Best Head(A) Poems
Today for lunch I dined on some Tex-Mex cuisine,
jalapeno topped enchiladas and refried beans;
a favorite here in Texas, that can’t be denied,
but this afternoon I am battling the fire inside.
Washed it down with a margarita and wedge of lime,
it was very soothing and delicious at the time.
It gave my head a little buzz and made me cross-eyed,
but now my gut is suffering from this fire inside.
I used to have no trouble eating this spicy food,
but now it causes burning in my stomach to intrude.
And yet I do not worry for in my desk does hide
a jar of Tums to relieve me from this fire inside.
November 7, 2017
Poem of the Day - November 8, 2017
Hearts mangled by grief
Lost in separate mazes
Cooking a half-hearted meal
A turn of the head, a quick glance
Trembling hands reach out
Right hand in left, a gentle waltz
to sweet soul sounds on the radio
We danced in the kitchen
Then hold your baby tight
Hold your baby so tight crying song
Swaying to Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes
"If-you-don't-know-me-by-now"
Tear soaked necks and shoulders
Melting into each other
Melting and blending into one
We danced in the kitchen
Oh how we danced
How we danced to the moon
How we danced to the dawn
How we danced in the kitchen
Sweet Jesus let it be so
Let it be so again
Let the music play on
Let us dance one last song
Let us waltz one last waltz
Let us dance in the kitchen
Before I scarred the page
Raging what your letters cannot invent
Let me invite you to other books
I wrote before you owed me wage
For all maladjustment and discontent
Tettering on tentacles on hooks
Invite you to an open age
Of change and discourse transfigurment.
In a quiet moment read again
Shards of clay and artefacts beyond
A material functional disdain.
Look at the words like old bones
Bringing chromosomal tablets to rinse
The eyes of prejudices and conceit
You may wince
At what your arrogance did delete.
I have winced for years in broken jars
Unleashing rivulets of tears
For I gave you humanity as a gift, stars
Gave you dust and vessel for it
Time etched your abuse against this spirit
As you idolized barren observations
As if them alone could tell truths
Without the presence of experience.
Strange how you so prone to the material
Destroyed so much of its substance
In us. Yet it is inescapbale in the footprints of dust
The chromosomal bridges in our bodies
Linking us, reaffirming the gift again
Documents on my body like a stain
Irreducible by Mercator's illusions
There is no survival without the spiritual.
After protests, marches, firehoses and ropes
Still hanging from leftover branches of fear
I have earned the right to forgive you
The inherent gift make me your brother, here.
So now let us turn the map upside down
And draw again the latitudes unbending
In a straight line to your old thoughts,
Can we agree about the silence of the moon
Is a prohibiting noise in our head, a blind despair.
The sun seems to shine a little brighter
There's something special in the air
The bluebirds sing you a loving tune
every time that you appear
The children all come running
they know you're a joy to be around
There are laughs and cheers and giggles
whenever you get to town
You hold your head a little higher
You walk with poise and grace
The world all turns and notices
That glow upon your face
Your heart is warm and giving
Your soul is pure as snow
You're a vision sent from heaven
You're one beauty we all should know
She felt his presence by her side
Her first reaction – unimpressed.
She turned her head, a toss of hair,
The situation she assessed.
Maybe it was the dauntless smile
Perhaps the wicked twinkling eyes
The self-assurance in his poise...
Do warning bells ever suffice?
She sipped her drink and options weighed
He praised her looks and wispy gown
His flavoured words - delicacy
Her guard she weakly lowered down.
Till late at night beneath the stars
They danced to music, hands on hips
If ever doubts had crossed her mind
Erased they were by burning lips.
She found him suave and debonair
His face, ethereal, divine
Attentive eyes looked deep within
His lips still tasted of sweet wine.
The music played; he held her tight
Each sense alive and needing more
She whispered breathlessly to him,
"There's more to me you must explore."
Behind closed doors, he lay her down
And kissed each part that he undressed
Before her nakedness was shown
Her face he tenderly caressed.
"I will not take what is not mine;
You will not be a one night stand."
"My love," she said with bated breath,
You'll guide my life; I'll guide your hand."
A Callman Collaboration (Paul Callus and Eileen Manassian)
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I see my brother’s face,
I quiver with recognition.
As time takes me,
so it takes my eyes, I reason,
a trick of the mind.
Just sometimes.
Sometimes, when I’m working with my hands
I see the hardened hands of my sister
who slaved to keep her family together.
Only sometimes,
then I give my head a shake.
Not real, I defend.
Sometimes, when I look at my feet
I see the worn shoes of the homeless,
the refugees in search of a place.
I remember the long, hard road
and compassion forms in my throat.
Just sometimes.
I wish I could see that way more often.
My basket lifts from ground; I, eager, stand
inside it as I drift into blue air.
I see below - the slowly shrinking land,
above my head, a giant yellow pear.
She takes me high, and as I’m looking down,
I view the checkered rows of each green lawn
around the center of my little town
and tiny houses. . . Soon they all are gone.
I breathe the clouds. . . then happiness-immersed,
I skim tall mountain peaks; I’m sailing wind.
And if my big balloon should tear or burst,
my soul will not forget. Death can’t rescind
the flush of living. My! What fills the sky?
A flock of snow white geese comes rushing by.
For Brian Strand's
YOUR PICK any theme/form max 14 lines Poetry Contest
The kindly old man, had become irritable
Over the death of his wife
Not one iota of happiness left
Those golden years, ripped from his life
She had been, an excellent, engineer
Keeping everything in order
He had learned, to appreciate, her generous ways
Tried to always, be genial, toward her
A knock at the door, caught him off guard
Since no one ever came by
He opened the door, to a noisy orange box
When a puppy lit up his eyes
Admiring the dog, he first thought how costly
This kink was simply absurd
It emits, those whimpering, puppy cries
He comforts, with baby talk words
Holding it close, a kiss on his cheek
His heart melts, as he takes her inside
He's caught a new girl, names her Iris
For the flowers his wife romanticized
First visit to the vet, to have her checked out
She immediately chases a cat
The smiling old man, gathers her in
Softly gives her head a love pat
an original poem by Daniel Turner
In oak-heath forest you might be
one wonderful spring day.
Go search for heath beneath a tree.
Perhaps small faeries you will see
and other wee folk there at play
in early dawn’s first ray.
One time while I was walking there
one fair May day, I saw
a sight so beautiful and rare:
Wee folk had gathered unaware
that I was watching with such awe
I must have dropped my jaw!
A babe they baptized underneath
(now are you listening?)
dew's water dripping from white heath
which formed on the babe’s head a wreath.
I’d happened on his christening!
Dewdrops were glistening.
June 22, 2022
“You don't lose if you get knocked down; you lose if you stay down.” Muhammad Ali
I've been struggling to exist,
since the day I was born.
A dehydrated butterfly
in a garden without rain.
A white page, an inkless quill,
a silent poet without words.
But when eyes feel fuzzy,
head a little dizzy,
and the pills don't work,
we fight the confusion like a
gladiator without a sword.
a knight without a shield.
Every time we get a bit of respite,
it's time for another fight.
Sometimes like an old boxer,
we get knocked to the ground,
but like a fledgling I resurface.
What other choice do I have?
I'm no mercenary,
no militant, no martyr.
I'm a wounded samurai
under a cherry blossom tree,
bloodshed blade by my side.
I drink pain like a glass of water,
embrace agony like a lover,
suffocate sorrow until it's over.
Pain is a reflection of my existence,
my wounds a reluctant legacy,
written from massacres of warfare -
but there is no purpose without struggle.
I always keep hope for tomorrow,
but live for today.
Life is an advent of adversity,
we win, we lose, we learn.
We are all warriors,
as life is one constant conflict.
We are forever fighters.
I hear the winter call my name
in syllables bereft of breeze,
ethereal through silent trees
hypnotic in their leafless maim.
In sheerest blue of morning freeze
the shadows drape from rimy limbs
while through my head a matin swims
that beckons past the boundaries
of culture's polished monotone.
I'd ramble the denuded scape
past hoary waters' icebound gape,
to arcane winds my caution thrown.
Across the dawning's lambent sill
the winter calls. I hear it still.
You need to go far, farther, even farther
Over small streams and tracks
The moon is distant, but can be glimpsed through the trees
A moose lifts his head, a beautiful antlers
King of the forest
Can smell the forest and wildlife
The fox howling at the moon
Echoes in the woods
Two yellow glowing eyes
It is the owl which are on the night watch
Hope that all mice are safely home
The moon disappears behind the clouds
Darkness falls, deep into the forest
28.05.2013
A-L Andresen :)
(5th in the contest)
- No - Strings - Attached -
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lately i have become aware
i was wrong thinking i am just me
there are lines above my head, a pair
someone's controlling me for a fee
the marketers with their advertising machines
run us all, apparently and do so continually
they do so on walls or surfaces using screens
everything we think is fed to us intentionally
no matter what your cause is it's them pulling the strings
wether you are for or against or anywhere in between
they write all of the scripts and the conflict that it brings
if you like oil, the cash it makes or chose to be green
trust me you're their puppet your speaking from their script
it has been ingrained in your brain since your first day
give them a child 'till he's five he's theirs he's been snipped
even at the park - slide, swing or climb it's their way
not you! right?somehow they missed your unique behind
you're wrong they got you too, always no matter where you sit
no one escapes the adjustment made to their mind
the world is a stage and we merely the puppets on it
26~12~2014
Sponsor: John lawless
Contest Name: PUPPETS
One. Latino boys like Buffalo Wild Wings. It isn't clear why, but it's definitely emerging as a pattern.
Two. Latino boys are persistent. When he asks to kiss you for the first time, say no. Why? Because you've known him for a matter of weeks and he is not your boyfriend yet. Don't worry... he will continue to ask every week until you say yes.
Three. Latino boys are really good kissers.
Four. Latino boys love their family. His cousins are best friends, so you probably already know several of them. If any of his cousins also like you, you might think this is problematic. Your boyfriend will tell you that it's normal, and it's just because they're jealous, and not to worry about it. You will probably worry about it anyway. Sometimes it's better to let things go.
Five. Latino boys are romantic. He will tell you how he loves you in two languages and struggle to find an apt metaphor which he can pronounce in the English language. Since his English isn't perfect, he uses his hands to compensate when he speaks, uses a tilt of his head, a shift in his voice; he says most with his eyes, when he isn't speaking at all.
Six. Notice how he lights up when he smiles at you, like the sunrise... remember that the word for smile in Spanish is sonrisa.
Seven. When he offers to teach you the meringue, say yes. When you trip over each other's feet, laugh. When his face moves close to yours... kiss him.
Eight. When your racist father starts talking about socioeconomic classes, remind him that unlike your brother's American friends, your friends are sober. (Well, more sober. Do not bring up tequila. They're not potheads, at least.) Besides, your Spanish teacher is thrilled with your miraculous improvement in spoken Spanish.
Nine. When you go bowling with him and his cousins and he whispers in your ear that people are staring at us, tell him it's just because they're jealous that I have a boyfriend that will dance with me in public.
Ten. "Te amo" is a phrase that sounds prettiest when whispered.
On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.
The inside is decorated
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.
Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Loud hillbilly music plays.
There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.
Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.
Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.
Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.
Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.
Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.
Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.
Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse
In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance
After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.
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Written 6th October, 2014
A collaboration by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire