Best Grinds Poems
The powder of white sand holds her flesh
close to his musk pelvis
as she gasps with the murmured waves
trembling on the coast
of a fragrant mouth against a manly tongue,
and they lay on hidden grass
in an old Ipanema cove
where rippling strokes fondle
the east and north of her sylph-like
curves: amidst the liquid Brazilian dusk,
her flowing hair sinks from the lapping
of crest in rhythmic grinds;
tanned fingers exploring
a soft canal of a nymph's heightened pleasure…
by the sea- bend, he pulls her creamy thighs
like a driftwood sailing
afloat upon each quivered abandon
while they melt under balmy trees…
without the need to speak.
...........................
100 in a ROW contest -- 11
Categories:
grinds, passion, places, romance,
Form:
Free verse
LONELINESS
The lonely person walks unnoticed
with unfocused eye and unsteady step,
failing to keep pace with the crowd.
An approach of reliance to everything,
like a crutch under the arm of the wounded,
maintains balance amidst turbulence.
You saw and did not recognize or notice,
as if that person was as normal as you,
but beneath the shrouded cloak of emptiness
hides a soul weeping dry tears.
Loneliness feeds on isolation,
depression its friend, little noticed,
but there are signals.
Loneliness has a signature;
a tell-tale sign for all to see,
like an amateur gambler's tell.
It might live with you unknown
or work by your side eight hours a day,
where its influence grinds,
as if it were a metal file.
Loneliness is looking for new hosts.
Has it found you?
Categories:
grinds, loneliness, lonely,
Form:
Free verse
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Categories:
grinds, daffodils, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Categories:
grinds, people, society,
Form:
Rhyme
Just when twilight and dawn finally mesh
in the quiet passage of breaths released...
there in that moment, I witness
a thousand wishes dancing
through the shadows of my mind,
each and every one in the form of chiaroscuro
marked by restless eclipses black to white.
The yearning streaks of a journey
creating long and endless days
as season's rhythms cross the border
etched on zodiac whirls : a pathway dictated
by calibrated blows of a horn trilling spaces
in moments caught in the web of hours, to seize
glimpses held by ticks of banged pendulums.
I find myself wrapped tightly in spaces
that I can hardly breathe or pause--
when a traffic of former, present chapters
slices the glide offered by life
as chain-link of minutes quickly grinds
collecting people and milestones
along railways, while I desperately try
to escape the rising and falling by moon-sun,
endlessly bartering for more grace...
dear swinging time, you rob my " now"
through your eternal, impertinent ride.
Pendulum Of Time and Space Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Re-Posted 5/24/2017
Categories:
grinds, introspection, time,
Form:
Lyric
you wear away at me with your silence
not with whetted words
or physical altercations
there are no recriminations
No...
it's much more corrosive than all of that
this is the sad fact
apathy barbed in neglect
is the tool that you use
not aware it's abuse
how it scrapes and it grinds
determined not to leave anything behind
day after day
night after night
year after year
till the memory
of who I was dissapears
a little bit more every day
you wear me away
voiceless, I fade
silent in your silent tirade
only pebbles remain
of a once templed soul
and with a little more time
pulverized,
they blow away...
by the constant silent howling
of your loveless heart
Eileen Manassian
Categories:
grinds, heartbreak, how i feel,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Within Mysteries, The Dark and Decay Also Hides
(free verse)
On a stony pebble, feet cried out in pain,
why does, in our way, sharp pebbles forever lay
and the beat goes on
daily turmoil and sadden goodbyes
nightly terrors, old broken toys
vacancies of illuminations
dark echoes that reveal
dismissal of kindness
and the beat goes on
In a dying feast,
why does each bite so bitter taste
broken spoon grinds upon aging teeth
table shakes its rotten legs
hope waves its retreat
tomorrow yearns to die
tomorrow, at own yearning, dies
hope, so foolish, is scorned
legs decay under table fallen
broken teeth curse aged spoon
even bitter can no longer be bitten
feast on death, never aught else
yet the heat is gone
kindness, as it were, no longer
concealed in devious light
where illuminations are filled
with days terrors, child returns
to greet anew the nightmare revived
yet the heat is gone
here, in our way, stones, jagged, perpetual
feet, mortifyingly quiet on jagged stone
A Collaboration, by Robert J. Lindley
and Lawrence Sharp
7-02-2020, free verse
Note: It has again been a blessing and great
pleasure for me to compose with my great friend,
Lawrence Sharp. I am grateful for such a
wonderful gift and the immense poetic talents
of my very kind writing partner. His verses
brought such wonderful depths and a very fine
added dimension to this new collaborative creation.
Categories:
grinds, appreciation, art, creation, dark,
Form:
Free verse
I feel so grand this special day in June
while waiting at the station for my ride
aboard the new steam engine coming soon
to take me to a place where I can hide
from city noise and busy city streets;
from smog-filled air and houses crowded so,
to countrysides with grassy fields of wheat
and clear blue skies where soft winds come and go.
Here comes the beauty, black, in clouds of steam;
she pulls beside the station; "All Aboard"
is called, and so I quickly run and dream
to settle down with suitcase neatly stored.
Click-clack of spinning wheels sounds like a song;
the gray steam lends the awe of mystery,
with cloud-like drifts that form and move along
while taking me to somewhere wild and free.
With constant pace, the steam train grinds its wheels
through mountain passes, narrow tunnels too.
The beauty of the valley, hills, and fields
soon takes my breath away; a wondrous view!
As on she chugs with clanging bell on top,
she sings a song of motion heading home-
that place down yonder where she'll make a stop;
my destination of new lands to roam.
January 21, 2015
~1st Place
Contest: Railroads, A Historical Glance Back
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Judged: 11/16/2021
Categories:
grinds, journey, travel,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
The idea behind this poem came from reading a poem of the same title, written by Richard “Canadian Man-god” Lamoureux. Now, his poem went in an entirely powerful, yet other, direction than I thought it was going to go. I happily let him know that. So, he decided to have me touch upon where I thought he was going with his poem.
Some people really need to be careful what they ask for… ;-)
On an 8pm, Louisiana dream
Tastes of nocturnal, July humidity
Succumbs flagrant passions
With moistened grip, they tease
Coltrane whispers annihilate tense exhales
Under concave moon
She threw Mr. So and So onto Pacific Ocean’s waterbed
As if she was a professional baseball pitcher
Down
The
Middle
His exuberance would shatter sound’s tattered walls.
Slow grinds
Chemical reactionary bliss
Similar to Neutron bombs
Minus the consequences
Her tailored skin
Ready for gripped, enigmatic resolutions
But, first,
She had to “freshen up”
“You’re already being fresh, don’t stop on my account”,
He says with Monday mourning frustration
As cedar scented bathroom door shuts with determined patience,
And running water with a mix of Celine Dion hums from her trained throat
He stands to gather his thoughts…
…until his eyes exit stage right towards her opened travel bag
A pair of satin boxers & edible, Cotton Candy hand-cuffs from Target
With a signed, perfumed gift tag,
“Can’t wait for tomorrow, Mr. Such and Such,
-Love, your Hedonistic dream”
As running water came to serenity’s halt,
She exited restroom with shedding curves.
Her strut became dislocated,
As she stared into his trembling pupils
Wiping the cotton coating from his lips
“Too bad you couldn’t chew your way out of this one”,
The other half of the handcuffs smeared in cursive signature
Against yellow-gold gift tag he hands her with unedited closure
With striking slams against Louisiana hotel door
Parallel to Mother Nature’s thunderous clap
He exits stage left
Giving almost-lover
A proverbial slap
©Drake J. Eszes
Categories:
grinds, games, life, lust,
Form:
Prose Poetry
his breath
clouds the night air
board grinds rail
the lamppost’s light reveals
his heart pounds as red lights swirl
Categories:
grinds, art,
Form:
Tanka
On this last railroad journey, all’s ablaze
new stars pulse over veins of feathered trees,
and melt in their faint blinks of night's decrees
they flicker through me white solace and haze.
Quite often, I have scanned the moonlight’s trail
as winds can pierce into my heart and know
my need for strength will always thrive, and row
until end’s trip, when grinds of wheel travail.
Much like this ride, I'll walk the endless course
as seen among wayfarers’ eyes dark gold
where swallows reel above to reinforce
the edge of night, far fair, I do behold.
For hope is always wishful, always strong
and, only then shall my dreams rush, headlong.
Soap Opera Titles Contest: Janis Thompson
10/25/2018
---------------------
Spenserian Sonnet ~ 'abab bcbc cdcd ee.'
Categories:
grinds, introspection, night,
Form:
Sonnet
The Youth:
The clock's face smirks at me.
It mocks my glare and irks me.
I roll my eyes, it grinds its gears.
I tap my pen, it tocks and sneers,
its minute hand a finger
that flips me off and ticks me off...
This class will never end.
The Dead:
The clock is a useless tool,
only taunting fools who let it,
only making rules that people fuel
by immersing their lives
in stringent time.
The Elder:
The clock 's face pities me.
It stares at me with sympathy.
It counts each white hair on my head.
It counts the lines that branch and spread
across my weary skin.
It ticks and tricks just like a bomb
counting down to an epilogue.
It counts my beats like a metronome
And tocks in foreign tongues.
Still, I dread the day
this torture stops.
The Dead:
The clock is a useless tool,
measuring mortality,
narrowing vitality.
Don't let it tick-tock away
the waning moments
and fine components
of your final days.
For Craig's "Talking to Yourself" contest
Categories:
grinds, time,
Form:
Free verse
six a.m.
gray dulls the straight horizon
with morning tumble-burst rain clouds
look, even the sun is breaking!
so am I
tied to my bed in thoughts of the having, the holding,
the breaking
broken glass is nice
it cuts less, grinds down instead of in
in fact, broken glass can't bring you
half the sadness of breaking
it goes deep and down, then it twists around
now, it's done again
it stays there
like thick fog covering sunlight
trying to rise yellow bright
reduced to breaking smoky gray
honey, sitting on a shelf
in a bandage womb of blankets;
paste her together with plaster and glue
in only hours she'll be just like new
all my tomorrows
I was the fool lit to "dusty death"
out brief candle!
alone again,
hoping to break out
instead of breaking inside
*Entry for Mark Toney's Marathon Mile 3 Premium Contest
Categories:
grinds, depression, loss, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
Inside scrapings of darkness
how restless and doomed,
the bellow crashing in like
an agonized moon;
the tunnel hears blood whooshing
in pits full of rain,
hurling damn imaginings
of her fetus’ pain,
wails rip through the stained window
and grinds near right lung,
heart reeks for a babe frozen
knowing breath is gone;
if I could pluck her memories
from uterine wall,
to touch sun’s glint christening
new eyes on dawn’s call.
-----------
*Sadly,research estimates that approximately 1 in 4
pregnancies end in miscarriage; and most women
experience a grief period during such occurrences.
For Susan's If These Walls Could Talk Contest
Categories:
grinds, angst,
Form:
Personification
Do you know what grinds my gears?
Its been building in me for a few years.
People driving and texting, just letting their mind linger.
They almost hit me, then cut me off, then give me the finger.
Then the teacher tells everyone not to text during class.
She starts lecturing and all heads go down like a ceremony at mass.
They all just sit there and talk and text away,
or just sit there and get frustrated at the games they play.
Another thing that gets under my skin and must go,
is when people talk to me, using phrases and words I don't know.
For Example, my friend spent some bones on a whip and got a bucket.
What? Is everyone all right? What happened? He explained it.
What that means is he spent money (bones) on a car (whip),
and its a piece of crap (bucket), and it won't last on a long trip.
Another is: I got a trick that we can flip and make some mad.
I'm not sure what he said, but I could end up in the most wanted ad.
Then he explains, he saw a nice car (trick), that we can buy and sell (flip),
and make a lot of money (mad). So a bucket is a trick and trick is whip?
Why can't you just say car? Because it sounds cool and you know it.
You sound like an idiot and I can't even understand you and I'm a poet.
I don't get why this world has to be so frustrating and get in my head.
He's gonna skeet and drop it til then, so I have to figure out what he just said.
**For Natalie Fllikkema's contest “What annoys you”?
Categories:
grinds, funnyme, car, me, money,
Form:
Rhyme