Best Fogged Poems
Philanthropic phrases of pluto sink
In my soul, a slave of lonely black
Charade, whilst butterflies flutter
In bruised heart, as pressed flowers
Grieve in between snowflake-
Pages of swan's fogged
Diary; I
Crawl upon
valleys
To
Touch
The peach
Arc of the
Sun and kiss the
Skin of polished blue
Crescent, but I drown in
Sapphire waves and garnet flames,
Carving artificial blood on
Nymph's ruby rocks; who will remember
The parched floral thoughts of a life not lived?
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
Oops, It was an Accident
I accidentally let one loose
on a blind date with a guy named Bruce.
We went to the movies on that fateful day
happily carrying our snacks on a tray.
We settled down in our comfy seat
all ready to enjoy this special treat.
Things were proceeding oh so well
with popcorn, hot dogs, banana split with caramel,
when suddenly my stomach began to rumble,
and to my dismay, gurgle and grumble.
In fear, I felt the gases build up
like a once dormant volcano about to erupt.
Then helplessly, I had to just let it loose;
oh my gracious, the stench was profuse!
Mortified I wanted to drop to my knee,
but played possum so none would suspect it was me.
People started shouting such gross obscenities,
and hollering out unmentionable profanities.
One voice declared that something had died;
another indignantly wanted the stinker identified.
Someone suggested the skunk should be drowned;
I wanted to flee, but I dared not turn around.
So quietly I sat unknown in the dark cinema,
as poor Bruce wondered aloud if someone had been given an enema.
My heart boomed forth just like a doom-drum,
I prayed no other foul odor would escape my guilty bum.
But like a clan of skunks, it lingered and stunk,
I was so afraid folks would figure out who’d made that funk.
Thankfully I was saved from public disgrace
as ushers armed with spray cans fogged up that whole place.
Gratefully I sighed, relieved that my crime
had not been traced back to me by show time!
07-09-2018
Contest: I Accidentally Let One Loose
Sponsor: Charles Messina
Placement: 1st
The heart pulsates with times I remember
So pained to my soul you have become
My eyes see cold ashes without ember
As tomorrow fades from view, I succumb
Buried lonely inside, where silent tears flow
Love seems fleeting, carried by a sad wind
While it glides beyond farthest reach I know
And claims the untraveled distance within
As nights begin to merge like flowing rain
To pelt the fogged window of my glass heart
I'll melt into the darkness balled in pain
Then rip out the reasons where footprints start
They'll be no yesterday's in a black sky
Only bright stars retreating as I cry
Frederic Parker
9/25/14
I lived ... once
I loved and laughed and ached from my marrow
I spoke my soul, and spun my mind to my innervation and impulse
Swam up spirits to the source of their dreams and passions
I moved and breathed and thrived
Slept and soared and savored the tang of carnality
Counted my chaos, and measured my occupations with desire
I danced with angels, dazzled and dark and unearthly
And I sang to the heavens in their wildest weeping
With a voice of callow intonation ... and melodious temper
ALL with a child's heart, and a saint's assumption
Yes, I lived ... once
Full and bright and joyous as a midday meadow
Yet, in the midst of a moment's suffering
A soft, stinging moment of false hope and agony
I pressed, tender, the lips of a curse ...
One deep, warm, melting kiss of a temptress
That turned to a coursing ... of poison
"You will write with such feeling," she whispered, eyes smiling
As the glass between us fogged with her bitter breath
A painted fingertip, shaped and pressed
Tracing my doom in the opaque mist
Oh, vile brutality - to gift me this insight and creativity
Only to shake it ALL from my grasp ...
And turn me ... to dust.
~ 10th Place ~ in the "Opaque" Poetry Contest, Anthony Slausin, Judge & Sponsor.
Morning Fog
This morning
when there is much to do inside,
there is fog outside my window.
The fog I sought two mornings ago
that caused me to dash to the car
in hopes I could grab a coffee
and sit by the lake,
witness to the softening of the world,
treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams.
By the time I reached the street
rain had dissolved,
captured,
drunk up the tiny molecules
of water playing fog.
I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road,
found myself coffee and a breakfast
by a temperature controlled fireplace.
Despite the rain, the little cafe
quickly became peopled
and I had to move on.
The soft shield of fog
was what I was hungry for,
not the food I left half eaten.
The desire to be
fogged in, alone or companionable,
putting thoughts to paper
or contentedly one
with the downy view,
the lack of detail,
the absence of certainty,
the enveloping moisture
making all things
remember
what it was like to be born.
We are all born
In some kind of moisture --
pushing through the dark damp soil,
or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh,
causing someone pain
for the first of many times.
Or we peck our way through
a fragile/sturdy shell,
wet with possibility,
or we're loosed with a hundred siblings
into a salty waterscape of danger,
calculating our chances.
For all of us,
our first vision must be a little foggy,
our possibility of success unclear.
But
every foggy morning
crawls into my soul
to whisper
what it could be
to be reborn.
When my spirit was fogged in gloom
After i impacted concrete; like a lead balloon
It lifted my strength as I started to write
Of a beautiful girls toy; on its maiden flight
Intended for a contest by souper trouper P D
But I wrote it wrong in "form" if you look you'll see...)
Yet on its immersion in "the soup" I felt satisfied
It seemed to numb the pain; i had been feeling inside
Its not winning or losing while on "the soup"
Though neither string bean; or minestrone (i feel) in "the loop"
There are many places to spend a while,
But the "draw" for me is "the soups" unique flavor & style
It has content..) that's peaceful, stimulating; its fine"
Yet words versus" its essence is exercising my mind,
Let its writers and their themes be the answer to why
I extol "the soups" virtue; that's my definitely my very best try.!
Copyright Joe Maverick 2012
in support of Carol Browns what you love about "the soup"
amended 19 02 2012.
If only I had been a teen in the Fifties
I'm sure I would have had "Happy Days",
Like Fonzie I would have donned a leather jacket
And young babes would have lavished me with praise
Like James Dean I would have that swagger
There'd be a cigarette hanging from my lips
I'd have the right moves on the dance floor
They would say "Check out those Elvis Hips!"
You would see me riding down main street
On my Harley with a babe on the back
Making our way to A&W
The best burger before a Mac attack
Once done eating we'd go to the Drive in
If dad would lend me his new Chevrolet
The back seat would be way more comfortable
Then a roll in the barn in the hay!
With fogged windows we wouldn't see the Movie
We'd still hear Humphry Bogart and Becall
Passionately rounding all love's bases
Not concearned about the movie at all!
So now I am living in my fifties
I'm Fifty three years old to be exact
The back seats have gotten much smaller
And I am way to uncool to attract!
For Kelly Deschler's Decade Contest.
I check my rear view mirror,
Is it safe to change my lane,
Side mirrors checked but its not clear,
Everything’s fogged by pouring rain.
I make my move and extreme pain,
Airbags explode streams of light,
Trails of yellow fire in my brain,
Sirens reel in the dark night.
Written by Lee Ramage
July 29, 2011
For Nette Onclaud’s “Hutain this One” contest
Won 6th place
Dedicated to my sister-in-law who just
had a near fatal accident.
I looked for life in smallest of interactions
In tiniest of words, in puniest of smiles
Lifted my head to soft spoken words
with gentleness.
I looked out in confusion between hands
and hard faces, languages not understood
Lifted my head in hearing your child's voice....
such kindness.
How young we were, how small you were,
And I, barely older, grabbed your hand in
gratefulness, in bliss, in utter joy, with eyes
fogged in blindness.
That night my arms wrapped 'round you,
My sole blanket of oblivion.
Your words, although I didn't understand,
only solace in our imprisonment.
***
March 4, 2017
© Darren White
O' cloned creations,
mirroring deceptive diction
scattered in liquified letters,
across android canvases,
here comes the plague of
fabricated foolery,
spiraling in figments of
black and white illusions,
injecting illusive veins
screaming for vanity,
with verses plagiarized
from villainous valleys.
There’s nothing poetic about
the way AI is pickpocketing
rhythmic runes from the
museum of dead poets ~
immortalized on the walls
of glass galleries.
Their sonnets, now imitated,
to adorn artless skies
with stolen synonyms,
weaving soulless symphonies,
to please the apocalyptic algorithm,
unaware of how filtered
procrastinators preying
on pencil-streaked pages
are lonely earthlings starving
for superficial accolades.
I care not for the futuristic
benefits of artificial lies,
yet I see no escape from
these alienated alliterations,
and personified
pathological hypocrisy,
typed behind silver screens,
multiplying metaphors
into robotic ruins,
flowing with
perfectly metered clichés,
coded in complex cadence.
So let me find the inked corpse
of silicon silhouettes,
lost in the labyrinth
of virtual vultures,
flaunting repetitive rhymes
for clueless readers.
Tonight the strawberry moon
frowns at the
neon frequencies
of digitalized fakery,
and my onyx heart aches
for the unknown realms,
where originality floats
as a forgotten fantasy,
fogged behind a fictional facade,
while in silence, stained stars
claim phrases snatched
from the
thesaurus of thieves.
So flee from this venom-less virus,
you and I know better than to
lean on spineless cyborgs,
created mindlessly
from financial felonies.
A poet with a pen that
lacks authentic pigment
is the victimized alter ego of
designed trickeries~
masked as midnight musings.
Jack sits in the wheelchair in the grass
a rebel nerd, he thinks of the time
when he cycled up Teton Pass
by a stream through walls of pine
Obsessed, this viewpoint vampire
his memory full of hill and vale
A landscape loon, an odd desire
But now his body is his jail
The harried nurse to her surprise
Distracted from a patient's cries
sees a vision in Jack's fogged eyes
lakes and forests and crimson skies
[chorus]
In each scene, views so grand
At six thousand feet, he biked along
Never quite reached the Promised Land
But the last verse is not the song
Kate sits in the same old age home
A relic from a bygone show
Her friends long dead, she's now alone
Her melody no longer on the radio
She was warm and could be all heart
Now a meteor in afterburn
She knows that bodies fall apart
Resigned or not, the wheel must turn.
[outro]
Jack and Kate were luckier than some
They were free, knew right from wrong
They lived a long life, and had their fun
The last verse is not the song.
i walk amongst the pebbled tides,
where ripples roll along the reverie;
reflections of who i thought i could be,
never wearing eyes of lies nor taking sides-
for there are things that i still cannot see
though i hold tenderness inside me
believing in a mirror too fogged to peek,
searching for answers from a mind, weak,
when i know that it’s only peace that i seek
so then,
am i but a woman
seeing myself as you do?
i fear, one day,
i shall see someone i once knew
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
02.07.2
She Inspires Series - AN Poetry Contest
Maureen McGreavy
There were no monsters nor creatures of doom, nor were there fellow humans torturing me in a combat zone. There was just me, entangled by battles of my body, soul, and spirit. Just me, engaged in warfare that only God can win. It reminded me of the GARDEN of Eden spoken of in the bible, such a beautiful place so well designed and made special for the object of one's love.
Like Adam and Eve, I never imagined anything that started so right and righteous could go so wrong and wicked. How could a place, an atmosphere, a paradise so innocent, would in an instance, lead me down PATHS of pain and disaster? But it happened, and fortunately, I have lived to tell the story of God's love and grace, and how He found and rescued me from the mouth of the MAZE.
This entire experience had the feel and presence of the serpent in Eden who presented Eve a whole new outlook on life and changed her perception of the God who loved her and would never lead her astray. After a while, everything within me that was once clear and pure became fogged with mud-filled SINUOUS trails, not one of which led me back to where I started.
So much bigger than anything I'd ever faced, this was a PUZZLE that challenged every cell in my brain, rendering me incapable of ascending from this elaborate and cleverly created twilight zone that I could not figure out. Like a never-ending, ever descending, and unimaginable TWISTING road that led to nowhere, I was compelled by an unseen force that kept me TURNING in every direction. I would later learn that the 'battle royal' was not an external force but was being waged from within me.
After resisting the reality of my predicament for hours that felt like 'forever', I finally accepted the fact that I was LOST and without outside assistance, I would die afraid and alone. Having been stopped by an impenetrable WALL, I was TRAPPED with no idea how I would exit this hell-hold and find my way home.
Then, I began to pray as I had never prayed before, but God seemed as if nowhere to be found. After much sweat and tears, I began to feel like Daniel must have felt in the lion's den when God showed up.
062320PSCtest, 'Maze - 10 Word Challenge', Dear Heart. 4p
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside silent museum halls
behind glass they rest.
Fogged by our own breath, they reside--
the things we never said.
The curator preserves the almost-was,
each artifact dusted with the breath
of words we swallowed whole.
Exhibit A: The unsigned love letter,
its ink dissolved to ghostly stains~
the envelope still warm, the words still fresh.
Exhibit B: A child’s unfinished question,
lodged like a fossil in his throat.
Beside it, the father’s reply~
a shadow stretched too late across the floor.
Exhibit C A woman’s rage, polished
to a fine, decorative sheen.
The plaque reads Patience,
though the cracks suggest otherwise.
Exhibit D: The Mirror
Visitors pause, then quickly walk past.
It reflects nothing but the weight
of all the words swallowed whole.
Last, the centerpiece—a hollow bell,
cast from every I’m fine that ever rang
true enough to draw blood.
We pay our fees, we nod, we leave,
carrying relics we’ll never display.
The museum grows, and no one retrieves
what they came there to say.