Best Grizzle Poems
A priest once told me that the lump
on my hand was a ganglion,
a fortress of fat besieged by health.
At last it burst and the hand swelled
like an old man's,
shovel shaped and splayed.
It was her black pan, butcher's meat,
too many eggs; backed up
on a plate like silage.
It was her slight hands shaking,
the constant poking with a bread knife,
the endless journey to the
first biscuit from the pack;
a menace that caught our hearts
and buttered them,
teeth marks, crusty.
Moreover, tomatoes,
pulpy and bloodlet,
burnt my wicked tongue,
purged a shard of shame,
dare I eat a box full
bedraggled in juices
and spitting at the angle of a chop kept?
Caked at the start in the corner
of the pan, beached in lard,
over fried, sole fit, chewed in discontent,
longing for more
between the acceptance of juices;
hope swallowed with brittle rashers,
timbered and gathered.
It was the thought, the deed,
the plan, the wait and duty of it.
Potatoes, eschonced in the pot, sullen, strewn;
a flaky hand sliced them deftly,
washed the starch off and raked them in.
It was sausages, flame ripped,
dashed, blackened and wedged
on the barbs of the fork,
heaved in with fried bread,
salty with froth.
It was puddings,
sinewed and cut crooked,
corpuscles of grizzle
congealing the blood,
jaws working the skin like the cud.
Eggs like ignoble sea creatures,
speckled and stiff,
surviving on the rise and fall of breath,
morphing into another gender
or something to wonder,
to chew on, to mention, once.
Perhaps a bean to lubricate,
to allow a channel of liberty
but still reheated to a lump,
a thankless sweetener to a morsel,
not unlike news.
Tea, besugared and welcome,
a scald to erode stubborn detritus,
a wash to emerge from.
Between mouthfuls of talk we glided,
sometimes low to the ground
near silence, seldom
scuttling to any real height.
I suppose that was left for
pipe and ***, in the latter end,
when all offence was shut up tight
and we had regard again;
the smoke curled up
and carried our souls,
and mingled, indiscernible
and flowed away.
The Only Topic
Every Morning I get up and the very first thing I do,
Is switch on the Teli, to find out the latest Hullabaloo.
Well it might be Carl, Sam or Kochy/Kochie on 7, 9, SBS or the ABC.
They won`t be talking about murder, riots or some ship in a storm out to sea.
You guessed it, it’s the Corona virus their on about and how much damage it has done.
The effect upon our economy, all the latest fatalities who have unfortunately succumbed, the stats of infected ones.
I`ve heard it all before, for months and months, on they go,
But I need to hear it again and again, even though it makes my spirit low.
We have mostly forgotten all the millions in refugee camps, around the place.
The starving, abused and mistreated who daily, have the same old issues to face.
We worry about the mental effects this is having on the people of our Land.
When we should be thanking God above for our fortune rare and Grand.
There is still a heap of freedom, plenty of food for us to buy.
Money from the government and civil servants who still care enough to try.
This is not a time of sorrow but a time to come awake.
To see what we are made of and give the crud a shake.
This world has always seen tragedy, wars, famine, disasters and pain
but it also has beauty, warmth , love, mateship and life giving rain.
So buck up ol chaps and put a grin above your chin
Not everybody loses and not everyone will win.
But we can all make our choices to either cry, grizzle or complain
Or to rejoice while the breaths still in us and to keep ourselves sane.
The virus isn’t here to deny us, rather it is another sort of test,
And like every challenge in history before, we will beat it just like we did the rest.
The full moon and milky snow illuminate the nighttime landscape I found myself lost on the mountain.
I have to make a choice. Looking for the North Star I placed a stick pointing north to direct me to the closest destination when I rise in the morn dawn. To the North one hundred fifty miles to the nearest cabin hoping that it is supplied with stable foods and a warm place to stay until rescued, or south two hundred miles in the other direction where a trapper lives all year round.
Over my shoulders I carried my rifle and survival equipment and begin the one hundred fifty-mile hike to the cabin. Walking through spruce, hemlock, and lodge-pole pines and eating a variety of berries.
In the morning after the snowstorm, I woke to ski snow-powder steeps. A wolf rested on its haunches, inspecting my unprotected surroundings. I took aim, shot, and missed, and it turned and took off.
For days, I had the feeling that someone or something was watching me. I started seeing signs of bear tracings. I was almost out of ammunition for my rifle and decide to make a spear. I looked around for a suitable sturdy tree limb or sapling a few inches taller them me. Using my knife, I fashioned a shelf for the knife creating securing support for the knife and wrapping it tight with rope.
I had shot a three-point buck early that morning and dressed it out; when I heard woof, woof, woof, sounds. The brown grizzly bear came down on all fours and started pawing at the ground, then came at me like a freight train.
I wedge the wooden in of the spear between the rock and into the ground. The grizzle charged then stood up rising above me, impelling itself through the heart with the spear killing it instantly. His dead weight slumped falling limp forward on top of me trapping me under.
Tired and cold the pain disappeared by the time I amble down the pathway toward the summer cabin in the noon-lit dawn.
1/3/2017
Winter finally moves his lumpen sluggish weight,
Spring is like a shy dryad shivering in his arms
Wind's whippets droop to trifling whine
Sullen rain hisses to a grizzle.
tiny fruit buds swell enough to moisten lips.
First daffodil maidens preen, bright faces so fair!
Chattering swallows check granite grey mortared mansion.
Duck naps snug, beak a chest --- gull floats overhead.
Longer days mean I must leave my snuggly, sleepy daze,
slightly more light; work energies reappear
poetry is laid aside in favour of trimming trees
seething solar heating sound, signals dimly smiling sun.
seed packets eagerly spread out – What to plant this season?
Suddenly, more bees aflight – our crops will be alright!
Another cycle begins!
1) Anthropomorphism 2) Simile 3) Metaphor 4) onomatopoeia
5)Synaesthesia 6) Personification 7) Sensory Imagery
8) Ellipsis 9) Homophone 10) Caesura 11) Pun
12) Alliteration 13) Rhetorical Question 14)Internal Rhyme
15) Truism
Written 20th August for Line Gautier Contest - A Litany of Poetic Devices
The spirit of the gypsy
free as the wind upon the open road
Horse driven home on wheels
taking them where they decide
to rest their soul.
Families huddled by the camp fire
Story and tales shared from old
Hedgehog stew
simmering in the cauldron
Leftovers of grizzle and sinew
thrown to the pack of dogs to chew.
Musicians strike up an ancient tune
underneath the stars
with fiddles clicking castanets and guitars,
Young Gypsy girls dance and twirl
arms raised to the sky
With teasing flirting eyes
Dark skin long flowing black hair
showing off their wares.
Next morn at the crack of dawn
o the piece of green no gypsy can be found
the only sign they had ever been there
os the scorch marks left upon the ground.
'' Inspired by the wonderful poems of Gypsy's
by Cherl Dunn''
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Jan.
The full moon and milky snow illuminate the nighttime landscape I found myself lost on the mountain.
I have to make a choice. Looking for the North Star I placed a stick pointing north to direct me to the closest destination when I rise in the morn dawn. To the North one hundred fifty miles to the nearest cabin hoping that it is supplied with stable foods and a warm place to stay until rescued, or south two hundred miles in the other direction where a trapper lives all year round.
Over my shoulders I carried my rifle and survival equipment and begin the one hundred fifty-mile hike to the cabin. Walking through spruce, hemlock, and lodge-pole pines and eating a variety of berries.
In the morning after the snowstorm, I woke to ski snow-powder steeps. A wolf rested on its haunches, inspecting my unprotected surroundings. I took aim, shot, and missed, and it turned and took off.
For days, I had the feeling that someone or something was watching me. I started seeing signs of bear tracings. I was almost out of ammunition for my rifle and decide to make a spear. I looked around for a suitable sturdy tree limb or sapling a few inches taller them me. Using my knife, I fashioned a shelf for the knife creating securing support for the knife and wrapping it tight with rope.
I had shot a three-point buck early that morning and dressed it out; when I heard woof, woof, woof, sounds. The brown grizzly bear came down on all fours and started pawing at the ground, then came at me like a freight train.
I wedge the wooden in of the spear between the rock and into the ground. The grizzle charged then stood up rising above me, impelling itself through the heart with the spear killing it instantly. His dead weight slumped falling limp forward on top of me trapping me under.
Tired and cold the pain disappeared by the time I amble down the pathway toward the summer cabin in the noon-lit dawn.
12/30/2021
Wer curthing in a briney brew
All gurglin’ such a slimy stew
Did mousey chap a laddle tilt
And fill his fizzog til owt it spewt.
Poor butcherin was seen at fault
The growly hag had bowed it owt
All eyes and nerdles floated ins
With scum on tip and squirky things
Gungey green with pursed haze,
The taste of such ner amaze
Glopular grizzle and snotty lumps
A wicked stench like ‘is ol pumps
4 and 20 guest were due
At half past now or wer it 2
Seatles set, naplings laid
A feastling on which deposits paid.
A pinch of twist, a corbage stalk
Perhaps a teeny weeny grit of snork
Just slick it owt, wince a bit
En grab a tizzle, lest it slip.
The festers there, best be quick
Light the cammbly thing sticks,
En turn down the sights
We’ll curse their senses, so no frights
Let’s brow out the glooping mess
With silver service, all fancifulness.
A roaring cheer a grand success
Crown im up a MasterChef.
Today Russia has begun a war broiling in Putin’s sick fantasy
Ukraine people gird themselves for bombs and deaths, many deaths
Can the USA, NATO swoop in and stop the invasion?
Maybe yes maybe no
Humans can fly to the moon and aspire to travel to the stars
but can’t figure out how to feed or stop killing each other
maybe they don’t know how but
it looks like they just don’t give a damn about people
It will be written in the fate of mankind
that mankind did not earn a second chance
as killing of humans and animals continued
appalling acts in the name of selfish egos of men
Who have a rock of grizzle in their chest where a heart should be
convincing themselves a bad idea conceived at night is good however
the reality of an ill thought out plan in the chill of evening has a price
The destruction brings forth a different realism that hurts
women, children, the old and they pay the price
but they, the people hating, war mongers don't care.
Happiest memories are the moments with you
even thought of separation makes me blue.
Missing you with every tic-toc
a second without you is a deadlock.
The moment we come together is monsoon drizzle
bringing an end to the long-drawn-out grizzle.
Your smile is command of nature
when thee sneer, you make me nurtured.
Your laughter brings life to life
claspin’ the enemies, forgettin’ the strife.
What Gets My Goat - By Noah Kidding
Though I shy away from drink,
an unexpected case
of DT's finds this ace
of spades (also known as the spadille)
bleating heart liberal,
airing how disgrace
full the Tommyknocker of zee prez
doth aspire with
Desperation toward efface
sing outspoken, knowledgeable,
intelligent, et cetera grace
full Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, sans
The Shining eyes of dragon light,
and self deluded Dreamcatcher
importance bulwark brace
sing, bullying, and spewing
pot shot vitriol toward
said neophyte lace
sing his blather with
spongy bobbing parrot head
of his papa, who hoop fully gets
ousted by Democratic
candidate from place
de resistance on pedestal,
he haughtily perches touting
himself as superior race,
aye pray to dog his trace
as human wrecking ball
expunged and reprehensible
brewed den mean ways vanishes
upon election day
November 3rd, 2020,
and his ilk (henchmen
one and all) in vase
sieve like Kudzu, or
other aggressive choke
king courtesy intolerable, inhospitable,
and ineradicable testy,
pesky, and grumpy folk
especially one bearded
Dudley Doright dressed dude
with gray flecks poke
king the brown grizzle
blindingly shimmering from
"FAKE" filal smoke
and mirrors Junior Firestarter
slicked back hair doo evokes a joke
lame Kujo, albeit
cheap tricks up pa's city
faux Taj Mahal sleeve!
Grizzle.
STOP!
Who goes there?
Who dares to come this way?
Mt name is Billy Watkins and
I've just come by to play.
PLAY, PLAY! Is that what you say?
I didn't invite you, did I?
Go away is what I say.
And Billy Watkins began to cry.
Stop, stop that sniffling and just
be on your way.
Don't dare to come near my front door
it's not a place to play.
I like the peace and quiet.
I do not care for noise.
More importantly you need to know
I don't like little boys.
So away with you Billy Watkins
go back from where you came.
Go tell your dad what I said,
by the way, GRIZZLE is my name.
In the cool of the drink-drenched, wine-soaked night
He searches the streets for a friendly doorway
To hold him through his sleeping hours
As he totters, stumbles, and finally collapses
Onto a wooden bench placed in his path.
Lying on his side
He crooks the solid bulk of his sleeveless arm
To form a pillow for the grizzle-grey
Of his tousled head and bearded face;
His barrel body hints at a former sturdiness
Skin a burnished hue to match the wood he's resting on
One leg supported by the seat
The other dangling to the ground.
Underneath are stacked his worldly goods
In brightly-coloured plastic bags
Together with a single lace-up shoe
Stout enough to be a legacy of working days
And now discarded from a painful foot.
Unknown to him he sleeps beside the intersection
Of a busy walkway and a major road.
Not only does he dream the night away
Hours later when we cross that road again
Still slumber-soaked he lies there undisturbed
Oblivious of traffic or the people passing by
And heedless of the scorching mid-day sun
That’s surely travelled with him all his life
Is he nothing but a painful memory
To wives and lovers, children, friends
Or are there happy stories to recall?
Do they speak of him with lowered voice
And wonder if he’s still alive
And do they hope one day to see
The familiar gait
Come shambling up the hill?
Perhaps his son is on the tractor now
Working the fields of barley or of wheat,
While in the distance
Sunflowers – oleander - lavender
Splash their bright colours on the countryside.
Maybe the lad will take his lunchtime break
under the olive tree his father’s father
planted long ago
Close to the vineyard whose abundance
Yielded a sad and broken man
Product of a dire and damaging indulgence
when i say stop
i lie awake
to feel myself cry to myself
first we say to each we love
and find a lie in between
fare that
fare
i like that word
it makes me grizzle
even when the coffee rings awake
you with that staring at me..
oh, i’m supposed to do what then
i’ll make us a bloody mary
only for us, besides
i’m on my period
and as always
you non-relent..
and i go more
than three doors down..
to knock again
WINDY DAY IN THE CITY
Strain unwillingly round the city street corner
Into flurry of police klaxon-horn or
Double-deck bus or hobo with beard a-grizzle.
Saddened people rushing in the drizzle,
Wet wind picking up, weather getting worse.
Breezy gust snatches a thousand leaves to disperse
From the autumn trees barely awake:
Sudden blizzard of giant golden snowflakes
Obliterates the wet sidewalks, paved with gold.
People smiling, surprised at it all, pause and behold,
Brush them off shoulders again and again.
Ah the glory of it. No one thinks of rain.
Never was a transformation done so well :
A heaven snatched from the jaws of hell.
In blanket shades of ash and grey
she stands to stir the night
with her arms crossed
in appreciation
of
nature’s call of liberation
present in the sea of life
that
appears caressing her sight
with imaginary fictions
in the ripples of waves that
gradually swim and grizzle across her face in appreciation of nature’s release .......