Best Flustered Poems
A kind word, of course,
Can soothe the flustered soul or bring a smile
To a frowning face. That’s a given, but
In one’s troubled times, words still are
Only words.
Naked they become, for we see right through them when
Sincerity is misspoken and devoid of thoughtful deed.
Simple gestures are more meaningful than pretty words.
Persuasive poets perhaps pen verses to their beloved
Elegant and extravagant like pearls. Empty all the same
Are artful words given in pretense or with thought of recompense.
Kindness for me is found in action!
Lovers - real and honest lovers - are
Obliging, and they are more than kind!
Unabashedly they step in to defend those whom they hold dear.
During good times and bad, they will be there,
Enduring every hardship by their lover’s side,
Relinquishing their own needs for the needs of their adored.
Thank God if such a man or woman
Has ever graced your life.
Actions of their ardor
Never should be taken for granted.
Words can be loud with promises,
Overflowing also with
Romance! But only a fool would
Deny that one's exhibition of love is
So much the sweeter!
Written March 29, 2016 for the Cliche contest of Silent One
"Tease for Two"
“Ein bisschen Zucker
mit Ihrer Sahne, Sir?“
German accent
smoky toned
she purred
Periwinkles suavely winked,
then played with his -
cufflinks
“Not now Schvee Tart”
he said holding his attache tight
looking across the room
grinning Lupine Blues
a slight smile on his lips,
bemused,
“Service calls,
her name is
"Q”
Across the dance floor
all eyes turned
Parting tall bus boys, handsome waiters
matrons with their peach blinis, their tart apple martinis
flustered debutantes
all poetic unsure
first time daters
dilettantes
rubbed their -
eyes again, they blinked
made way, made room,
for Q's
sashaying soliloquy
serious multi tasking
sensual stiletto Hell-on-High Heels
slick Scarlet lip-glossed
VaVaVoom
As it should be
entertaining control,
further into the room
across the dazzling polished dance floor
no pastie tasselling girls
on well-oiled silver poles
The Special Agent
slinked
The Old Boys
raised their drinks
He stands
She sits
"Ist das eine Waffe
in deiner Tasche,
Special Agt Schmidt?"
She glances at her
Bulgari Serpenti Incantati
and in English says,
"This better be good,
Now is not the time to quit"
Like a wolf
Periwinkles
grins
"Q," he low growl says,
"I propose a change in destination,
I've taken the liberty to buy you
feathers for your wings -
tickets Q...."
then flirtatiously adds,
"Simply adore your bling"
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
1. lupine/wolf
2. lupine/lupinus, genus blue flowering plant
3. Libertango
Blue Egg Mommy
You know it’s spring when she sings.
The first to show as day greets “Hello”
Her morning song so beautiful and strong.
Soon preoccupied all day long.
Her tenacity will impress, as she builds her twiggy nest.
With her orange breast, she is the best dressed
and my most honored, welcomed guest.
Squeaking, peeping, shrieking, her shivering brood needs warmth
and food.
Feeding her flustered fledglings first, she feels blessed,
but this blue egg mommy never rests.
From her tree
she looks around.
No enemies to be found.
Just a faint worm sound.
Feeling safe,
she flies
down.
Look for her in blades of green.
Minding her business she is often seen,
in parks,
your garage,
or near a stream.
"I am so fond of you my little thrush.
Sweet dreams Blue Egg Mommy,
hush"
Who am I to take her innocence.
To caress her untouched virgin fibers.
This is not a negative connotation of lust,
it's an intimate overtone to show affection.
I tell my heart to be patient,
yet it irks from the rub of lingering
and it's flustered - feeling lost,
as tomorrow has no guarantee,
but she lives in a fantasy of dreams,
where her mind paints a different reality.
Art of the heart is not so simple -
in our predicament of sensibility
and it would be selfish
to convince her to stay,
but tragic to let her leave
and then she tells me how
she cant live without me,
so we remain helpless,
two souls on two different shores -
content with being lost at sea.
Simple Musing
Silent One
30 October 2019
Honestly, I feel I am a grown-up child
I express my feelings intense or mild
As and when they take birth, never concealing
Not allowing them to settle, before revealing
Even minor mishaps of mine or others upset me
However hard I try to pretend they don’t touch me
My countenance will show how vulnerable I am
And my body language will reveal I am not quite calm
Being too sensitive to life’s trials and tribulations
Get easily flustered on facing adverse situations
I trust people outright never suspecting their wiles
And land in difficulty easily duped by their smiles
Often, I put on a mask to hide my diffidence
And act nonchalant with an air of confidence
But the mask makes me sometimes breathless
And I expose myself feeling utterly helpless
I feel unease as I see pain and suffering all around
Now I don’t have them to seriously confront,
Yet a nameless disquiet weighs me down
At the sight of hundreds cruelly beaten down
I train my mind not to withdraw into my own shell
When all around, I see misery, hatred, and violence swell
I wish my heart were the fount of gushing love
And with the olive branch of peace, soar like a dove
I long to shed a ray of light into a heart darkened in despair
Give it a momentary flash of cheer through kind acts of repair
I cannot be a beacon of light to illumine all around
But can be a candle to dispel traces of gloom that surround
I pray God to help me plod through the right way
Enabling me to face challenges with strength each day
I know life can flourish only with God’s loving grace
And each day in prayers and gratitude, I raise my eyes
Jan.13.2023
~ Placed First~
Revealing Your soul and Other Tensions
Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sotto Poet
His bleeding heart
Was flustered from that torn parchment
In their leeching chapter
Pushed aside
As if “friendship” was aggression’s bull
Running through crowded cemeteries
Under quartered, sapphire moon
He sipped pitied shots of century-old whiskey
With a dusty glass of pomegranate w(h)ine
“Why isn’t she coming back to me?”
“My heart will make empty declarations until her return!”
As he childishly latches onto recycled yesterdays
Praying for God to give him
White picket gate’s access code
Writing lavish, debt-ridden sonatas,
In whiplashed curiosity,
On why she chose to forget him
Unbeknownst to decrepit author
That he
Could simply
Return the favor
©Drake J. Eszes
Some poets take Soup contests so seriously
If they lose they respond so injuriously
We’re here to have fun; isn’t that really the point?
And a czar of ALL contests, we just won’t anoint
We win and we lose but grow tired of the whining
The stress, grief and tension are all now combining
If you suffer poormewhininglosersyndrome
Just remember the prize you can’t always take home
We all spend a lot of time writing for contests
If we win only one, we should feel we are blessed
We must all learn to eat humble pie now and then
And put an end to brooding like flustered old hens
BLUE
The rain startled the clouds and fell like
a scare of possibilities. The day toggled
from then to now like a withering widow
A flustered squirrel sat and squirmed
and still nibbled at a dry stump
like eliciting poetry off ancient prose
Some never knew the intent of need
others feigned disinterest in inquests
turning over their earths again and again
I read the prognosis of your vertigo
And derived a rider. That it was mere
Math to team up or to sleep in the buff
An unpredicted rite of passage
after all shenanigans stand erased
to uncover new aquifer in antique spandrel.
To discover that the sky was never this blue.
10 Nov 13
For Chris' contest
I have been angry at the world these days
I think I have just been flustered at my own sins,
so much I have been storming on the earth.
I have been cursing at race for existing
been complaining at critics,
been cursing homophobia
been crying over body judging people.
I am full of anger, some of it is funny
I am angry at slow network,
at authors who killed my favorite character
at trees that don't have shades,
at the air fill bags of chips in my house,
at celebrities for not giving me a shout out,
at people who never liked me back.
just been angry,
that's the only feeling I can ignite and subside,
I can use diversity to calm down,
use positive criticism to relax,
use open minded people to sleep well
or just a comedy to laugh.
but I still choose to be angry,
to be storm and thunder, '
because if I stop being angry,
I'll just be rain
and I have no control over that.
A gauzy haze rises from the flickering gas light,
revealing the face of a blushing coquette.
Stepping through time in voluminous dress, bustled and bowed,
a petite silhouette.
She offers her hand to the handsome uniformed, callow cadet.
She moves with eloquence, poise and grace;
He, smitten by her charming demeanor, peaceful, porcelain, angelic face.
Flustered at first, heart pounding accepting his advances,
a gentle kiss and lingering embraces.
The afternoon brought festivities of equestrian competition.
Young cadets, eager to advance, entered to raise their rank and position;
His prowess boasted by the charm of his lady admirer's recognition.
She arrives in a brimmed bonnet, settling in her seat, vying for clear view;
Awaiting her chivalrous cavalier,
preparing, taking position, for the race to ensue.
A shot is fired, she sees him from afar,
waving his silk flag of gold, green and blue.
Gallant and proud, spurring his steady steed without yield.
Thunderous hooves in a cloud of dust, neck and neck as he rounds the field;
Pursing only, the love of his lady, and winning the coveted, golden shield.
February 6, 2017 For Stepping Through Time Contest, February 22, 2017
I remember how mom treasured every moment
she somehow stretched time
never seeming to be rushed or flustered
always keeping busy with something in the works
a mind that never ceased
the wheels turning and churning
her life a tribute to the joy
that could be found in every instant
I remember vividly the scent of freedom
that first morning after highschool was out
and summer vacation began
it was then I had a peek at mom’s morning routine
after the young ones left on the school bus
there I was I’d watch somewhat of
an intruder on mom’s personal time
she would open all doors and windows
to let the country air into the house
it was magnificent and intoxicating
~ that smell of sudden freedom
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2025, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 6, 2019 for contest CHILDHOOD MEMORIES sponsored by CHANTELLE ANNE COOKE - RANKED 3RD
Looking all around me and becoming more aware,
Of the people and surroundings at which many children stare.
I come to terms and realize the acts of hate I see,
And now I fear that this same scene will soon envelope me.
Walking on a lonesome road, though crowded it may seem,
I pass through silent hordes of people hushing silent screams.
Beside me standing hand-in-hand, an older man and wife,
I wonder if they thought like me, what happened to their life.
I reminisce now further back before these broken days,
A time of wasting food and drink and dressing different ways.
But now we all look just alike in tattered grays and browns,
Drifting through these damaged streets and sporting matching frowns.
I thought we'd left the two world wars and poverty behind,
To linger in our broken books and fill an older time.
A time where death would cloud the world with sorrow and disease,
And fear would plant itself within the innocent with ease.
This made me think and look around for Noah and his arc,
And for the first time since the night I heard a flustered lark.
I quickly turned around to spot within a child's hands,
An injured bird whose time had brought it here from other lands.
The child stole a piece of thread from a redbreast robin's nest,
And wrapped around the ailing bird a splint so it could rest.
An hour past the lark took flight and answered to the wild;
The only resting place of hope is in the bright eyes of a child.
Created by the hammer of God, angels joyfully sing before His throne
The Seraphim, angels to be awed in the first order they stand alone
I was such a celestial creature, with six wings I have faithfully flown
Falling to earth a seismic seizure, now two wings a delinquent drone
I fell in love with mortal man, his tender kiss I’ve never really known
A fallen angel without a plan, in love's embrace I have been thrown
Such a venomous virtue, this nectar of love a calamitous cyclone
I have passed my curfew, God have pity on me and not condone
Between heaven and hell, love’s sting keeps me grounded like stone
I am under his salacious spell, a flustered fallen angel for his very own
Condemned for love eternal, such a crime that I have gallantly grown
As two lovers burn infernal, forgive us, God, for we both deeply depone.
Aug.04.2017
Fallen Angel
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
Bessie had many children
Twelve to be exact
All grown up and gone now
Leaving only Bessie, husband Bert and Bella the cat
With childbirth and ageing
Bessie’s breasticles had paid the price
Gravity had taken its toll
Her breasticles now touched the ground ….that not being terribly nice!
Bra’s no longer held them in
They just fell out and dropped to the floor
Bessie was fed up and helpless
She couldn’t take it anymore
The problem was her breasticles were constantly on the ground
So going out was such a troublesome task
“You are standing on my breasticles “ she would tell people
“ Can you please get off them ” she would politely ask
One very busy day Bessie was at the end of her tether
She was flustered, frustrated and so very hot
She grabbed and heaved up her breasticles
And tied them in a double knot!
I
I am disinfected, sanitised from touch and eyes
Do not hold me. I am Bakelite and you smolder
Sat solid, the wall cold against my spine. A back-rest
To concrete electrocution.
I am distilled from Suburbia and Bohemian at Brandenberg
Rigid and saturnine. Heavy lidded Lichtenstein moons
And ruby lip and cheek.
Dumb-flustered and silent rictus
Nothing changes.
II
She edges closer with ostentatious mute steps. Like a bride
And thrice as white with crimson orb flowing underneath
Her caped wings and paper hat. Tiny dragging movements
As though her legs could snap
This marionette matchstick girl unfurls her bouquet of fingers intertwined
And ruffles from her drapes fragments of paper and a tiny plastic cup
I do not notice her. The bleach sticks heavy to the throat and
She envenoms me to the core stomach
She speaks. It is static heavy and foriegn, black-lipped vowels and dull
Continuations of barely literate sounds.
My words are daggered brutes, any poetry the less of my expectations
Is instantly meaningless, crass, common, nauseous and disgusting
Her flowing prose was illegible on those lips. Sounding almost spat
I could have silenced nine decades to my two and circled her in criticism
She would never understand with her barely-English cold translations of her
Own English mother-tongue.
III
People are fascinating
Occassionally
I find I look at them and linger, I study them and calculate their complex algebras
Undoubtedly we are products of our parents and the less of us by-products
We are strings and apples and figs
The woman with her ghost-white face and dress. Her parents were too strict
You can see it in her face, how if you even turn away her eyes circle with bags
And she feels lost, she could cry a thousand summers and undoubtedly should trade my place.
As of my own parents they probably loved me too much. Sheltered me and then
Stopped abrupt as death and cyanide fizzing
Suddenly trading my lineage into friendship and smiles and no, do silence yourselves
I am a maypole and the strings circle about me
Life and ambition they feed upon me, draining me in complex nervous disorder
I am a living question mark
I can feel it
Eating below my skin.