Best Handheld Poems
Cooling off in falling months, approaching dusk.
Coordinated chill and quilting of snow, brusque.
Cooking lots of soup, beating down dough,
as the wind whoops on a weeping willow.
The sky blue sheets aired out on the clothesline.
Coordinates of beauty in her decline.
Cooties shots on the medical menu…sigh.
Cooperation of dirge, the woe-filled cry.
Co-occurence of life and absence of fog
on the handheld mirror, down by the bog.
Cookout of fried boughs and its vestment.
This particular parish was not a good investment.
Autumn’s turning down the soil - leaves
storm in turmoil, slowing down what it believes.
The coos of despair…her ring rolls off finger.
Her dreams of love no longer linger.
Cool when Autumn clashes with Winter
and the clash of letters are placed by printer.
The clouds are snow white, they get the scoop.
Doves cry and hover - eyes droop.
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
There goes my ball sailin’
Into a trap, the water or the woods.
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
You can hear me wailin’,
“Why won’t that damn ball go where it should?
Drives go right. Putts go wrong.
I shank my wedges or ‘skull’em’ long.
My golf game’s just no damn good.
I’m swingin’ too hard & lookin’ up;
As if I’ll actually see it go in the cup….
As if it ever really would.
My alignment’s too far left or right.
My ball can find the only tree or trap in sight,
Even if the shot starts out lookin’ good.
These days, I carry some special tools:
A handheld weed eater with extra spools
And a pruning saw, in case I’m in the woods.
I’ve even tried to ‘buy’ a better game.
No matter. My scores were just as lame.
Those new clubs didn’t do what they should.
Bogies & doubles...even triples... are common scores.
I very rarely get pars any more.
Believe me, I’d change it if I could.
My buddies said it must be me,
A teaching pro I should go see.
They said he’d fix my game…..if anybody could.
The pro said, “Hit some balls while I watch you.
Just set up and hit’em like you normally do.
We’ll see if I can do your game any good.”
After the first bucket of balls I hit,
He calmly said, “Take two weeks off…then quit.
Take my advice. You really should.”
Now, what really has me vexed,
I’m wondering what I’ll try next.
That pro’s advice was no damn good.
So, I struggle along with my flailin’ game;
But, strangely enough, have fun just the same,
Finding hope in rare shots that are actually good.
I shoot up above the silent, spellbound crowd,
Gaping down at their bright hands with glassy eyes,
Then I pierce the satin clouds that dress the skies,
And drift in space toward that eternal shroud,
The vast field of stars that angels tilled and plowed.
How the crowd tilts down their heads with gazeless eyes,
Staring tongue-tied at handheld luminous lies!
Yet I, head high in the clouds, remain unbowed.
But what have I found, while the world wastes away?
Some seek lowly lights, others shoot for the stars;
Some keep as pets the very pests they should slay,
Others spread their wings and apace fly away;
To light up the pages of our dim memoirs,
Let us wake up and roar, we must seize the day.
HOWLING OF HUMIDITY
No wind blows.
The sweat of a dandelion,
No seeds sold
To the gardener there.
No planting of pretty peacocks.
Umbrella wide above the sun,
Puddles gather but don’t sink
To the humid earth,
Dusty red and brown.
Flooded with handheld fans,
Flowers alive on origami paper,
Promises of windswept dreams
Of a lazy Southern sea and ice tea.
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
Time is a consumer of
lives and souls and thoughts and love
The world that once turned yesterday
has forever gone away
Was it not good, what used to be?
Was it not sweet for you and me?
Remnants of the golden past
bring tears for times that couldn't last
Photographs are sweet sublime
handheld bits of frozen time
Miracles kept within a book
for anytime you wish to look
* This is an actual excerpt from a larger and older piece
that I am trying to rework. I hope to get it where I
want it, and if so I'll post the entire thing here. I hope
it was okay to share this just little snippet.
I could write a poem of all the headlines,
most influential people, and important events of the decade,
but instead, I’ll share with you some of my memories…
my first memories (when the decade ended, I was seven).
I remember our mustard yellow and avocado green furniture,
watching Kroft Puppets, The Muppets, Captain Kangaroo,
Land of the Lost and Little House on the Prairie;
I remember music, lots of music – Dad playing drums
and taking me to concerts, Mom dancing (she loved the Rolling Stones).
Much of my favorite music is from the seventies…
Andy Gibb was my favorite singer and Telephone Line was my favorite song;
which reminds me…I remember our telephone cord being so long,
we could walk from the kitchen to the living room while talking on it.
I remember the vacuum cleaner was HUGE. I thought it would eat me alive.
I could play 10 songs on the jukebox at Pizza Hut for a dollar, and
the compartment stereo in my house was bigger than a jukebox.
It seems everything was bigger in the seventies.
My mom’s Monte Carlo was huge….
I remember coloring a lot and playing board games.
A handheld pinball machine was the closest thing we had to a video game.
I loved tether ball, roller skating, riding my bike (no helmet),
playing outside (without the fear of being abducted), paper dolls,
my easy bake oven, monogrammed shirts (I thought I was Laverne),
clogs, patent leather sandals, ruffled socks, my Holly Hobby doll,
my troll dolls, my plastic record player, MY RECORDS;
I remember disco dancing with my older cousins –
doing the Bump, the Hustle, the Funky Chicken…
Many great memories, but not all...
I remember people smoking everywhere even on airplanes,
some in my own family; I remember the Miami race riots
that started in 1979, seeing the smoke and not understanding;
I remember waiting in long gas lines, when Elvis was found dead,
Three Mile Island, my dad talking about friends who died in Vietnam,
tying yellow ribbons around our trees, and trying to understand
concepts like divorce, hatred and death.
I hold onto the good memories much tighter.
A million tiny feet dropped from the sky,
tap-danced on our handheld roof;
then your lips danced on mine.
the existence of known solubles
be they spiritual, molecular or imaginary
derivations, vain or divine
Protest
Implode
Disappear
Relinquish
Begrudge
Refuse
Rebel
Resist
Rebuke
Ignore
Mock
By chance, plot or plan
take maternity shops for example
pay phones
bill of rights?
alarm clocks
constitution?
looking up from our handheld
electronic god to greet passersbys
purge our souls
03/08/13
© All Rights Reserved
The Queen
obvious to all who dare notice,
knows no peer.
Drones rush in to orbit in frenetic
sublimation; workers dutifully push
the floor buttons of departure
destinations,
releasing squadrons of gatherers
eager to conquer cubicles of source
data.
The Queen with mysterious grace,
wisely chooses reproduction mates
with visionary lineal accomplishment;
handheld devices whir complex
commands.
......not a word uttered
in the elevator.
04/06/16
I have a new cell phone
It allows me to text...
I have finally caught up with the civilized world
Me...who swore on my soapbox....
"Not for me! Thanks, but no thanks, ..I'd rather talk"
Why doesn't anyone want to talk anymore? !!
Resisting the change
Resisting technology
Embracing the old, scoffing the new
I've learned to text.....last of the Mohicans.......I've learned to text
Tolerated their smirks, their ridicule, tolerated their bahahas behind my back
Saying it over, and over, ...and over again.......
"Why do people resort to the cold, the impersonal,
glued to one's ear, purse, hip-pocket, mentality?"
Last night my daughter sent me a text
Then a photo...
The photo...well, ... at first I couldn't quite see what it was
But then I realized, it was an old recipe card...scribbled in my handwriting,
written by me, for her, long ago, when she was first learning to cook
Meatloaf!!
Same old recipe...that's also tucked away in my own recipe box,
only mine is scribbled with love, given to me by my own mother
I was startled, looking at that bloomin', handheld, tiny red, impersonal device...
reading... "Hi Mom...made this 4 dinner 2nite! Yum !!"....
So, here I am........spilling a tear over this stupid red phone
while falling off my soapbox
*Image of Lovers Night by Pinterest.
Tale of The Night Movers
Hail, a phantom moon
traversing its cloaked
chambered recesses
of her prevalent crown.
Unspool gently and host
minding eyes immersed
within your ethereal pull
exacting Cupid's pursuit
impresses dependably.
Slay suspicious initiatives
yond hints of their riddled
hearts pausing serenity
and tryst capers a fullness
until dawning climbs to a
whispering.
Anticipatory confidences
secure immature adoration,
gift a sense of a certain fling,
for shared planned proof that
sensorial alliance is immortal.
Abiding hearts, minds, and
souls and that its permanence
lingers in all three entities to
be truly entrusted versus all
hardships that dare.
Any challenge purposeth
distraction swayed to disrupt
sanctioned harmony and
impose their nightly fight and
an easy win over the weak.
Lovers supposed union is but
a temporal existence, and
Cupid's aim slumbered apiece,
held in stasis as hostages host
for thoughts to fester.
A mire of serendipity and wished
upon measures of advice, out
from this unlit pullback of the
unimaginative lost, but hail to
the victorious and glorious.
Righteous grit encountering the
opaque influences of damaging
desires to hoodwink the candid
that wore down night's ethical
battle and fortuitous claim.
Justified inevitableness outlasts
twilight's hold by conquering the
gloaming tripped-upon dawn's
call ends nightmarish corps to
collapse.
Cherubs reward a star's chariot
ascent who condones a handheld
coursing and are hereby blessed
with a kiss of permanence and a
dreamt descent.
2022 July 30
Why'd I hide it
Yeah that kind of riot
When you sigh and the silence shrieks louder than verbs and
And the direction the affection takes then
Pressures the perfectionist in-
To layman's ways of saying "let's be friends"
So the road is fired up though you know the tire's cut
And the stereo it plays "here we go"
It makes eerie tones
They come oh straight from
A joke even though
That's a story baby we both really know
Oh we're stop and go to gamble
And at lights hear advice
The rambles from a manhole
But let's not forget the device
It's mobile but not handheld
No the heart it doesn't crash oh before it gets trampled
The temple table's overturned
Turns out we're late
'Cause the clover caught aflame baby we waited so it burned
But that's okay
You say the gamble ex-changes it
It makes the coins get weightless and
And turns the green into an urn
Oh we're stop and go to gamble
And at lights hear advice
The rambles from a manhole
But let's not forget the device
It's mobile but not handheld
No the heart it doesn't crash oh before it gets trampled
No the heart it doesn't crash oh before it gets trampled
Newspapers and TV are on the way out
As a source for the latest news
Fruity-type gadgets have taken over
We've lost the ability to choose
These gadgets are called Gooseberrys
No wait, that sounds a bit obtuse
Now I remember, they're Blackberrys
Sounds like something farmers produce
Can't keep up with the latest vernacular
Why not call 'em phones, whatcha think?
Or handheld communication devices
You're driving us seniors to drink
Remember back in the good old days
People talked face to face with each other
Usually spoke in total complete sentences
Knew the names of your sister and brother
This old world has become so complicated
Once was fun to carry on a conversation
We'd discuss all the latest gossip in town
Without technological aggravation
Now we talk with folks worlds away
As if they live just down the block
Sure miss that face to face communication
With Blackberrys, our jaws are locked
© Jack Ellison 2012
No way to return, no ways
From eyes, his deep blue eyes.
No way to return, no ways
From eyes, his deep blue eyes.
No simile will be an apt story there
How the sky splashed the color within
Yet, his eyes and the depth of the blue, unfolding for a numerous times
In my wandering thoughts as the twilight is fading through the covetous time
And the days are a passing sory, long gone is she
And there, darkness settles in , slowly,
again and again
And the night blossoms in mayflower
As the stars fade away.
No way to return, no ways
From eyes, his deep blue eyes.
Only, the other day, his love
Yard had a walkway, where she touched the grass
Hiding the handheld lamp
Along this way, she walked, and she had her lantern, too.
In darkness with the stories behind
Her face had a glow, in similitude
As an island in isolation, in an oceanic pulchritude
And here I am, now, facing the seashore
Waves and waves , they sound in uproar
And touch the land, only to return in shear grace of mother nature
And the seashore remain their broken dreams, a foamy dense moment, they clutter
As they know me now, in goodness, and they wished for me to be better
No way to return, no ways
From eyes, his deep blue eyes.
No way to return, no ways
From eyes, his deep blue eyes.
Ageless Summery
a porch screen riddled
by fragmenting noon beacons
~~grandmas curtain hangs
chairs rock as handheld
fan waves midst squeaking floorboards
~~iced tea drinks glisten
2020 June 23
*3rd Place*
Summer Haiku's
~~Tania Kitchin