Best Grating Poems
Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark
knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche;
it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers…
so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle
murmurings that whisper on hangers as they
sway with the lint...I strain to listen
but prickly voices gush out of reach
from the sleeves of a night
like a conversation behind closed knobs…
I hear yet can't quite grasp
what my heart wants to say in low dips ;
like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight...
it hums all sermons of a Sunday church bell
speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago.
The moon folds around me in black suds
washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself
trapped by needles…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps,
I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke 6/12/2020
The Dark Side of October
Late October moon is waking, through this cemetery shaking,
shaking as the cold wind breaking, walking ‘neath an old oak tree.
Stones like sentries undertaking, guarding graves as hearts are aching,
aching for the still ones staking, such an eerie sight to see –
dark and dreary, I’m so leery, such an eerie sight to see –
is this but a reverie?
In the graveyard shadows shimmer, dark of night is growing dimmer,
dimmer still without a glimmer, shadows ‘round the old oak tree.
Shadows dancing ever nearer, nearer still and getting clearer,
clearer like distorted mirror, twisting ghastly sight to see –
growing vastly, looming lastly, such a ghastly sight to see –
certainly a reverie?
Piercing sounds are penetrating, ear drums deafening pulsating,
ringing louder, devastating, echoes off the old oak tree.
Echoes bouncing screeching grating, ever louder agitating,
instigating, fears creating, from this ghoulish sight to see –
Am I mulish, maybe foolish, such a ghoulish sight to see –
surely just a reverie?
In the dark my head is spinning, round and round these sights imprinting,
fusing on my brain beginning, questioning my sanity.
All these sights and sounds are weighing, weighing as the ghouls are playing
playing as they do their preying, preying on my vanity –
I am praying, ghouls are swaying, preying on my vanity –
have I lost my sanity?
Eerie night just seems persisting, lasting as my mind is twisting,
waiting for daylight’s assisting, lighting up the old oak tree.
Eerie sights and sounds now fading, dark of night for daylight trading,
light of day is now invading, leaving me to clearly see –
seeing nearly, life so dearly, oh so clearly now I see –
must have been a reverie…..
or have I lost my sanity?
July 26, 2018
With my brightened lens, I watch you
mystically zooming in zooming out,
and my eyes focus on the shutter where
a hundred gulls flap in brief moments: carefully,
I seize the image, almost lost in transition
as my rushed stanzas etch
the language of your distinct angles.
Following your trail, I chance upon
a lattice of asters sprawled on pine wood
grating my line of phrases:
flowers posing without shame, beautiful like
summer ‘s shape...and I watch you romp
in the blur of rain clicking on a Kodak chrome;
while my quill explodes with the burst
of your animated snapshots. My dear,
in this symbiotic flow where poetry and visual arts
understand the hidden grandeur of the world,
shall this my verse meld with your splashed landscape?
....................
August Premiere Contest for Brian Strand
As a driver, I’ve never been keen.
I’m distracted, confused, not serene!
On my nerves, things keep grating.
Now I’m sitting here waiting
for that stupid stop SIGN to turn green!
November 19, 2020
entered in the QUIN-TO your five-line poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
He bites his nails beside me on the bed
so loudly! This strange habit is most grating.
I’d like to throw a pillow at his head,
but he would just continue, not abating.
I’m used to just how vexing he can get,
like when he begs for food that I am eating.
When someone comes to call, he gets upset;
then settles down and gives a gleeful greeting -
Unless the visitor is someone small!
He sits and stares if I pick up a child
then panics if the infant starts to bawl.
I love my doggy though he gets so wild!
Although a naughty child himself is he,
how sweet and trusting is his love for me.
A flickering spark between you and me–
grating of steel on steel and I shall flee!
When my opinion is not valued, and my way not chosen,
I feel my blood hot—then becoming frozen.
Flee from conflict, flee from differences;
Flee from everything when comes hindrances!
I will live in my box, so shallow and cold,
and avoid every burden and shake off every load;
so here I sit smugly and never grow,
rooted as a weed—never fruit to show!
Time has become my greatest enemy
It drags on, an infernal grating on the nerve
Like a broken muffler, dragging around the curve
While my love and I starve for each other’s company
Until time surrenders, I wait my love with bated breath
Watching time, which I have confounded for going by so slowly
For that hour, that minute, that second, when you will be mine only
When I shall pledge my love to you forever, until death
For: Barbara Gorelick’s contest
Once Upon A “Time”
Enjoy the silence, the deep of night.
Not true silence for the word itself is illusion.
Still yourself enough to hear.
Listen for the sounds invoked in the darkness.
Quiet yourself from the inside-out
to perceive more.
The insights revealed during such muted moments
slow us, granting peace and serenity.
Night is a living entity brimming
with sound and industry.
Work, machine, wheel and gear.
A train's low grumbling engine. Its doleful
horn carried mournfully on humid summer air.
The machinery of life resonates. Those working
graveyard hours commute, clock-in, labor.
The stark trumpeting of a siren carries
over the numbed ears of a slumbering city.
A harsh, grating street sweeper toils
joined by the ghosts of twilight
on hushed, shadow-laden avenues.
Voices, song, and music in the night.
Crickets saw a faux-string melody.
Leaves rustle, sweep, and dance
a quiescent refrain on puffs of easy air.
There are drums on the silence as
approaching clouds roll with thunder.
Rains follow.
The timbre of water bubbling upon earth,
rooftop, and walkway.
A great horned owl takes flight.
Its wings "whip, whip, whip," as it directs
the late night aria.
Savor this appealing chorus of sounds
as an all familiar nocturne.
The sounds of silence enrich and help
make tranquil the human heart.
Being part of its lyric, we are calmed
by nature's chorus.
Even the weighty rumble and earsplitting
rasp of thunder can soothe the heart at night.
We are a part of the sound and silence always,
and in all ways.
Sounds in Silence
Free Verse
Along this foggy daybreak stroll,
I tread along the intersection
between Mabini Street and EDSA boulevard,
crossing number 25 Ortigas Road.
I breathe in the same grain
of Manila pollen and dust itching
my throat ; an acrid mound of city garbage
gathered by rain’s aftermath,
as if to beckon another tropical deluge;
and the loud chatter of headlines
from the newspaper stand pierces
the lobes with a burning jolt… a bundle
of political scoops and trade rumors
grating an otherwise neutral hour.
Few distances away, a flea market stand
vibrates with energy; pedestrians milling
around to check buko pies, plum bits,
and homemade guava jams… the exotic aromas
mixing with smoky flavor of dried bamboo leaves
on top of abaca wares; all these catering
to small pleasures of the low-middle working class.
Curving through Francis Square, a deluge
of movement initiates the 7 30 am rush…
buses, cars, and taxi- stands unload
a giant hive of wayfarers coming from
different points of the map; dragging
their skeletal frames like ticks of a clock.
Amidst a Friday hub, I stop to glance at the
towering statue of Mother Mary as a
cart-pusher slowly wanders by; his warm
smile bearing a contrast in a region
where the rat race of man is typical.
Surrounded by a collage of fragrant
eucalypti and mango trees, I breath in
a sense of delight likened to my
yard’s garden, this time, with heady scent.
The plump oaks at the front lobby
of Pharmo Industries are shedding
foliage, while a painted splash
of native robins cruises from laced twigs,
far beyond the clutter of newspaper stands,
market place, and taxi-stands.
My gaze casts inward to balance my thoughts,
as I begin my protracted stay at work.
Stand Contest of Debbie Guzzi
and Nathan's One of Your Best
by nette onclaud
Consummated under sheets of inspiration,
Conceived in cryptic dreams,
Created from cloudy concentrations,
The words flowed onto a wrinkled sheet of paper.
I concealed the verse under my pillow,
Entombed beneath my peaceful slumber,
Safe from grating barbarians.
For I do not reside in a steel fortress.
But the poem demanded breath,
And I obliged with wary trepidation.
Exposing naked insights of thought,
To public opinions and consumption.
I was misunderstood in some quarters.
My uneven stanzas documented in dorm rooms,
Lack of rhythm noted in offices,
And style criticized in coffee shops.
But my work was greeted warmly from African savannas,
Treasured in Scotland,
Saluted in London,
And praised from India’s sacred rivers.
In the heartland, school girls knew my name.
Southern belles toasted my talents.
I was pondered over breakfast in Florida,
Embraced in backwoods hamlets.
When I look within,
Searching for the brilliant author,
I question his existence.
The trance, that special state of mind, has passed.
In conscious lucidity I ask the stunning question,
“Who wrote this poem?”
I deferred the words " I love you"
Until the morrows light.
Words, that from my heart,
I felt impressed upon to say.
For sure, "I love you",
Would have best been said that night.
Still I reserved ownership,
For perhaps some abstinent day.
Instead, from my vast reserve,
Grating words were launched to flight.
Words that once I'd spent,
Could never be recanted.
I had failed miserably,
At living life in the moment.
So, doting on another days sight,
I had taken our time for granted.
The next day's sun, I found,
Rose not for both alike.
Albiet the sky was blue and bright,
My day was overcast.
For from my life,
I allowed to slip, a love untold,
Now I'm forever yoked with regrets might,
Hard and fast.
Regret is felt always when it is too late.
What have I done? She wonders…
Brittle blue gaze riveted on her lover’s chiseled features
His is a face set in stone
Eyes, mouth, jaw; all fixed, grim – a granite façade
Where has the softness gone?
That tender dawning of affection…
The loving gleam in dark chocolate eyes…
What have I done to erase it? She wonders -
Because she knows it was her doing
Knows it instinctively;
The knowledge is engrained in every fiber of her being
It was she, who else, who turned that face into rock,
It was she who wiped away the smile, the glow
Her cursed ire, her impatience, her irascible self-destructive streak –
With these tools she chipped away at him until he splintered
Yes she has broken him;
Broken the one thing she loved in all the world
Medusa-like, her willful cerulean glare turned him to stone
Now his eyes are twin pebbles
Cool, hard, unforgiving;
A grating stare is all he has to offer her
His heart sits motionless, a hunk of marble in the cage of his ribs
Beating for her no longer
His love for her has died a frigid death; drowned in a sea of ice
No more the fluid caresses, the warm grins, the ruffling of her hair
No more, no more, his love for her…
It is an unfeeling and frigid monument now
A tombstone, a dusty memory, the rattling chill of the Reaper’s breath
She has turned him into stone
Her lover - and her love - is no more
Oh Medusa, Medusa my girl, what have you done?
wrap me in threads of moonlit grass
just for this single waning eve
though blossoms rest on quiet waves
I feel split from the halves of earth
as wickers of fear grate me within--
then come for me; be the thread... and as
night becomes my morning blue silver
if only to taste this light in soft of hours
and touch the kaleidoscope of my eyes
when all this grating phobia vanishes;
then let morning thrill upon evening
on its limitless, seamless fearless place.
Debbie Guzzi's Fear Contest
2012 and Brian's Any 2012 Poem
By nette onclaud
Your ocean waves have,
Beaten me down,
Across the rocky shore,
As I lay facedown,
Thinking about our lore,
How nothing I did,
Seemed to even the imaginary score,
Nothing I ever did,
Seem to matter to you anymore.
My stomach will always be,
Too soft for you,
My presence will always be,
Too grating for you,
My love will always be,
Too much for you,
I could never be,
Enough for you.
So break me down slowly,
As you go,
Hold me softly,
To your soul,
I couldn’t be enough for you,
But neither my dear can you.
Being ignored,
Was all I had ever known,
So you became my home,
While I weathered a mythical storm,
Leaving me forever forlorn.
So break me down slowly,
As you go,
Hold me softly,
To your soul,
I couldn’t be enough for you,
But neither my dear can you.
All the daggers you threw at me,
We’re meant for you too,
They cut right through,
Leaving you,
Bleeding black,
From an open wound.
So break me down slowly,
As you go,
Hold me softly,
To your soul,
I couldn’t be enough for you,
But neither my dear can you.
T errific and terrible, loud and unrelenting, I am suddenly
H ammered by a head splitting, grating screech, as the
E mergency Broadcast Signal blatantly blares from my TV.
N early every glass rattles and shatters, because the
O N button is stuck on its highest setting possible!
I try in vain to find the clicker to lower the volume
S o the earsplitting nightmare of noise will lower, but it keeps on
E scalating, out of control, while I cover my poor ears in agony.
Written on 3/7/2017