Best Galls Poems
BEAUTIFUL SADNESS
“The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows
brown and sear.” William C. Bryant
Does she hear the tinkling bell in her sweltering state? No breath seems to touch her face nor move her hair out of place. The wan dove seems beautiful ~ he says, “she’s mine,” in disbelief. He says this on a loop but she never embraces his hook.
She clings to dust and nothing more. The x-ray mirror probes her bony exterior, where her lips neither pout nor grin, barely touch in chagrin. He sees they’re slightly pink and his heart pounds in his chest. This melancholic queen’s all his.
In wintermoon she moans, though she walks amidst the lilies of Spring. The leaves fall all around her, though they cling to majestic oaks. Pine needles fall from her fingers - though for her love, he sees Christmas trees rainbow bright, sashaying with silver and golden garland, “mine,” like a starling he chirps and the bluebird of happiness galls her though she’ll never let him go.
melancholy deep
dark and beautiful - naked
void with shutter-eyes
custodian sculpts goddess
so lofty he can’t reach her
7/19/2019
Writing Challenge 2, July 2019- Melancholy- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
All joy had fled these pinched, wintry alleys.
The sun had slouched away
to die somewhere alone,
like a poisoned cat.
Across the steep valley,
Chestnut trees stood stoic and erect,
terracotta warriors, undecked,
their green bled out.
Damp was the only regular
that now attended the village church.
Plaster was bulbing out, like gout
or arthtritic knuckles,
and paintings of rustic saints
were wrinkling out of their frames,
unloved, unnoticed, flecked
with fungus, freckle-frowned.
The coffin yawed and lurched,
coming out into the drizzle.
No-one’s buried in the ground
in Spain. They slot you in a wall.
We mourners, with murrains and galls,
and racking coughs and limps,
were huddled, waiting.
We saw them hoist the pall
to offer it to its slot.
I was appalled. What I got
was a glimpse, to my distress,
of something claustrophobically small,
so dismal, comfortless –
the interior of her “plot”,
that niche that’s waiting for us all.
Walls too high, above the grasses I see
Walls above my eye, below the world of me
Fencing my eye, lions of grey roaring
Reaching the sky, birds of prey soaring.
Walls of lamentation are memories of war
Galls of incantation are cairns in jar
Facing the wailing walls are men of tears
Groping for simping halls are women of fears.
Walls of life, memories in time
Walks of life, melodies in rhyme
Love from wells, portrait of loving souls
Waters in wells, vignette of redeemed souls.
Love is neither blurred nor blind,
It only leaves the bad and bitter behind;
And focuses on fate and the future to find
That it was not a mistake you made up your mind.
Love is neither blurred nor blind,
A coat with curative colors… not in cash but kind;
Wielding wonderful words where woes wind,
So big, bold, bright and beautiful… beatitudes bind.
Love is neither blurred nor blind
Gathering goodies, galls and gross to grind;
Round and round with red roses… a romantic rind;
Under an unbiased umbrella, unshaken umpires unwind.
Love is neither blurred nor blind,
It only leaves the bad and bitter behind;
Wielding wonderful words where woes wind,
Under an unbiased umbrella, unshaken umpires unwind.
Balls
Base balls
some balls fall
when balls fall it galls
Y'allz
Dance deeper daze
Etch end embrace
Live lovely light
Instant insight
Grace grooms glimpse grand
Hurl healing hands
Touch transforms trends
Spill succinct sense
Drill dazzles deed
Express exceed
Life loosens lines
Invoke incline
Grime galls gravy
Hurts hoist heavy
Tale troubles thrice
Soil spreads surprise
Leon a Enriquez
30 November 2014
Singapore
Fast as an atomic banshee, he roils sacred halls
of White House clutches levers with brass balls
American powers remain unrestrained when he calls
Armada to exorcise imagine aery dragons,
he inarticulately falls
non-communicative, faux eruditely generative,
and heartily galls
toward this introspective kickstarter male,
and most likely others he appalls.
-------------------------------------------------
My inner guru hankers to share voice
amidst increasing din
and clamors in reaction to insidious machinations fin
hushed via Machiavellian offal prince,
who unleashes clout with Cheshire grin
unconcerned about population, chaste,
from their wells Fargo wing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Most every citizen banker, and kin
stared down vis a vis fierce-some intimations
catapult escalating, spin
laughing at rigged voting outlook
gratefully inflicts populace with monstrous win
doomsday soldiers -
art of the deal book not writ by said urchin.
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Though regularly affiliated with top notch
kudos to virtual soapbox platform
re: all poetry to express Bing averse
toward ill feted Barron settlement
of United States government tossed like scotch
on thar hocks, thus an uneasy angst
also invisibly grabs me by the crotch
cuz das Trump power monger,
I fear rubric of democracy, he will botch!
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This poem alternately titled -
harbinger of political debacle wolf find antipode
where toxic brew at crack of 12 a.m.
January 20th 2017 doth bode
doctored pregnant swollen tidal anarchistic military toad
deeds sheepishly shape into battalions
in tandem - fraternal order of police erode
Civilian protesters unite with ordinary citizen bankers
crowdsource sing metallic ca clash to goad
The Moon She glares from the ebon Halls,
As the sea stretches too taste Her galls,
The Candelabra dyed as magick stole its pore,
Starry night blackened as She sinks to the core,
The Sol it shone from the crimson sea
Like an awl stuck in a forsaken tree...
Dead leaves rustle on its rooted lawn,
Wolves grow silent on this lonesome dawn.
As He peaks like a God above us!
Heaven's eye, a sublime-forged truss,
Too the endless sea He soon shall sprawl,
Painting the world, as His darkness shawls.
Then She shimmers... Razor sharp...
Twinkling... As an angel's harp...
The Do Not Call list doesn’t work
For scammers still get through.
I answer, feeling like a jerk,
But what is there to do?
My house phone has no way to check
Just who is on the line.
(You see, I’m really not hi-tech;
I guess the fault is mine.)
But still, there has to be a way
To stop those robo-calls.
It puts a damper on my day
And sometimes even galls.
A voicemail on my husband’s phone
Said he must call right back
Or else in jail he would be thrown,
An interesting tack.
We’ve heard it all so did not fret
At tactics they’re employing,
A price we pay for life today – yet,
Still, it’s so annoying!
Unwelcome... (Users)
Do this little favor for me,
and I will love you all my days.
Do as I ask, and I promise life
will be complete,
especially so,
if you smell my feet.
It does not matter if this request causes...
pain, suffering and or...
hurt of any kind.
It does not matter if it galls,
wounds or damages...
anyone on a dime.
The world is about me,
me, me, me...
you see.
You do understand, right?
You do comprehend...
my friend,
my relative,
or even stranger
as there is no danger
as I... I am.
Again, I say...
me, me, me.
As that is exactly
what sets me
free.
I want from you things that you have.
I want from you the things that you hold dear.
Worry not, I simply want to use them all...
as I use you, every time I call.
I am welcome in your life,
as you give me all the keys...
and never hold me accountable
for the freeze... (The cold shoulder I return.)
That is not a compliment,
it is however, exactly what I expect,
and will get from you...
too, Coo, coo ka-do.
Everything...
That is what you long to give,
so I will take it all,
and let you take another fall.
I will make "it"
beautiful in my own mind, in kind...
as I am fine... all the time.
Even if I am truly a fake...
and never, never care about
any wake. (Does not care if the giver is dead.)
---
Written for the users in my life...
and we all have them.
I dream fragments of poetry,
my pen balanced in my hand,
journal opened to that page
already darkened
with blots of frustration,
asterisks for seemingly important ideas,
collections of words and phrases
intended for collage and inspiration,
pleas for clarity.
My poems appear haltingly,
in bits and pieces
written in several colors of ink,
each suited to the nature
of the several ideas that flit
through my paper mind:
vermillion extracted from cinnabar,
thinned with vodka for my good days;
palest sky-blue from the seed of the avocado
bathed in water and lye,
for those times when I know I can fly;
ocean-blue ultramarine
ground from lapis lazuli,
used carefully when I feel a need for absence;
brown leached from oak galls
steeped in acidic water,
yielding ink such that when employed,
dissolves the paper
beneath the words I have written,
leaving a lacework of poetry;
yellow from crushed petals of the marigold,
soaked in tears for when I am confused,
noir-black dipped from the depths
of my melancholy.
The final poems,
the ones I can live with,
come into focus
only after passage through
the fermentation of language
essential for developing notes
of flowers, stones, and juniper.
Only then are they shared.
The bar was dark [bars always are] wouldn’t want to see,
he asked me what I’d drink, I answered back,“Who me?”
Since I didn't have much cash to exchange and less capacity,
I told him I’d have a beer, and "Thanks," but have one with me.
My heart was mush but, hey what’s new [I told him on beer two.]
He said, “Hey sweetie, wha's new? All men want to do is sc*ew..”
Tears ran down my face [as tears will do] as I told him, I had no clue.
Of all the broken hearts he’s seen, he said, mine was the most askew!
“Gave that man everything [I had!] washed his floors and walls.
Painted his G*d damned garage trim, pruned his trees of galls."
Ole Mick he cocked his head and sighed, his expression pitiful.
He said “I’ve been there with ya doll. But, enough of this caterwaul!”
“A mans only concrete attribute on which you may rely,
is the stick between his own two legs, as over you he lies.
If he gives you that my darling doll he’s done..and you can cry
for a man’s, but a man for all of that, and you’re but a bit of pie.
Contest: Confessions to a Bartender
According to the will of fate
I have come...
I emerge from the flood
A living soul.
My memory is torn by the night.
The night is enshrouded with darkness.
I wander around the world
Searching for a meaning...
I want to drink a toast to happiness...
Here I am gulping the toast to death.
I cry....Is there any survival?
I hear no response...
But the hot winds caressing the grass of silent graves...
And the world plunging into illusion and vanity...
Do you remember the mad rain,
And the wood of the vessel hanging on the summit?
O intoxicated land,
That is burdened with jealous desires,
Bless, and have pity on my soul
For lo! I never enter the place of secrets
Nor lift the cover
On the earth's burial...
My body is prey...
Time is a hunter chasing me
Whilst traps are set for me....
I flee...
I flee with terror and fear...
My footsteps are slowing,
Wearing out with the race
And the veiled fate engraves on my face
With the edge of a corroded spike...
I wander alone in the land of Delmon
The land of eternity
Calling the aged-young man....
The earth cleaves,
And the serpent emerges
Devouring the plant...
Whilst the dream of eternity turns out to be plumes of smoke
Climbing the unknown of the silent wall....
Rest!
Rest, you, the butterfly soul
And ease me of my burden which galls my back..!
Nectar dried out of the roses of fortune..
Whilst death gazes at the butterflies...
The dinghy of desire sails on fire
No water
No shore
And the claws of lust shred the soul
My life is but a womb of a virgin
Delivering a mount.
You are so harsh and mean...!
I receive you for my sorrows
And my perishing...
Hating
Cursing
Loving
I gulp the bitterness of my grief
Thereby planting a forest of thorns in my mouth.
I walk on a path of pain
Chasing a dream...
Threads of smoke....
I grow older and so do the dream and sorrow
At the end of the long path of misery
I surrender unto you
Reposing in your womb....!
The rocks on the sea bed
Can be friendly in storms
When our sails are bedraggled
Or all tattered and torn
From our voyage on seas
Often left unexplored
But there's truth in the water
That cannot be ignored
In the wind is the Spirit
An adventurer's friend
So we move in directions
To where searching may end
There are hazards aplenty
As the salty air calls
There's that taste for adventure
But another taste galls..
We'd fare well to remember
Not all rocks help to save us
When we cast out our anchor
Catching bitterness flavours
Where the water is stagnant
And the wind but a tease
Hopeful canvas restored
Needing more than a breeze
Then it's time to resolve
Pull umbilical chain
Begin a fresh outlook
Let the rancour remain
Shipping as it was
He had many ships the old ship owner
He liked to visit his vessels eat the onboard cuisine
Talk to the crew he knew their names
Listened to them and their problems
Seamen stayed onboard long on his ship some
Tor years they knew nothing of life ashore
And when the ship was in harbour only ventured to
The nearest bar one can say they had become
Shipionalised
He died the old man and the expert shipping people
Took charge, reduced the crew number no benefits
Finally hired crew from Asia and flagging out to
Avoid paying taxes.
Shipping as we knew it had come to an end, sad
But nothing lasts forever but it galls me to think
Fifty thousand seafarers lost their job and
It didn`t make a headline in any newspaper