Best Limps Poems
there’s always a man
who walks into the room
like he owns the ceiling
and the dust in the corners
and the breath in your lungs.
he talks about strength
the way a drunk talks about love—
loud,
with broken glass in his mouth.
the country splits itself open
arguing at kitchen tables,
in parking lots,
in the thin blue glow of televisions
that never sleep.
flags flap like nervous birds.
everybody’s got a war now—
a war on neighbors,
a war on strangers,
a war on ghosts they swear are real.
overseas
bombs bloom like bad flowers
in deserts that have seen too many empires
come and go
like bad bar tabs.
the men in suits smile,
shake hands polished with sanitizer and ambition.
they speak of security,
of destiny,
of greatness measured in contracts
and applause.
meanwhile,
back home,
rent is late,
tempers are shorter than cigarettes,
and the truth limps down the alley
with a busted lip.
power attracts its own kind—
loyal faces in expensive jackets,
men who nod too quickly,
who laugh a beat too loud
and some women.
the room fills with yes
yes
yes
until it sounds like a swarm.
and somewhere
a waitress wipes down a counter
and says,
“they’re all the same.”
maybe she’s wrong.
maybe she’s right.
history has a long memory
and a short fuse.
in the end
no one conquers everything.
the wars abroad fade into footnotes,
the wars at home scar the children,
and the man who wanted it all
learns that the ceiling
never belonged to him.
it was just
borrowed
like the rest of it.
Diminished by age, a weathered existence limps
Crutching dimmed vision and impaired limbs,
Much wiser that before, it speaks wisdom words
Entertaining grandkids in stories that enlighten,
Wishing the time to destiny would stop rushing
Reminiscing adoringly in yesteryears’ springs
As exuberance of yore in travails of life recedes,
Recalling seasons pristine, ravishing, blossoming
When youth ruled meadows of blazing revelry,
Reckoning lately though, how summer parches lilies
And winter freezes perishing autumnal leaves,
Unsure whether sunlit-dawn tomorrow brings,
If life’s graying themes can still invoke dreams~
As blunt reality confronts passions embellished.
Yet, life emulates pride of battered old oak tree
Mangled and broken, withering in gusty winds
But, standing steadfastly aiming for centuries
Rejoicing birds frolicking, concert of hatchlings,
And it too sways merrily ignoring bleak warnings
Beckoning alluringly reluctant, fading feelings
To tango in ballroom of life for yet one more spin,
Conjuring ancient images of renaissance in Italy~
The Colosseum, statues, galleries full of paintings
Pulsating forever, beyond bounds of mortality
Weathered, yet standing, as battered old oak tree
And aged-existence that defiantly keeps ticking.
November 24, 2021
Placed 2nd: “W” New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Weathered
Lurking in the darkest shadows,
she looks for one of us to hound,
trying to catch a little glimpse
as she staggers along and limps
Spittle and drool keeps dripping
from yellow teeth and snarling lips.
She whines and hunches her back
picking out one of us to attack.
Alone because she's made enemies
of those who once pitied her, but
she never let us howl our intentions
and blocked any effort of intervention.
With watchful eyes she tries to be sly
and has an ego that's rude and annoying.
She's always waiting for the chance
to trounce, then do her trophy dance.
She takes swipes and nips at our butts
when she thinks she has the upper hand,
but her whining doesn't matter to us.
Our pack calls her 'the ornery old cuss.'
Let her coo and take those falsetto bows,
and let her think she's a ruling queen,
but we all know she's just a looney hyena
while we laugh at her haughty demeanor.
^. .^
1/31/17
Poetry in an animal's view
contest by Jamie
soda sparks
and lemon juice
on every lip
and candle wick
explosion
of the champagne kind
to bubble brains
and swirl the minds
when summer limps
upon two heels
we break our vows
and kneel to feel
the rhythm of the losing heat
when soda sparks
in weak appeal
as sidewalks bend
their thoughts to me
while overactive melodies
complete themselves
in summer nights
I barely fall without a fight
and candles dim
and lights grow white
I know the drill, tonight's the night
I lick the summer off my chin
and grab September, and head on in...
bursting with colour
fall's harmony delights
leaves playfully dance
darkness blankets the sky.
the crispness in the air
sharply pricks my cheeks
tears feel like icicles
stinging, unforgiving, cold.
the beach is deserted
long gone is the laughter
all i hear is the ocean
waves violent & crashing.
what once was my sanctuary
i only feel lost & alone
the emptiness overwhelms me
reality too much for me to bear.
i fall to my knees
sand coarse, knuckles white,
wrapped tightly in dispair
i begin to rock; i rock.
time has no meaning
as i gasp for air
nose running, lips quivering
i am scared; out of control.
his heart is frozen, eyes vacant and haunting
a souless shell in disguise, as a caring man
was who i chose to love, and who he chose to hate me.
the how & why i don't understand
as the brutality of his words
cruelly replay; they replay
breaking my heart, piece by piece.
a homeless man limps over to me
i look up, smile, his eyes are kind,
he gently puts his hand on my shoulder
and stares out at the ocean with me.
i try to calm my shaking body
extend my wobbly hand to his
he has one limb & three fingers missing
i accept as he helps me to stand.
on this desolate beach
feeling isolated & broken
i realized at that very moment
this man with kind eyes
was my saving grace.
suffering in silence, i allowed
abuse and rage, i quietly accepted.
for it was this tender, gentle man who
showed me love in it's purest form.
Her breath catches with each infliction. Her pain their addiction. She wades water in a sea of strife. Her day, her tomorrow, her animosity toward life. She allows them passage only to feel their sharp talons once again grab hold. Softly she cries love can not be bought bartered or sold. Bleeding from their pain she limps onward. Her heart broken down yet her gaze upward. Hope remaining intact for you still hear her heart beat. Her destiny her future her fate has never been exact surely one day they shall all meet. So broken down, bleeding, and crying. Oh their stubborn blindness. Quietly you can hear her praying Father please save us.
So what is different
The vagrant limps across the careening snow
Scantily unkempt
From inside the bank with glittering glass
I watched him pass
Carried by the flow
Of that dilapidated mass
For whom tolls the jingling bell
And toll, and toll ignored again
My heart
Shunning the superficial cheer
Left all I heard
Devoted to a pilgrimage of eyes
Where the fire glows warm
And hope gathers moth-like
I see him push, and pushing through
Put out his arms to touch the tired flame
As though an angel had troubled it
Or perhaps a rudimentary manger
And Christ so far from it
While he sleeps secure on warm
On the bank floor
Under the beautiful Christmas tree.
I walked away
Full of grief and empty
While behind me toll, and toll again
The jingling bells of the Salvation Army.
O Mary, hail us not as Joseph in this despair
Nor magnify too much your feat
He too has swollen and blistered feet
And I volatile from the pilgrimage
Ask questions of my faith
Tell me, for all the change from manger to cross,
What is different now from then?
Sometime after midnight, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned rubbish
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’
~ Dear Old Golden Rule Days? ~
The 2023 school year mercifully limps to a close
Seems eons ago when students could afford to doze
No more - Today they'd better stay on their toes
Every few days a mass shooting, or a bomb threat -- to your stations!
Teens fighting their teachers over perceived rights violations
There is gender dysphobia, bullying, taunting
Halloween the day that is least haunting
Ah! But perhaps common ground exists, the books we've all read
Then again, I forgot, teens watch Tik-tok instead
Battered and shaken
The motorcycle limps home
to the finish line.
An inspiration surges through your brain.
If only you can organize, maintain
Your poignant words, a slingshot to release,
With measured aim, this writer's block defeat.
You tally once, then twice and start again
With phrasing even you don't understand.
You feel your venture crash against a wall
And watch your efforts shatter, as they fall.
Another golden moment from your past,
On stanza two, You read your lines, aghast.
You have no weapon strong enough to wield,
The composition slows, then limps and yields.
The message, once so clear, has left your mind.
The task you started, now you leave behind.
Your head, still full of thoughts, but none engage.
You grant a rest to your exhausted page.
Gene Bourne.
06-12-14
.
Broken but disbelieving, we wait
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses
patience, explodes, Why are the sick
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom, another throw
away human, unlike a tot thrown
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening
sound, shrill scream after scream raids
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost.
Patients stoically sit. Some lose
change to a vending machine. A cop throws
a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits-
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick
father releases bloodcurdling
sobs because a body was found. Blood
is both bond & amputation. I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority. Besides, we've already lost
each other, little one. Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates.
No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
On fringes of shadow, charred black of burnt night,
she limps through the dimmest and cruelest of streets.
Huddled with her loss, body bruised and beat,
Mama’s caked makeup tries hiding her fright.
Little girl of twelve pretends to be grown;
with tomorrow gone, she paints on red smile.
Bright lights flash cold eyes, wicked hearts defile;
all star-struck fresh thoughts are buried in moans.
An evil descends from man’s greed and scorn;
In dark suit and tie, an average, white face,
money for Mama, from far, west world place.
Screams pierce soiled mattress on hot, red-smeared morn.
From under tight ropes her stripped body bleeds;
recoiled in dried tears, she silently pleads.
Town dog’s name -- Buster
He limps on once broken leg
But runs like a pup
Story never told
How Buster’s leg was broken
Silence rule invoked
Countless times I’ve asked
But no one wants to tell me
How this came about
No one wants to talk
About Buster’s tragedy
They hide truth from me
Someone will talk soon
Of this there is certainty
Truth exists somewhere
The tomcat is mute
Ne’er spoke a word about it
I feel he is key
Friends they used to be
And friends they are till this day
Friends don’t rat on friends.
All joy had fled these pinched, wintry alleys.
The sun had slouched away
to die somewhere alone,
like a poisoned cat.
Across the steep valley,
Chestnut trees stood stoic and erect,
terracotta warriors, undecked,
their green bled out.
Damp was the only regular
that now attended the village church.
Plaster was bulbing out, like gout
or arthtritic knuckles,
and paintings of rustic saints
were wrinkling out of their frames,
unloved, unnoticed, flecked
with fungus, freckle-frowned.
The coffin yawed and lurched,
coming out into the drizzle.
No-one’s buried in the ground
in Spain. They slot you in a wall.
We mourners, with murrains and galls,
and racking coughs and limps,
were huddled, waiting.
We saw them hoist the pall
to offer it to its slot.
I was appalled. What I got
was a glimpse, to my distress,
of something claustrophobically small,
so dismal, comfortless –
the interior of her “plot”,
that niche that’s waiting for us all.