Best Knee High Poems
Look past
the faded little girl braids and bows
in a polaroid picture
buttery yellow skirt
curtsying a smile
frog prince
imprisoned in her palm
under a creamy pound cake sun
(her grandmother’s recipe
sugar and spice folded carefully
with love and guilt
into a thick summer sky)
daisies like polka dots
piecemeal on her bonnet
seem to stare down
her face with jaundice eyes
slanted above ensnaring weeds
swirls of sorrow linger
in knee-high field
where flowers grew wild like
freedom once felt
Look closer picture fading
She is running
legs bent shouting from the page
stockings peeled off
lanky legs running
through her pain
till her heart detaches
from a barefoot soul
She still feels spiky burs in her heels
drops of blood
zigzag numb
beyond the treeline
memories meld
love and loss
euphoric rush warm winds fuel
an urgency her creation
until lightning strikes
her grief rushing to catch up
through crushed wildflowers
fragmented patterns
under paths at her feet
tears flooded her field overgrown
She remembers to forget
Her mother
buried under
a distant willow
She was taught
by her grandmother
to be composed
poised like other girls
wad up unpleasant feelings
slip them into a corner
of the cedar chest
under layers
of afghans and quilts
she laid them to rest
long ago but
never stopped
her fidgety legs from weaving
through floral tapestries
of field and meadow
wild brush turned emerald green
in mourning
Her daddy passed away
ten years ago today
He was buried with wildflowers
tucked softly
in his lapel and praying hands
he always said windswept blooms
reminded him of his girls
If you look closely at the picture
of that faded little girl
you will see her running
from the graves
as the wildflowers crush
beneath her feet
I bequeath to you my poems,
For words are all I own--
May the images of snow and fall
Bring you comfort when alone.
And I will leave you all of it;
The moonlight on the moor--
As well the quiet, leafy wood,
Or a sunbathed distant shore.
And among the rhyme and imagery;
The metaphor, and theme--
You'll read of rose and morning dew,
Of midnight naps, and dream.
And somewhere in between the lines
The fantasy turns real--
So take these words I proffer you,
And touch, and taste, and feel.
Amazing are the things you'll see,
Like the ivy-covered wall--
Or the icy streams of diamond
And the spill of waterfall.
So enchanting is the moonlight,
So too the autumn breeze--
Oh how I'll miss the butterflies
And the stand of ancient trees.
So precious is the lily pond,
The wildflowers too--
Take comfort in the song of rain
And the pansies playful hue.
How amazing is the hummingbird
In uncertain, frenzied flight--
Reminds me of the dawn and eve
As they argue, day or night.
And in the valley of the glen,
Where stands the steeple church--
There remains a knee-high meadow,
And a lovely stand of birch.
So Immerse yourself in wondering,
Set your spirit to the sky--
Behold as children, puffs of cloud;
The bee and butterfly.
And let your palette taste the wind,
Hear the quiet of the snow--
While delighting in the jasmine;
The sweetest scent I know.
Take my words and nurture them,
Kindly revel in my dream--
And keep alive the buttercup,
As well the mountain stream.
May you sleep the night, and linger;
That my dream may carry on--
Give life to every word and thought
Till the images are gone.
May you celebrate the beauty;
May you open every door--
Till the sun is swallowed by the sea,
And my poems are, no more.
~M
I dream that tonight I am a raccoon
And it is here in this body that I store the notion
That my sadness will last forever,
In the treasury of unclaimed awareness,
Where pits of the peaches could never re-sprout...
I dig deep into the indent of a Denver ravine,
Gnaw knee-high into the hollow ridges of hominids and their homelands,
Belly-wade in bottomless mud waters west of wherever they don’t go, though
Lurid in my languor now, I laminate my slick turf onto Continental limestone slabs
And, then, all-at-once, at noon, just like that,
I call it a day.
A tired little raccoon
Can’t bear without a rest
Through the midday...
I arise as the coon falls under.
Reclaiming Human Sorrow, my Wrong-Headed Brother,
Waxing thunderously, now, in the mind’s cluttered cage
In this day of coffee and chit-chat and left-turns,
I’ll dream tonight I am a raccoon.
So that we may both get out and roam.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
I see you there, in amber campfire mist.
On the banks of a crystalline pool, a bronze skinned lovely moving with intoxicating rhythm to the strum of guitars.
Sable eyes, gleaming with wanderlust, transfixed on distant dreams. Raven hair sheens cobalt blue, in glow of a pale full moon.
The tethered babushka and brilliant layered skirt, your banners of freedom. Knee high boots clad dancing feet, in a feverish itch to perform on new stages. Your opulence, jingle jangling from dainty wrists and pierced lobes, echoes the hypnotic song of rattling tambourines.
A blissful celebration in your enchanted home of nebulous walls forged of the four winds.
Oh beautiful Gypsy;
Last of the true migrants, paying homage only to purity of your clan. The devout mystic, whose babes suckle the nectar of white magic.
Your larder bulges fat, having labored a deconstructed nine to five.
A harmonious oneness with nature, your forte, honed to perfection in compassionate artistic crafts. With gentleness, you bring calm obedience to the untamed steed. In thoughtful consideration, parleying the fate and fortune of the gadjo, eager to lay down their silver and gold for charms and spells.
You trade in good faith only to be slandered in whispers of vagabond and theif. Your colorful lifestyle, jaded to a monotone hue of envious green.
A hopeless romantic smothered in Judas kisses.
Oh beautiful Gypsy,
Even as you celebrate in this newly discovered place, it's freshness grows stale to your delicate senses.
A bohemian lineage begs you go before the next cock crows.
The insatiable hunger to feast your eyes on unfamiliar lands pangs your very essence.
It has proven to be far too great for you to abstain; for it is the morrow.
A radiant sunrise reveals an abandoned starry eyed reflection lingering on a lonesome pond.
The scent of pungent garlic, rich brew and sweet tobacco hovers, as a perfumed phantom, in the desolate air.
Tracks of your wagon wheels flow through emerald meadows like a lazy river, avoiding stagnation.
Conformity lies choking in the dust of your painted caravan.
A nomadic soul in dreamy persuit of the horizon that looms forever in the distance.
Till we never meet again,
Oh beautiful Gypsy
I see this perfect moon-lit night
with million heart-shaped stars in sight
ill-clad with none but drooping leaves
a fig-tree fraught with a disease
its beauty once majestic spoilt
in battle lost ‘gainst arid soil
Against all odds with all its might
a lone fig struggling to the light
I near the tree with footsteps sure
and marvel at perfection pure
a beauty of blue-blooded type
abstained for years I match its ripe
Then common sense lets turmoil in
footsteps once sure now uncertain
like Eve had been that first aeon
I’m gripped twixt hard rock and a stone:
like angels do, with caution tread
or foolishly go right ahead?
I gaze to heav’n the slightest while
a star winks with the merest smile
I wink back once, fig’s beauty draws
no human born without its flaws
entranced, I reach to nature’s art
a softness settles in my heart
I’m awestruck by my juicy dish
on first bite I will make a wish
I pare my find with great aplomb
perfection glows within its womb
I wish upon my luscious feast
well soon I too would be deceased
The love was pure twixt you and me
from knee-high way past puberty
your final gift bore on bent knee
aware your last meal it would be
our fig we shared with great delight
first you, then me, alternate bites
Heart’s softness hardens, deeply torn
a lone tear in each eye is born
they multiply, become yet more
in memory of our days of yore
this perfect fig brought none but pain
no fig will pass my lips again
************************************
My lovely grandma taught me how to bake apple pie
I helped her in the kitchen from when I was knee high
Old family recipes were written down in a book
Cakes, cookies and pies were all so skilfully made
When grandma gave instructions I quickly obeyed
We’d pour over the pages deciding what we would cook
I recall those childhood days and I often look
At its stained pages and the knowledge she conveyed
Baking was such fun
Precious memories remain
I remember happy times
Every time I bake
I put on her blue apron
And teach my son how to cook
Fictional write - Sadly I didn't have a maternal or paternal grandmother and feel I missed out so much as a child
Contest Three Style II
Sponsored by Laura Loo
Rules
1. One couplet : A-A
2. One stanza with rhyme scheme: A-B-B-A-A-B
3. One sedoka: syllable count: 5-7-7-5-7-7 (Checked with how many syllables)
09~27~16
On the plains in the Texas panhandle
The fight for survival is real
As I watched from the derrick
On a short smoke break
A scene rather harsh and surreal
A cottontail bunny was having his way
In a pasture of gold knee high grass
When a hungry coyote, prowling late in the day
Caught his scent on the breeze as it passed
The bunny must have sensed, the coyote was near
He ran circles and made figure 8 bows
Confusing the canine, wound up chasing his tail
While the bunny escaped down the road
But nature has a way of being quite cruel
As a hawk observed from above
As he swooped down, the poor bunny froze
In a scene void of malice and love
With the rabbit in tow, still kicking and screaming
The hawk not making a sound
Somehow lost his grip, dropping his prey
Who died instantly hitting the ground
In all the commotion, the old coyote
Had watched and raced to the kill
Snatching him up and never looking back
Running swiftly over a hill
I stood there amazed, as the scene played out
This microcosm of struggles and strife
Then thought about destiny, no matter how hard you fight
The unfairness and the fragility of life
by Daniel Turner
Two is company
Three a crowd
A and B call the shots
I'll C my way out
I've become a nuisance
With the key to their heart
A knee high fence
Setting them apart
They clear with ease
The top of my Hurdle
I'm just a disease
A bothersome girdle
I gave them a boy
Adopted their man
Then a girl brought joy
They don't understand
They dote on the first
A monster in training
I have been cursed
No need for explaining
A fantasy solution
There's no such thing
Entitlement, illusion
They'll continue to bring
Pick a seat, not a side
A quant little quote
The author was high
When he joyfully wrote
An invisible line
Heavy and thick
Clear to the blind
A blunt, jarring kick
I won't sugar coat
My pen speaks truth
Start building your moat
And digging your boot
those days the sun flew like corn flour
freshly ground at the millrace
even in winter it was yellow
when I pressed it down with my thumb
like an unfastened button on my chest
I hardly cut my way with a stick
through the tall weed field
until my knee high socks
were filled with thistle tassels
jumping over the fence like a thief
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was
when the Big Dipper rose over the barn
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking
singing for the young foal with caramel skin
those days all hearts were red and warm
in the shape of a gingerbread heart
each star was a story
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade
The day Democracy died,
I was a little lad, yea, knee high
Papa turned on the telly
to watch the White House news
Curious to hear if the
whether forecast rumor was true
Did the First Amendment reporters
get carried away
by a baton wavy sea of blue
Horrified streaming video voices said,
it was a shot live bulletin event
Terrified eye witnesses stammer bled
in the Death Valley of Dissent
This is what I saw
the fateful day Democracy died,
I was a mere lad, yea, only knee high
Me remember Mama sobbing,
wiping her reddened eyes
Broken-hearted pulse skipping,
repeating: “Why, oh why?”
As freedom of speech believers
were wrongfully
read last rites in the streets
OMG! were the blog bleats
Palace guards were told to forge ahead,
by orders of authoritarian consent
Replacing the non-lethal bullets instead,
in the dire Death Valley of Dissent
The tragic day Democracy died,
I was a small lad, yea, barely knee high
But, I’ll always remember
that sorrowful Constitution mourn
When freedom was abortion borne
Foul eerie, dark crimson reign
was a-falling from abysmal, grey skies
A tsunami tide of muzzle pain,
cursed flood of voter suppression sighs
Watching pacifist protesters drop dead,
their peace signs
consumed by tyrannical flames of dread
I heard swastika shouts (guillotine hatred
coming down razor sharp, unedited)
from the Ivory Tower of Power,
saying, “Lady Liberty, off with her head!”
And the ballot tears got trampled dried
by the scattering lead
I saw the Bill of Rights defenders on their knees bent,
as their sacred write fell by the wayside
Dictatorial forces said,
“Only funeral marches in the Death Valley of Dissent”
To this day, tortured Democracy never got revived
Now, I'm a grown man
with a lion mane
And a firmament roar that can't be mute crucified
I was thinking today
That in itself
Is a very scary thought
About all the people who
Crisscross +++++++++++++
Through our lives
Some of these people
Without any doubt
Are just people we want something from
Or
People who want something from us
And once that need is gone
So are they
Then there are other people
That we know forever
But wish we had never met
And lets not forget
The ones we only met once
Wish we would know forever
But never see again
Well this isn’t about any of them
This is about
The people
We loved and lost
But never should have
Please know that the love I’m speaking of is friendship
Our friends define who we are
More than anything else
In life
My best friend and I
Haven’t spoken
In now on 15 years
In all honesty
That is my fault
It is also one of the worse mistakes
That I ever made
I was so hurt
The hurt brought anger
The anger brought action
And it all happened so fast
Soon as I did it, I felt so ashamed
I think his father could see that in my eyes
The whole family was a part of my heart
Dennis was my best friend
Judy was my girlfriend
Kristin, Jeffery & Haley were my step-kids
Dale was my younger brother
Jack & Joy were Mom & Dad
We had all known each other
Since I was knee high
I learned a valuable lesson that day
I learned that no matter how strong love is
How many years of foundation it may have
Addiction will destroy it
--- It’s the nature of the business ---
Spinning the Resort
By Elton Camp
For guests the resort does advertise
So it will be desirable in their eyes
Since the building is old and run down:
“Located in the historical part of town”
The heat and air don’t work very well:
“About the local climate you will tell”
Grounds are shabby and grass knee-high:
“From your room, untamed wilderness spy”
Windows are loose and some are cracked:
“For our hotel, ventilation has never lacked”
All the hotel furniture is faded and worn:
“Antique items from before you were born”
Plumbing is defective with leaks and all:
“As you sleep, you’ll hear the water fall”
We have no phones, television or Internet:
“The most peaceful vacation you can get”
Nowhere will guests an elevator ever see:
“Exercise is always provided to you free”
With so few guests, the daily rate is large:
“You will be astonished at what we charge”
Since the dining room grub isn’t fit to eat:
“Our cuisine, weight loss will complete”
Because nobody returns for a second stay:
“Bustling crowds will never cause dismay”
First six lines of my triolet entitled “Wrapped in White” followed by my contrasting six lines which I’ll entitle “Crestfallen in Snow”
I long to tread upon the snow
in hush of winter, wrapped in white;
in feathered mounds serenely go.
I long to tread upon the snow.
The boughs hang low; no wind doth blow.
My love, come see the wondrous sight!
Who wants to trudge in knee-high snow
especially in cold of night
when wind chill factor’s ten below?
Cars slide off roads and fierce winds blow.
Boughs break and icicles hang low.
Stay, Dear, instead, by our firelight!
When I was a kid, once a year on TV,
“The Wizard of Oz” would be shown.
It thrilled us and scared us, but how we enjoyed!
(Just as long as we weren’t alone.)
My parents were there when the scary witch came
And, years later, my husband and I
Sat and watched with our kids, singing all of the songs
We remembered from being knee-high.
Now today, here we are, watching Oz on the screen,
With our daughter and grandkids in tow,
Belting every word, reassuring in parts
That once frightened us, too, long ago.
It's a lovely sunny day here in Scotland
on a day like this, I love to go away
use my bus pass travel wherever I choose
across our bonnie land have a splendid day
I am an avid reader of books or by kindle
so much to learn from gifted writers so bright
be history, biography, poetry or Christianity
such a feast to eat making sure of a good bite
Having been brought up in the countryside
I have always had the desire to walk
uphill or down dale looking at the scenery
the beauty of the greenery puts the mind in lock
Music has a way to fill us with ecstatic joy
my loves are varied since I was knee high
but now classical, country and worship music
holds me in rapt attention filling my sky
But my great love is with pen and paper
taking my thoughts to write a poetic rhyme
amazing how words can be so attractive
to bring such joy for me simply divine!