris, rot.
Town stinks for a month.
By: S.Jagathsimhan Nair, 11th mar 12
For: PD’s " Nature the destroyer-haiku" contest
Ps: Based on the devastation caused by Tsunami ‘o4 at a town called “ Colachel”, the worst affected, not far away from my place.
When doing laundry in a room
That’s shared by many others,
You can’t pretend no rules apply,
Like if you had your druthers.
You have to note the starting time
And when the cycle ends,
‘Cause someone else upon
Your punctuality depends.
It’s understood by all that if
Your washer or your dryer
Comes to a halt and you’re not there,
Then here’s what will transpire:
A person waiting takes a cart
And fills it with your washing,
Just shoving it this way and that
By flattening or squashing.
The slacker gets what he deserves
And has no cause for kvetching,
For he should know what time his clothes
Are done and up for fetching.
We all goof up from time to time
But here is my advice –
If you ignore communal rules,
Expect to pay the price.
An African Queen
Senegal what do I know of that country
But I have sailed past her coast, alas, she
Is married to Dakar nothing I can do.
She spoke French the tall lady and sounded
Sex, my language seems like a bulldozer
Flattening a Palestinian home so I smiled and
Said little dismayed over my lack of speech
When it imperative to make injustice heard.
Tall she was walked like a gazelle she worked
At a place where she didn`t had to be up
At seven in the morning and anyway she was
Not from Senegal, it was Senegal I loved
My ship doesn`t sail her way, but I whisper her
Name Senegal, Senegal into the African breeze
I love the wind
Blowing softly against my face,
Fanning it on a hot Summer’s day,
Stirring my hair;
Making the branches and leaves quiver
And the grasses to dance and sway,
And all the while
Whispering a soothing melody
If one but listens intently.
I hate the wind
Roaring violently,
Making the branches and leaves fall,
Bending the grasses till they break,
Whipping the dust around
That stings the eyes,
Finding its way through nooks and crannies,
And whistling an eerie tune
Auguring a storm.
I’m scared of the wind
Blasting at everything in its path,
Causing whole trees to tumble,
And flattening grass, blossoms, and all;
Generating huge waves
That claw their way to shore;
Crumpling poles, posts, and walls,
Howling and shrieking like a banshee,
And snatching the life of the unwary.
April 23, 2023
Among 1st Place
Writing Challenge - ‘W’ Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
I'm sitting here alone,
watching the sun rise,
life of leisure is my favorite song,
it's also showing the shine-
Waiting inside of a long day,
scrollin' the folly-
like a lick on the Zooxxzzzy!
Face is of-the-cream,
obscene mean but hey I tasted the scene on a ween,
couldn't agree with you so politely as I danced the x's out of the sightly!
Rightly,
so roughly,
caustic matches brought the classes,
heightened and fastened-
flattening all plastic as I'm being a magnet.