Best Ironed Poems
Blue words cry,
smearing bare
paper walls.
I am only this poem
to share.
Crimson lines
ironed, too perfect,
scratch romantic notions.
Sorrows brew.
Shush,
listen to
each whimper’s escape,
ink hurled at pages
not long ago blank. Bittersweet
sobs thunder -
cathartic storms impart
a verse to bridge hearts
over this deluge.
Words enchant, coax
from nostalgic dreams,
over and between
dusk and dawn’s enlightening.
I awaken weightless
adrift in lyrical seas.
When night returns
bruised, I lie
with incarnate spirits,
my midnight blue disguise.
A smile from cobalt eyes
speaks. Blues reach
like friends to beseech
my soul.
While my pen glistens through tears,
these starry hazels gaze
as livid-blues turn
cerulean. A poem breathes -
loose layers, discernible beauty, strength,
prayers answered. Wise,
I purge my pain
in letter’s curvaceous rise.
I rest in hollow
of spaces,
stolen tranquility.
For now, prisoners are released,
but oh, how I know
morning
tightens fear's hold.
When blues speak,
I'll seek
love, acceptance
and find my pen.
I’ll unlock my heart again.
May my poem birthed
remind in lonely hours
of my power,
my worth.
May light
fall
upon God’s poema.
Ink-stained, I am
one woman heard,
only blue words.
(200 words)
5/31/15
Categories:
ironed, feelings, introspection, words, writing,
Form:
Free verse
Psycho Evaluation
Physically unable to deal with all this stress
a clinical Psychiatrist said that I am depressed
No shat Sherlock you are such a genius
10 years of college for this uneducated guess
Yah you're just an Idiot with an ego to caress
Pockets full of pens and eyeglasses to impress
Yes we all notice the impeccable way you dress
Armani styled striped suit all ironed and pressed
It looks quite expensive only the best for the best
No I don't want to do your magic ink blotter test
You act as if by the Almighty you are blessed
Just like the Preacher trying to get us to confess
So how do I know this won't end up in my arrest
I guess I'll just have to remove you in the end more or less
Now who is the one that's stressed???...
revised 04/27/16
Categories:
ironed, corruption, irony, psychological, wisdom,
Form:
Rhyme
Dearest Santa, my one wish may seem strange
but please do not interpret me as snide.
I wish this kindness so please do arrange
my Christmas gift of a mail order bride.
Surely she would lighten my hard work load,
help with the children and spousal demands.
She can be pretty or favor a toad
as long as it’s English she understands.
I fail domestic perfection with house,
Mom affection with little ones each day
and attending His Lordship, my own spouse,
because my to-do list stays in the way.
Again, this may seem most unorthodox
but this is me thinking outside the box.
I know that you must judge, weigh and ponder
if I was a well-behaved girl this year:
I tried leaving home for the far yonder -
my car died before even driveway clear;
I lace my morning coffee with brandy;
hide my husband’s tickets to pro baseball;
stuff chips under chairs when comes Priest Andy;
I oft ignore my children when they call;
sometimes I name dust bunnies on our floor;
sarcasm is my first go to coping tool;
I cheat at cards when adding up my score;
and June just past, I peed in a pal's pool.
I work hard without reward all day long,
so sometimes, yeah, I get this life all wrong.
I wish to remember why I am here;
recall romantic love that started all.
I could succeed if I had a wife-peer
helping with spousal gall and toddler brawls.
I want more than bathtubs layered with dirt
and stinking trash bordering on a spill.
Let someone else produce an ironed shirt
and seek deep sleep as an ambitious thrill.
I want memories of kids where I smile
and husband conversations standing still.
I seek family love to feel worthwhile
lest I seek happy docs with happy pills.
One or both of us can wed my wished bride,
just, please, Santa, in my favor decide.
... CayCay
Written: December 28, 2017
Contest - I Want Christmas Poems
Categories:
ironed, christmas, funny, proposal, romantic
Form:
Sonnet
What made you so special my freckle faced friend..
the day I heard you singing to a record, from your window next door.
Bell bottom clad teenaged knock out, with a ballerina's step..
In huge Cape Cod two story where dreams took form.
My mom hummed a tune as she ironed my best shirt..
Fumbled with your corsage, wondering why I chose red.
Last dance I remembered was always our first,
humbled by a mirage., in a golden gown dress.
Realized too late the secret your parents kept,
all the plans they'd made for you..
plain enough to see I wasn't part of them.
Not enough coins lined my pockets to set you free,
at least not enough for them to ransom you to me.
Some days found me prayin',
some I cursed right out loud.
Wonderin' does the one you share today in,
know the goldmine he had found.
Did he bring you eyes full of stars,
and promise all his tomorrows.
Realize what heaven sent gift you are,
never lament a heart left to sorrow.
Does he read them bedtime stories,
and tuck them into bed..
Listen to child borne wonders and worries,
every wild dream that fills their head.
And did you share those freckled hands,
every time you stopped to tie their shoes..
protect them with those same plotted plans,
your parents chose for you.
Do you ever hear that record playing..
among the distant stars that shined so bright?
New days come, battles lost and battles won..
lost in heartfelt wish that I'd been born..
that lucky seventh of seventh son.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Categories:
ironed, crush, house, proposal, sad
Form:
Rhyme
WHEN LETTERS DANCE ON THE PAGE
“Disappear,” I said.
They denied.
Didn’t the Casanova at the theatre
Return my ravishing smile last night?
The burgundy magic on greys!
Ironed with botoxed shots
The dry asparagus turns glossy;
Ready for the salad?
Midriffs declining, disappearing -
Decelerating; the passion of aping
A teenager for a climacteric but works.
The dried raisins, falling leaves
And the faded chrysanthemums-
Augmented, tucked in, liposuctioned.
The one who was being stared at,
Loses it all ; the pretence withers,
The efforts in vain.
I loved them the most
But they now scare me-
The letters diffusing, hyperopic.
Behind the lens, the zombies
Make me close my eyes- the mirror
Was never so unfriendly.
Progressive, focal, horn-rimmed,
Rimless – nothing works. They just
Simply refuse to go.
At the restaurant, travelator, bus
My glory shrouds as I struggle to
Settle the glass diptych on my nose.
“Disappear,” I say to them.
They deny.
Categories:
ironed, allegory,
Form:
Blank verse
The Sowing
Upon the wind feasted hillside
The jagged edges of used rocks swell
With the fatless skin of babes and wenches
Below a field of blood, no less a Flanders Field
A continuous swell of rape roll like waves
In the pallid squalor of leaking huts wooden tales tell
The scars ironed in the backs and inner thighs
The voices crying with no listening ear
Blood shines bright in moon's glow sons birth upon the fields
For eons it seems men stack rape like barley and wheat
Small ones soft ones and inexperienced virgins too
Daughters bled away dignity men their respect
Born work and ravished in the fields
Where is their medal of bravery
Today the summer sun washes over the fields
Each ray eclipses the dark memories of sin
As the sons and daughters rise
This poem was written for Joann Grisetti's Copycat contest through inspiration of Debbie Guzzi's The Sowing, one of the Greatest writers here on the Soup
Categories:
ironed, black african american, dedication,
Form:
Free verse
Mekhela chador
I was too hurry and overwhelmed
To embrace the attire
"mur maa rr mekhela chador" ( - "my mater's Indigenous Traditional Assamese Dress")...
The days in kindergarten,
I cherish the attire, in her wardrobe enhanced and ironed
The dining hours,
I often queried her, to own the attire
And in festive tyrant,
She dressed herself in the silken weaving attire
The onset of puberty;
My body and soul celebrated draping of the attire
From my breast to my waist to my ankle
For the first time, I engulfed the feeling of being a woman (and beautiful)
All coyness and tenderness are ornate as my fragrance
The attire was made of silk in creamy white and cherry thread
Like droplets of cherry-red blood unfurling the snowy linen
And the ears heard joyously whispering me
"mur maa rr mekhela chador" ( - "my mater's Indigenous Traditional Assamese Dress")...
Categories:
ironed, 12th grade, age, beautiful,
Form:
Epic
These days my home is a disaster where no neatness is mastered.
For years I did the spic and span scene for a spouse who notices
only the TV screen and our part alien, completely annoying teens.
I eventually deciphered my efforts made none of them nicer or wiser.
I realized that to remain a cleanliness and organizer striver would sooner than later require I take a daily tranquilizer.
In time, I learned my bed was quite a smart desire and the
art of long naps was my perfect mood equalizer. So, why brood
over other family member's feelings when my own felt nicer.
There was a time when dust bunnies reduced me to shame
but, now they’re just fluffy cuties that I individually name.
Whereas I once frequently behaved like a total grump
because all treated our dining table like the local dump,
I now idly ponder when the pile will style a solid ceiling thump.
Home-nest chores of potential upset-tests no longer interest my
new style, but soaking in the tub attracts my delight worthwhile.
My bathroom has become my private, pampering isle.
Magazines to thoroughly savor, tempt me in a dream-flavored pile.
Within that little room I’m managing a pampering cocoon.
Once upon my stress time, I would be cryin’ over clothes
not ironed and family tried neither soothing or inspiring me.
These days my ironing policy is that such is pure folly
and that only laundered attire need be desired. I no longer
grow vacuum sore ‘cause rooms are too trashed for dirt to hit floors.
I am learning to keep my child-like, spontaneous smile
despite any and all house or family trials.
If in this lesson I succeed, that’s all I really, truly and mostly need.
I wish to live and love centered in a state of relaxed
‘cause that’s where my spic and span are truly at.
Categories:
ironed, anxiety, change, conflict, environment,
Form:
Lyric
Aunt June
My aunt taught me...
how to be; a sewer, a grower,
a knower of "things" important.
She taught me to watch the pot,
until it boiled and never look away.
Canning strawberry jelly,
and making sweet marmalade pie
were the easy lessons
in believing in tomorrow.
Blankets made from scraps
to keep the family warm in winter,
kept "devotions" for another year.
Dresses made of flour sacks,
with corn mill colored ribbon...
They were for spring.
Summer was all about the garden,
and planting... "seeds to fling".
We had chicks for a while,
until my uncle lost his job.
Then we had to eat them.
That was a hard lesson in cooking,
"things" you keep close to the heart,
Sacrifice...
beyond dry tears
to feed the ones you love.
My uncle got sick,
and then he died.
June went to work,
ironed for others,
sewed and cooked and made
their lives easy,
as her's was hard.
My aunt never complained.
My aunt was amazing...
a farm woman,
from the mid-west.
She could rope and ride,
and she would never hide
even from
cancer.
My Aunt was a warrior.
Categories:
ironed, bible, cancer, faith, farm,
Form:
Free verse
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered ribbons of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w - i - n - d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, akin to a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
Categories:
ironed, appreciation, growth, introspection, love,
Form:
Free verse
In the box with overpowered silence
Dripping with sweaty tension
Wanting glory…fearing three
Those eyes precise measured quarry
Javelin of Ash loaded at the ready
Stilly prepared…ironed gripping
White pale streak of the assailing foe
Red seamed threads spinning unseen
Coursing in…aimed true
A crack that exhales the collective breathe
Eruption within the faceless crowd
Cacophony…movement’s flurry
Charging towards the much sought prize
Just for the chance to be victorious
Guarded…standing strong
Diving headlong toward canvas safety
Outstretched beyond human limit
Colliding wreck…jarring hard
Percussive thump of stitched tooled leather
A thumb shot skyward yelling failure
The cheering…mixed jeering
Screaming sighs…and whistled respect
God I love baseball…
Categories:
ironed, devotion, happiness, introspection, sports,
Form:
Free verse
purple tulips, the color of her toddler dress.
the leafy stems, her eyes.
the baby-blond hair, mom combs into a crest,
the sea will satisfy.
blond slowly turns brunette, tumbles
from Rapunzel’s tower, then gets shorn.
green waters, a dry oasis —
cerulean blue boundary.
open sesame with artificial drops.
wrinkle-protected eyes.
ears can’t hear what others say.
deaf and blindness make her appear wise.
guttural sounds - huh, eh, hmm.
smiles and nods as the tongues of the young,
like trumpets in her ear, elucidate their troubles.
she’s ironed out hers. they still exist.
still, she knows the outcome.
sediment of the sea shelled out to the deep.
sand sifts through her fingers.
sandcastles wash out, but i see
children carrying shovels and pails.
some have leafy-stem eyes and baby-blond hair.
3/6/2021
Categories:
ironed, age, hope, wisdom,
Form:
Free verse
Watch out and wait. In fact stop listen and wait. Is that the wailing of a sail sailing by? Of course it is. The fact that an ironed breeze can touch a nautical knot is common knowledge amongst sailors and sailors are neither shaped sharpened sharpeners nor are they saying still shifts stillness. It is the opinion of the official orange kingdom that stalk the juice makers. Creators of squishing. Causing cannibalistic clothes cheating chatty climbers. It is neither within a dash nor a hash key that a full stop is found. And keys can be symbolic and symbolism of a metric metre can be taken to a few zoos to play with caged controlled boxed up animals who wish to run away. This they do with thuds akin to hooves. Strong fur and beaks can move and snap bars. And all are released. Good. Ha the ball is dancing to a top allegro tune in a sombrero and a tutu. Ha the tail of a car is chasing a cat around. Xxxxx multinational z z z z z. With a hypothetical hypothesis hearing harmonic hopping hippopotami z
Categories:
ironed, autumn,
Form:
crispy verbs you let me use
after you were done
ironed out by my tongue
nestled between my cheek
and gum
Spit brown
tobacco sounds
rolled and chewed
imbued with your borrowed life
spat out against the
burning canvas of my mind
Categories:
ironed, angst, art,
Form:
Free verse
No seeds, spinach or carrots around;
no greens, or reds, or oranges found.
Only the smooth sliding elegance
of twosome as one in skating dance.
"Sequined Septuagenarians"
much smoother than fresh-ironed linens.
Golden, gliding glances so well-known,
minute, mellow movements, subtly shown.
A bittersweet moment hangs midair
as dazzling Old Smoothies sway with flair.
Both smoothies are good parcel and part,
but Old Smoothies give rise to the heart.
Categories:
ironed, age, appreciation, dance, endurance,
Form:
Rhyme