Best Littering Poems
Sometimes, there is, between the lines,
a silence, that trembles with unspoken goodbyes
Expectant and charged, like a theater scene,
in the moments before the curtains rise.
In the dream that I'm in, I am southward bound,
so I assume it is autumn
And it resounds through the changing season
with the words never said, things never did
and with more forgiveness, and threads
of reason and understanding
....
Debris fills the gutters, and shades are drawn
Wild thorn-berries have been picked,
Trees are barren, naked, without a sound
Grief is thick, from the fog that was a cloud
And through limbs of questions never asked,
each branch has stretched with some neglect
and light of sun, still filters through
holding deep regret
Leaves are adrift, as if disturbed,
littering a speachless sky
Unfettered words we never cried
clamor up against the sky
still pleading to be heard.
Leaves are crushed and swept away,
by a bridled hesitation.
No summer arias have ever been sung,
and words to say have disappeared.
Vaporized and turned to dust
Sunlight dims, and I am thrust
into the void of too many wasted years
______________________________________________
100 In A Row Contest: #18
Sponsor PD
Tossed upon blank beaches
like men without souls,
shell fragments littering the sand.
Each broken shell once could sing
lyrics lilting of glories past,
tales spun in Dresden colors,
soft, shimmering memories -
blissful days beneath shining seas.
In broken men who walk the earth,
vignettes I view . . .
shattered beauty every one.
Copyright, August 3, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
The attention span of a hummingbird
She plays the part of the buffoon
With stale trite corny jokes
And mindless ramblings of a simpleton
She plays the lunatic
Filling my head with rubbish
Not a spark or inkling
That silence is meant to be
Appreciated and treasured
She spews out her platitudes
One after the other
Just mindless chatter
Shared indiscriminately
Unabashed and shamelessly
Endlessly going about
Littering perfect silences
But she is pretty
AP: 2nd place 2020
Hooves of aquatic thunder these white steeds
Of wonder, slamming against the coral reef
As hail storms rage, set us free their voices
Softly speak through the seashells littering
The sandy beach.
Enchantments cursed beast of purity’s beauty
Trapped within the foam and spray, touching
Almost the land then in sorrow’s undertow
Driven back is this mystical herd of wild
Mustangs.
Poseidon’s sacred water horses, surfing
Within the frothy s riptide of mermaid tears,
Clashing their silvery horse shoes, against the
Rocky edges of the under currents tidal surge
These titans of the fathoms deepest depths.
Lightening immortals shimmering, bathing
Translucent beneath the hued blue waves,
The last unicorns beg for release, to run
Freedom trails once more, to feel the
Mountains breezes of liberation flowing
Through their milk white manes again.
But silence is the reply from their capturer,
Unmoved is his trident of power, sitting on
His ivory thrown Poseidon watches these
Wonders of myth, and relishes in their
Spectacular beauty, vowing never to
Set them free, thee belong to me, my
Sacred water steeds of the bluest deep.
Within the seashells hear them weep,
These creatures of the mystical realm,
Crying out, release us please, can thrust,
Not hear us.
Out of the water, to feel mother earth
Beneath our silver hooves, we give our
Horns of crystal power, or the shimmering
Shine that beguiles our under sea father.
Out of the water, we’d roam in the wilderness
Wild, roll amongst the sandy duns of the desert,
Climb the mountain tops heights, and breath
The sweet air of freedom within our lungs.
Out of the water, for just one single day,
We sacrifice all that we are, or were in
Mysticism mystical realm, just to be free!
Hooves of aquatic thunder these white steeds
Of wonder, slamming against the coral reef
As hail storms rage, set us free their voices
Softly speak through the seashells littering
The sandy beach.
Two sonnets for May, and my muse
The fires are lit, my lover, and the hills
are flickering with little points of light
The sun is set, and deep within the rills
the seeds of stars are littering the night
The smoke is rising, lover, rising high
in winding spires of ribbons in the air
and in the rivers where the willows cry
and on the leys the ancient druids dare
to walk, the chalk is glowing. I know you
will never leap the Beltane fires with me
or rise on one May morning in the dew
beside me, spellbound by my poetry
Or so it seems. But oh, my lover, how
the blossom burns, so brightly on the bough
The maypole’s up, my lover, on the green
its willow ribbons flutter in the breeze
I would you be my king, and I your queen
for one night only, here beneath the trees
The hawthorn froths, my lover, in the hedge
the buds are bursting, birds are nesting high
yet still you fly, my hawk, above the edge
of some cold mountain way up in the sky
Come down, or are you wary that a flame
might fall within your feathers, or a spark
ignite your heart, or god forbid, you came
to want to stay beside me in the dark
It’s so, it seems. But see, my lover, now
the blossom burning brighter on the bough
© Gail Foster 1st May 2018
~~
Hand in hand they meander through the deserted lane,
freshly fallen snow crumpling under foot
Littering the sky, Bright stars, glittering like coins on a belly dancers belt,
slowly surrender to the coming dawn
Inch by measured inch the glory of Ra overpowers the starlight.
In a pale blue sky, a pale golden disc, the colour of ripe oats at harvest time,
looking close enough, and cool enough, to reach out and touch.
Brilliant rays, arrows of liquid gold, capture the pristine landscape,
splintering like a million shards of shattered glass.
No sound, only silence, profound, in the clear crystal air.
In the distance, a cock crows.
Long morning shadows cast by tall pines,
revealing a lone stoat, resplendent in his ermine coat.
Emerging from shade, merging with sunlight,
loping across the virgin snow with bounding grace.
White on white,
only the black tip of his tail and tiny footprints betraying his presence.
In the distance, a dog barks,
A small cottage, a stone chimney, a whisper of smoke announcing a new day,
A hardy little robin pecking with determination to uncover water under ice.
A door slams, the robin takes flight.
Snow slides from the roof to gather in piles like miniature Himalayas.
Icicles drop pearls as the thaw sets in. The world is awakening.
In the distance, a train whistles.
Still holding hands they walk on.
~~
A dog by the side of the road
Whelped out her cute little load
A copper who saw
Reeled off the law
Cited for littering I’m told
Asleep before the head hits the pillow
Head filled with vivid colors swirling, amassing, mixing outside the lines
Transgressions grow skyward like a bean stalk becoming a giant
Worries wander aimlessly like a cat in the night looking for a spoon
Hurts pound again, and again, first a drumstick then a sledge hammer
The kaleidoscope of confusion rotates ever faster, bed spins counter
Places cannot be escaped
Faces stare as if clothes have been robbed
Running, Flying, Drowning, Suffocating, Garbling Words, Can’t Breath,
Slow Motion, Falling, Insatiable Hunger, Unquenchable Thirst, Blood Stained, Shouting
Loaded Down, Frantically Searching Pockets, Hidden Underneath, Forgotten
Fear. All fears. Nothing but fear. Afraid. Regret. Worry. I didn’t. I really did!
Each day we pack our pockets. Cram our purses. Load our backpacks
Hang needless objects and things around our necks, over our shoulders, in the crux of our elbows, on our belts
Grip suitcases. Carry stuffed plastic grocery bags on each knuckle. Waddling to the side of the bed before crashing head on
Unknowingly still pinching the key between our left thumb and pointer finger
Hitting the bed with a massive crash
every part of the day strewn around the room like a devastating mid air explosion of a 747 littering debris, miles and miles of destruction, charred remnants, unidentifiable and randomly placed objects, out of place, disfigured, often never found
Before your head hits the pillow
Drop the things you picked up today
Take a load off
Free yourself of your burdens
Neatly set everything aside
On second thought, just pile it and let it lay where it falls
Drop your yoke
Sit down on the foot of the bed with God
Hand Him the things you still cling within sweating red fists
Briefly Examen your day
Fall asleep on His shoulder
He will gently lay your head on the pillow, loft your feet off the floor, and tuck you in.
Let Him carry your burdens, lighten your load, unpack, empty your pockets, wash your laundry, even sort and match the socks.
Travel to sleep lightly and peacefully dreaming of a new day
carrying nothing but what is truly needed.
The Trail Of Tears.
.
The snow fell when the long knifes came
Savages who robbed the sacred homelands
And buffalo slaughtered bloody plains
Men woman and children the old and lame
Frog marched against their will
Never to see they’re homeland again
They’re hearts so full of pain
.
And the big chief in Washington
In his big tall ivory tower
Declared the native American
Should live how he pleased
Even though it took the native Americans
Dignity away and fall to the ground
Like chopped down falling trees
.
Thousands upon thousands
Wounded souls resigned to they’re defeat
Walked the long trail of tears
With their little belongings and sore feet
Many sick and old
Succumbed to hunger illness and the cold
Countless frozen bodies lay like ice blocks
Littering the snow
The big chief in Washington
Won the days and the demon sold his soul
.
From the prosperous green Caroline's
To Oklahoma and apathy
By a mad cruel man’s greed
And decree
.
Forced to become farmers
When just a dust bowl is all they found
And nothing would grow from the ground
A once proud mighty nation
Did an ancestral dance
Hopeful it would return them
To they’re scared homelands
As hunters and the buffalo
Would again return given half a chance
.
They’re dreams were fruitless
And lost forever in the river of dreams
The depths of they’re sorrow so deep
That haunted they’re waking hours
And the one’s they’d sleep
.
They sent the young ones to schools in New York
To be educated in the white man’s ways
While those left behind
In the reserve concentration camps
Wandered like ghosts in limbo
And rotted in their graves
.
The wheel of history rotates
But the same things always come around
The person with the biggest stick
Lays the law down
.
The black man kidnapped from his home
And shipped to be sold as slaves
When will all this end
And when will man love everyone
No matter who they be
But the truth is many don’t care
And all they are concerned about
Is themselves power and greed
.
Thousands upon millions of stories
Never to be told
Lost forever
Since days of old
Man cannot even
Direct his own footstep
So the good book says
There is no real justice and we are living in
The last days.
.
Peter Dome©2021.
I shall live and die
By my own accord
Only my God may judge me
To him I've proved my worth
I am still here fighting
It matters not what for
On my ship of righteousness
Headed for waters unexplored
The clear night sky will darken
And the clouds seem ominous
I take heed to the sure signs
From them I won't digress
They are in the way of my dreams
And hopes that fill my sails
Like the wind from my heaven
Keeps my skin tough as nails
Evil comes to tempt me
I am not immune
Sometimes I play the hero
Other times I'm just a fool
Either way the choice is mine
I make it with my free will
For that's the gift he gave me
And for what I fight for still
The government is coming
To bring a chaos they call order
The line has been drawn
Between two sides there is a border
I feel myself being torn
To choose a fate in stone
Let this be a lesson
Why I wander on my own
Minds can be controlled
I see it every day
The weak wills fall like dominos
That lie littering my way
An obstacle before me
I iron will it to the end
And when the devil comes
to dance with me
I have already started to transcend
into everything around
I am the universal man
my true form I shall disguise
I am hiding it from this great Satan
they say will come for my demise
I know he will find me
maybe he already has
in a long gone nightmare
that my soul he stole at last
if I remember correctly
I can't say I recall
ever escaping his grip
or did it ever touch me
at all?
It was not so
It was not so
Before the invasion of the vultures
In those days
When being black makes us thick
When our communion whispers across oceans
When our ties thrust distrust
When our dreams were dreams
When our groans frighten their gods
When our cowries outweigh their currencies
But now,
The invasion of the vultures
Mocked our mores
Crucified our tradition with their crusades
Barter our black gem for arms
Conscript our angels into prostitution
Littering our minds with the doctrines of servitude
It was not so
With their holy writ they stabbed us
It was not so
Before the invasion of the Vultures.
awoh kingsley awoh
Th’ night sky dyed a berryblue hue,
Beneath th olive river blackening,
Her breath rich with grape nectar,
Her hair a nebula of lime & pumpkin.
Orange peels by th curbside,
Yellow pulp by th curbside,
Old Greek sidewalk lemonade.
Rose apples sitting with th china pear,
Sweet lust littering her secret ivy thoroughfare;
Moonlight pink upon her blushing bosom,
Th Universe in trapped in her ocular dew,
Cosmic sailors lost in her white coconut ocean,
Pleas forgotten as she raptured through.
Lead her not to temptation,
For she has found it herself;
This is th Love Fruition.
( after Sachida's after the war)
There will be war, in fact, there have always been wars,
and will continue.
Wars satisfy us.
Our nasty muscles move in festive workouts,
when there is war; in hearts, minds and on tongues.
We suffer from cerebral indigestion, when deprived of
wars.
The other day, the day after his son's birthday celebrations,
with exploding music and drunken noise, which lasted
till wee hours of the night, my neighbor, somehow,
managed to transfer his frustrations upon me by littering
my backyard lawn with empty beer cans; probably
thrown over the barbed wire fence, by reveling guests
of his punk-offspring.
My dog, Snow, barked at the strange garbage with unsual
agitation.
It sensed an arrogant invasion on its fond green grass.
I too was gravely provoked and felt the need to wage
a war.
Thus, I skipped breakfast and waited for his emergence,
pacing on my courtyard in furious strides while my eyes remained glued to his front door, all throughout that sunny winter morning.
What followed next, I choose not to reproduce.
It was a war, of words, we prefer not to engage in
front of the children.
Ants crossed borders, everyday, in their tiny lifetimes.
But wage no war with termites, earthworms and roots.
They simply tolerate each other's organic aspirations.
Why do we have this genetic longings of counting corpses,
fallen chariots and diffused bombs.
Even as the good books cry for love and peace, while their
revered middlemen conspire with rulers and falsify faiths,
we are eternally charged for wars, until
nothingness will prevail in memories of ruins and ashes,
where poetry will lament with silent screams.
Sundrops dapple umbrageous trees
strewing uncut diamonds, littering the path
with ambient flickers of what lies beyond.
Sundrops freckle ocean's surface
accenting the ripples that pattern the waves,
nuzzling playful kisses toward the warm beach.
Sundrops seduce the wayward wind
pirouetting with the aphids blissful dance,
a frenzied tarantella across my lips.
Fall in love, jumping in Autumn.
Splash of hues, refusing wither.
Leaping off, cushioning bottom.
Littering leaves in a dither.
Splash of hues, refusing wither.
Monotone rainbows in clothing.
Litter of leaves in a dither.
Burnt orange, maple reds, gloating.
Monotone rainbows in clothing.
Shaken off, adding to pile of
Burnt orange, maple reds gloating.
Looking on - mother-trees proud of.
Shaken off, adding to pile of.
Growing up, moments of winging.
Looking on - mother-trees proud of
Sailing sons, daughters caught springing.
Growing up, moments of winging.
Leaping off, cushioning bottom.
Sailing sons, daughters caught springing.
Fall in love jumping in Autumn.