Best Lumbers Poems
fat girl cries
big fat tears
splash
crash
down her chubby cheeks
down her pillar like neck
which was once
much like a swan
now gone
fat girl sighs
big fat sigh...
a heart groan of a sigh
from the empty place inside
where beauty's not allowed to reside
fat girl sleeps
a big fat sleep
time obliterated
memories conjugated
into happy streams
peaches and cream
all over her dreams
everything perfect...it seems
fat girl awakes
a big fat awakening...
life must go on
she lumbers to the mirror
stares at her big fat figure
rolls here and there
and though she acts
acts like they're not there
she's not allowed to forget
she's not there....
not yet
she exercises
torturous kilometers by
holding on to handles
beginning the treadmill
to help her say goodbye
to the fat girl
who is pretty on the inside
but unseen
unseen
people are so mean
she medicates
they fabricate
rules...
she must subjugate
the need
to drown her sorrows
to eat it all away
why is she alive
alive another day?
fat girl cries
bit fat tears
her big fat fears
grow though she shrinks
kilograms slip away
will it ever be OK?
will they love her for her mind?
will they ever be kind?
to the little girl inside
who tries to hide
fat girl cries
will you dry her eyes?
Eileen Manassian
It must be springtime
for she lumbers by her nest
below the fig tree.
Hatchlings soon appear
to scamper into the sea.
She cries out to, "Watch
for eagles above!"
then turns away; her voice now
in praise of new life.
... title inspired by The Song of Solomon 2:12
In my town and only 90 feet
from my house run a pair of old tracks,
railroad tracks older than my house,
even older than me, and I am
become old, very, very old,
like a tree whose branches betray it
with every strong gust of wind
as they fall to the ground,
leaving less and less of the old tree....
I used to walk in between
those carefully laid iron rails,
stepping lightly on the worn wood
of the old ties as though
they were made of glass....
I walked the length of my small town,
I walked the world: I walked where
passenger trains carried vibrant lives
and their once warm, now cooling dreams,
and I felt part of each life,
now gone to ether and mist--
so too shall my lonely soul
ride those rails one bright day....
Still, a freight train comes by once
or even twice a week, and I thrill to hear
its wailing horn as it cries out
for a forgotten glory, and the ground shakes
a bit as the old train lumbers slowly
by my house and I wait a holy wait
for the music of its rumbling and
the cry of its old heart as a young
engineer pulls the whistle and
sees not that he is driving Eternity.
[n/a in Brian's 'Completely your choice, #6 contest, judged 9/9/20]
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted rum,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
There was a king who invited Artists to sketch the exact hand of Jesus so he can hung it in His palace
One of them depicted a Jesus with an Animal looking hand
Another depicted that He had the Square or the working hand
One of the Artists depicted that Jesus had a skillful hand
Another established that the Savior had the Philosophical hand
The final Artist sketched a Jesus with a Plane hand
The king wasn’t thrill by all the art works, so he never signed it. Why?
Because none of the sketched hands reflected the crucifixion of Jesus.
Hand’s which once held nails and wood
Now being held by nails and wood
Battered and tattered hands
The hands of a village Carpenter
He nailed splinters and carved timbers
He gripped lumbers with his bare-fisted fingers
In an age without gloves and hand creams
In an age without sunscreen lotions
A Village Carpenter hands, God’s chosen Son
Hands that labored under the harsh eastern sun
Hands that raised houses and erected buildings
Hands that fashioned furniture and repaired kids’ toys
Hands that broke bread and fed multitudes
Is now being broken to feed multitudes
These were the hands that fed the poor
These were the hands that healed the sick
These were the hands that made the sea and the fish
These were the hands that took bread and dipped it in a dish
And gave it to Judas as a gesture of deep love and affection
Here was the bread of life Himself, the Son of the living God
These were the hands that framed the stars and the skies
These were the hands that opened the blind man’s eyes
These were the hands that loosed the cold hand of death
These were the hands that disarmed powers of darkness
These were the hands that washed the disciple’s feet
These were the hands that cleansed lepers in the street
Oh gentle hands! Never slapping another back
Oh lovely hands! Never touching too roughly
These hands that bore scars that no lotion could heal
These are the hands of Jesus, so powerful and so real
These are the hands that convey love, so lovely
Oh! What a powerful hands! Oh what a lovely hands
Flim-Flam dances to the beat of a drugged out drummer
Her moves are suggestive and sometimes vulgar
Her hands are soiled and damp holding onto the grimy pole
She’s topless and her dancing is like a listless puppet performing a role
She has a striking body and her hair is curly and luxuriant
It makes patrons’ thoughts lean towards prurience
As the evening lumbers on, Flim-Flam’s dancing slows to a crawl
She’s tired, hungry and wants to curl up and bawl
A huge man approaches the stage sneering at her with tight dark eyes
He’s obese, sweaty, dirty, and wears an obscene leather tie
Flim-Flam looks down and backs up in mortal fear
It’s her stepfather; he’s found her; he staggers as he leers
He hollers. “Got ya, Gal, you gonna be sorry you ran away – you hear?”
He grabs at Flim-Flam, but a bouncer steps in with a bone-crushing slam
Her stepfather pulls a hunting knife bellowing and slashing
But the bouncer is bigger, fitter, and not afraid of grabbing
Crazed bullies, liquored, riled up and flailing
The bouncer drops the stepfather to marry the floor
Disarms him, pins him while hollering, “Flim-Flam, get out the back door”
Slamming into the bouncer’s 4x4, Flim-Flam hunkers down weeping
She hears sirens, people shouting, cursing, tires screeching
She hears the Miranda given just before she slides into oblivion
A gentle hand shakes her awake, it’s the bouncer, his name is Jake
Her new husband smiles with kindness, his love shining forth
“We’re going north to the farm where I was born and want to live my life
With you by my side, not “Flim’Flam”, but Grace Marshall, my wife
He holds her close whispering, kissing, reassuring
“Va-Va-Voom” disappears; a happy ending, a promising beginning.
A scholarly man of numbers,
when confronted said, “Chance be gone!
He who believes the lie slumbers.”
A scholarly man of numbers
challenges the mind that lumbers.
“Probability is the brawn!”
A scholarly man of numbers,
when confronted said “Chance be gone!”
Looking for adventure and escape,
a young girl's thinking of skipping school.
And a case of spring-fever finds her
skirting the edge of town, acting cool.
Sharp as a whip, she heads for a curve
in the tracks where the train must slow down.
And with her spot well-chosen, she waits
behind some bushes outside of town.
Suddenly, she hears the train coming,
with its high-pitched squeal of steel on steel.
And her heart begins beating wildly,
each clinking clank fueling her zeal.
With its wheels screeching and sparks flying,
a humongous engine lumbers by.
And she looks for an open boxcar,
aware, with one wrong step, she could die.
Racing alongside gives her a thrill,
for the train is still moving quite fast.
And matching its speed, she pumps her legs,
with bravado not felt in the past.
Fighting fatigue, she pushes onward,
not letting her pain get in the way.
And chugging along, picking up speed,
a train full of dreams whisks her away.
(Quatrain)
7/29/2015
My dear daughter,
I watch
As you give your trust
Placing your small hand
Inside God’s glove
Pain’s siren cry begs you to quit
Ever mindful of its power
Still, you refuse
Its hypnotic cry
Instead you toil
Loving, building
Parenting, befriending
Doing what is needed
Recovery lumbers forward
Reptilian in nature
Unaware of the path
Following its homing instincts
Knowing there is more
Unsure how to arrive
At the light
Setbacks shatter the spirit
Like the finest crystal
Falling, falling
Splintering, splintering
Onto the caked and hardened earth
Diamond-like shards lay
Glittering in the sun
Healing’s presence reappears
Mysteriously untouched
Golden orbs undulating
Musical, joyful
Arctic lights
Shimmering green and red
Play along earth’s edges
Uncovering connections
An inner voice whispers
You are not alone
Unconditional love remains
Unbidden, unknown, rediscovered
Children laugh
Family support
Friends pray
Self-compassion lightens the load
A mother nods, knowing
God’s glove
Tightens its grip
On her daughter’s small hand
Dec 14, 2013
haiku
wide-eyes, ears up
wax statues in the brush
danger lumbers past
baby deer
on a gambol in the snow
instinct kicks in
holding its breath
fawn awaits mother's nod
eye contact
Hunters in the Snow
Slowly, the hunters break stride through the snow,
Hunched over in failure, their heads hanging low.
Below the hill where villagers at play
Will soon be sad with no food on the way.
The meagre kill slung across one’s shoulders
'Tis barely enough, let alone for others.
But there at the inn a boar on the spit,
Pork and ale for them who can pay for it.
A band of crows meets the depressed procession,
As a magpie flies by in food exploration,
While those perched in the trees caw incessantly,
As if to mock the returning party.
Yonder mountains rise with icy-capped peaks,
Where at the cliff’s base a castle is seen.
Across the dam an ox-drawn cart lumbers,
While men on ladders douse a chimney fire.
Off in the distance, a tranquil scene reveals
A village with its clock and a church steeple.
All around the town are fields covered with snow,
And below the troop, the millpond froze over.
Everything looks cold ‘neath a green-tinged sky
That signals a storm gathering be nigh.
There on the bridge, a hag totes afaggot,
Fuel for the stove to keep herself toasty.
The hounds look unnaturally thin and worn
And, like their masters, hopelessly forlorn.
Back from the hunt and home from the forest,
Hunters and dogs are badly in need of rest.
***
Note:
“Hunters in the Snow” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “The Hunters in the Snow” (1565) by Pieter Brueghel the Elder (c.1525/1530–1569).
Brutus, my slavering Rottweiler, growls
He knows he's tougher than pooches with tails
The long pointed studs on his black leather collar
Are matched by his canines which make poodles holler
The drooling saliva that trails from his jaws
As he lumbers about on his four massive paws
Is soaking the ground and his talon like claws
Encouraging folk to keep children indoors
Devil Dog, Satan’s mutt, hellhound and more
All labels my beast has been nick-named before
I feed him on red meat and shin bones of cattle
It’s said he eats tigers but that’s tittle tattle
The park is all ours because other folk run
But wait, there’s a kitten, now this could be fun
Brutus will rip him apart for a lark
And splatter its blood and guts over the park
Hey, kitty kitty, come over to me
Play with my dog, what good friends you could be
But kitten was clever, too clever for me
He hissed and now Brutus is stuck up a tree
We battle and quibble over numbers,
twenty, or forty, or fifty-three percent.
The bottom squeals as the beast still lumbers
over their desperate bodies. Screams will rent
the air that no one hears because all fight
for their own small crumb and piece of turf.
Paperwork splatters blood against the light.
The casualties mount and the suits will laugh
at fools eating their own. They too well know
that the greater the battle among their minions
that much greater the profits that will grow
in their hands. No need for shared opinions
of how the peasantry has been bullied,
none seem to notice that they are enslaved.
Simple songs and sing-a-longs
Reading the write, and righting the wrongs
Hanging noose and kissing booth
Telling lies and spreading truths
Brand new vest with a new bought dress
Cleaning up and making a mess
One in number a giant lumbers
Slipping deep into his slumber
Lazy nights and pillow fights
Soundly soaring , flying kites
Careful child and teenage wild
Passions turning hot to mild
Watching slow but graceful snow
Drifting from where angels glow
Dreaming dreams in bounds and leaps
Until we're safely back to sleep
Listen to the sounds.
The sounds of a new baby crying,
the chirping of the birds.
Music in the background
from a neighbor far away.
The hoot of an owl.
the rustling of the leaves;
a horn honking 2 streets over,
the hum of a truck as it lumbers by.
LIsten to the sounds.
The chiming of my wind chime
as the wind picks upl
A child yelling in the background
as he plays outside.
A neighbor's cough,
a cat's meow.
Listen to the sounds.