Best Hoarded Poems
178 months, 129940 hours,
now only 10 minutes remain.
Sitting in cold eerie darkness,
he observes the rhythm of water drops,
slowly wipes away streams of sweat
with his withered trembling hands.
That aching fear, gnawing in his fevered brain,
spasms of fear demanding flight
yet none to be had,
his inner soul asking why he had lost his way
why had his sad life come to this?
What lay in the caverns of darkness ahead!
Wardens pace up and down like wolves,
stopping to stare with compassion less eyes - smirking.
Waiting for the clock to chimes 12 times,
and to shout, 'dead man walking.'
He sits savoring every last breath,
rapidly repenting for all his past mistakes,
deep inside he knows its too late for regrets.
All his apologies fall upon deaf ears.
Flashes past seen, his crimes, girls and drugs, what a blast!
Pretty girls, each taking a slice, of his hoarded treasures
and he indulging in theirs with total abandonment.
O' glorious were those dead and ancient days!
Then reality came back to bite and bite hard,
saying, " such foolishness was a dream and soon comes Death"!
Too hard to bear such truth, he rushes back into fleeting dreams.
Suddenly cold, very cold he feels the deafening bleakness!
Sees the finality in the concrete and iron bars holding him.
Cries silently, what he wouldn't give for another day,
another dawn out in sunshine and fresh air!
Then reality and Fate both spoke to him saying,
" Tho' you a doomed man, meet thy death as a brave one."
Each heart beat beats with each ticking second.
He clutches his worn bible, readying himself for what lies ahead,
anxiously contemplating if he is worthy of redemption.
Rocking back and forth, unable to control floods of tears,
his thoughts are disturbed with a truncheon rattling his cell's bars,
and the dreaded final summoning of his name.
Wolves smile with sly eyes, as the stench of death fills the air.
Fellow inmates turn their faces to the ground.
He savours every step, he knows they are his last.
God is no longer the master of his condemned fate.
He knows he can't erase the crimes of his past,
but takes solace, feeling his crimes were not premeditated,
but now he must face the hypocrisy of his own premature death.
Silent One collaboration with Robert Lindley
17 December 2017
We drank a glass of crimson wine
We drank to long lost days;
Where in the past sweet memories shine
When our love was all ablaze.
But seasons died and visions fade
With phantoms of love's lost dream;
The joys we knew have never stayed
They sleep within this ruby stream.
We picked the purple grapes that lay
Beneath the brilliance of the sun;
Where the shimmer of an autumn day
Was reflected where the waters run.
We hoarded all the clustered shapes
That brought old times conjured up;
Of feet that danced upon the grapes
And wine that filled the chalice cup.
Within these drops of crimson lie
Blushing shackles holding fast;
Those dancing shadows that can't die
Brought fleet winged dreams that hurry past.
We touched the goblet's silver rim
Each sip adored the grape's sweet stain;
Then bubbles sprang from the brim
To assault the spaces of the brain.
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
My heart has accepted every piece of furniture
you have brought in and hoarded, polished and stored,
for show or hidden in the attic of cerebral storage.
Cobwebs draped the entrances I walked through
without wincing, chasing extinguishing light…
gold tarnishing possibilities that I found invaluable.
emerald still pond
yellow musty pages hoarded
cobwebs of the mind
© Nadiya (03 Mar '15)
*Placed 3rd in the contest 'Gathering Dust' by John Lawless on 25 March 2015.
*Placed 3rd in the contest '10 or less lines' on 14 Oct 2015.
She flowed out of his sable brush
As if form became fluid
Indigo blue the first of hues
Each stroke a caress …
A teardrop sliding down his face
His memories piercing his heart
Sighs and a deep breath
His lifetime masterpiece awaits …
Silver lit hair black as night
Her Indigo eyes abrim with love
Soft white skin transparent
A white spotted dress of cornflower blue
silk trimmed waist
Forever imprinted in Memory
A testament to their Love
Raising his hand wrinkled through time
the curve of her breast takes shape
her form follows next …
Pausing for thought ,
he remembers a day etched fast in his mind
Around her head ,
Mists of water rainbow hues
Behind her a waterfall of crystal blue
Shadow and shape suggest beings
The faeries she hoarded
Dancing like angels around her head
These he added as she would be pleased …
His hand starts to shake
effort and time taking its toll
mad with mother time
robbing him of his one great gift
this would be his last …
Pouring 50 years of marriage
His heart and soul
Smeared , brushed , and smudged
Light and dark no dis chord
Finished he is complete
His one great masterpiece
His wife his love …
Packing away his palette
an artisan to his gift
closing the lid on colour
washing his brushes
and cleaning knives
Weathered hands tremble
Reaching for a glass
The bottle , a sherry he saved ,
from a golden anniversary
their last …
Taking a sip he closes his eyes
waiting for memory to carry him back
To a time beloved …
I work in the retail sector
and everyone's gone mad.
It's really very amusing.
It's really very sad.
Toilet paper and sanitizers
have flown right out the door.
Though everyone is asking
we've no idea when we'll get more.
The face masks of every type
are hoarded like they're gold.
Even the ones for dust or painting.
But those hoarders can't be told.
The painters and the contractors
are getting pretty mad
since the ones they need for their jobs
are no where to be had.
Panic is setting in
and everyone's afraid.
But off to work we go
because we just need to get paid.
The N-95 face masks
( the ones they really need)
are limited to six per customer,
a lot of whom can't read.
We wipe the counters diligently,
the keypads and scanners too.
We don't want the coronavirus
but we understand it's just a flu.
Wash your hands, don't touch your face.
It doesn't seem that tough,
and if you're sick, just stay home.
We can't emphasize this enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~
12/03/2020
Darn covid has most surely created,
toilet rolls as the product predated,
and I reached my goals;
hoarded two hundred rolls,
but suffer from being constipated.
(Dedicated to all those who have died alone.)
They cannot fit, they cannot go along,
and the reasons are wide: pride, fear,
even love never tempered by time,
illness of the heart or mind, or simply
bad, bad luck: life throws them away
until they throw life away....
She was one of the gentle ones,
the unlucky ones-- a flower child
who missed her time, an era she
might have thrived in, free, alive,
unencumbered by family ties....
If she had come age in the 60's,
she might have lived into her 90's.
But lost and afraid in a cold world
not of her making, with her bird-
like heart breaking, she ate her
last hoarded apple, then lay down
to sleep and sleep and sleep until
she awakened safe in heaven's lap.
--judged NA in 'Will to survive' contest, 10/15/20--
[The poem was based on a true incident whereby a young woman suffering severe depression and paranoia was released from a psych ward without anyone informing her family; she stayed alone for weeks in an empty, unheated house in winter subsisting only on half-rotten apples she had picked up from the ground in the back yard.]
You are not enough...
Your body, the lethargic blood in your veins, little red rivers...
Your aging heart, gallantly beating –
I want to kiss its straining crimson chambers,
Bless it, the poor doomed thing...
You are just not enough
Your skin is too frail, your hair too cashmere-soft,
Your calcified bones are so – breakable
I lie beside you and trace my fingers over your face,
Receiving the butterfly kisses of your brittle eyelashes,
And behind them, those cocoa-dark eyes, windows to a soul that sleeps
Benevolent in its oblivion...
Then down, softly down my fingertips dance, to the cupid’s bow of your lips,
Unstrung, slack with weariness…
I bend my head and touch my lips to yours – and shudder, tenderly
Your kisses have the seal of death upon them, the bittersweet reek of coffin fodder
You are not enough…
You could never be enough, not for me
My hunger for you is insatiable, unquenchable,
I want to swallow you whole; I want to climb down your throat and sleep,
Tucked safely inside your skin,
A parasite composed of love and ravenous yearning
I want to eat your very soul, or catch it in my fist and pour it into a
Diamond jar, never to be unleashed –
But to be hoarded, like a magic ring, a Holy Grail of gently glimmering love
I want you to be mine – forever…
And once I have you,
Locked inside that little diamond vessel,
Oh my sweetheart…I will never let you go
178 months, 129940 hours,
now only 10 minutes remain.
Sitting in cold eerie darkness,
he observes the rhythm of water drops,
slowly wipes away streams of sweat
with his withered trembling hands.
That aching fear, gnawing in his fevered brain,
spasms of fear demanding flight
yet none to be had,
his inner soul asking why he had lost his way
why had his sad life come to this?
What lay in the caverns of darkness ahead!
Wardens pace up and down like wolves,
stopping to stare with compassion less eyes - smirking.
Waiting for the clock to chimes 12 times,
and to shout,
'dead man walking.'
He sits savouring every last breath,
rapidly repenting for all his past mistakes,
deep inside he knows its too late for regrets.
All his apologies fall upon deaf ears.
Flashes past seen, his crimes, girls and drugs, what a blast!
Pretty girls, each taking a slice, of his hoarded treasures
and he indulging in theirs with total abandonment.
O' glorious were those dead and ancient days!
Then reality came back to bite and bite hard,
saying, " such foolishness was a dream and soon comes Death"!
Too hard to bear such truth, he rushes back into fleeting dreams.
Suddenly cold, very cold he feels the deafening bleakness!
Sees the finality in the concrete and iron bars holding him.
Cries silently, what he wouldn't give for another day,
another dawn out in sunshine and fresh air!
Then reality and Fate both spoke to him saying;
" Tho' you a doomed man, meet thy death as a brave one."
Each heart beat beats with each ticking second.
He clutches his worn bible, readying himself for what lies ahead,
anxiously contemplating if he is worthy of redemption.
Rocking back and forth,
unable to control floods of tears,
his thoughts are disturbed with a truncheon rattling his cell's bars,
and the dreaded final summoning of his name.
Wolves smile with sly eyes,
as the stench of death fills the air.
Fellow inmates turn their faces to the ground.
He savours every step, he knows they are his last.
God is no longer the master of his condemned fate.
He knows he can't erase the crimes of his past,
but takes solace,
feeling his crimes were not premeditated,
but now he must face the hypocrisy
of his own premature death.
He's our savior
a man of utmost principals
He stands up against the deep state
and speaks his mind concisely
But he has faltered
and hoarded sensitive information
Now silver bars may bind his home
for several years to come
What can we do to help
how can we save the man we love
There may be no protection against his crimes
he tallied them up so much
All we can do is watch
Watch as a giant falls
It came to me
upon reflection
Life is one
great big collection
Starting with a
teddy bear
and ending with
a gasp of air
The time between
those points is rough
accumulating
all this stuff
Books and knick knacks
line the shelves
and in it all
we lose ourselves
Hand-me-downs
and souvenirs
hoarded all
throughout the years
Cups and saucers,
pots and pans,
electric heaters,
ceiling fans
Pictures, music,
magazines
amounting to
a hill of beans
Clothes and cars,
boats and planes,
nervous breakdowns,
aches and pains
Husbands, wives,
foes and friends
This great collection
never ends
And once our time
on earth goes by,
the years wind down
and then we die
We never seemed
to have enough,
and someone else
gets all our stuff
For my sins and everything I ever did or sought to be,
Contempt and dying to be clever in unfathomed pools of sadness,
I plumbed each depth and splashed the ether, oscillated shakily,
Strapped to dark beliefs and definitions, all I gleaned of me was badness.
In my heart I hoarded secrets, guarded, gloated jealously,
Something touched quiescent feelings, split the stone upon the grave;
Resurrected dead ambitions with a Lazarus decree
And in doing so, in side-effect, unearthed a soul to save.
You did nothing of importance, so you reckoned pensively,
But if not for you, at close of play, I would have stayed the same;
Doing penance, going nowhere, shooting blanks haphazardly
In a thermos of reflection with nowhere to lay the blame.
In the dusky tones of evensong a plaintive melody
Croons through mazes in my image and exalts together days;
So perhaps, by your sweet process, you brought out the best in me,
And therein must lie the truth, that what we had has worked both ways.
It must feel good to say at last
The ceiling is shattered
And the door is open
It must feel good
But I looking at the ceiling
Think of icy rains
Monitors on my feet instead of chains
Weevils dancing in the hoarded grains
And blind men wiping at dark blood stains
It must feel good at last to belong
To see your face on the totem pole
Hear the world sing your song
Muting the lyrics meaning about the cold