Best Mache Poems
Dream
My mirrored reflection silently speaks
You honor me with your vulnerability
Your scars of life
Your unhealed wounds of betrayal
Dream journals tattoo your body
Your open arms of desire call to me
With eyes closed I sense
Whispers of your silky wings
Fluttering against smeared panes of glass
Separating us in the night
Your voiceless screams
Crushed pink musical notes hover close by
Magical music envelopes me
Dancing sounds emanating from
The depths of your kaleidoscope soul
A rebirth of desire
You are my child
My eyes call to you
Fragile strands of distance
Separate us
My child
I long to touch you
To hug you
To comfort you
Our palms meet
Mirroring one another
Rising them above our heads
We create a circle of life together
Only the transparent looking glass
Keeps me from feeling
The warmth of your touch
I read stories to you
You cannot hear me
I turn the book around
Pressing it to the glass
Not knowing if you
Can interpret the words
Hello my dear child
I am here to make you smile
I will dance for you
I will pantomime
I will become a dynamic octopus
Changing color and form
Before your eyes
I reach through the glass
As it liquifies and melts
Coating my fingertips
Hands and arms
In a warm embrace
I find you in the blur
Lifetimes pass
Time Inhales
Grasping blindly
I cup your shoulders
Bringing you to me
Dissolving all barriers
I press you against
My beating heart
Sweat glides down my cheekbone
Caressing your forehead
Leaving salty trails
Child of mine
No greater honor
Has been bestowed on me
Allow me to help you heal
As you have healed me
Cherished
Line drawings
Smiling suns
Red Dogs
Green Trains
Spider webs of glitter
Paper mache bowls
Painted in Aztec colors
Fill my dresser drawer
Remembering sugar cookie stars
Coated in Thick frosting
Sprinkles
Burnt edges
Many skinned knees
Broken spirits
Bactine and Bandaids
Notes by my bed
“I love you Mama”
These moments in time
Stored in the locket of
My heart
Forever
I kiss you now
"Kris Kringle Kisses Kalliope"
A Dream: the 4th Christmas.
deck the halls
with memories
poets whisper pasts
that are ne’er forgotten
where presents
a life
that’s neatly wrapped
and attempts at
frostily forgotten
tucked under
that big
beautiful
green fir tree
where all the dreams
of poets go
gold starred, tinselled
and angel mounted
ripe cherries
kissed
crassly
under mistletoe
Ah Christmas
capture me up
in your safe
magic arms
let me sip
the nectar from
your sweet eggnog cups
like Puck’s flower flows
on sultry lips
and eyelids
“love-in-idleness”
"The juice of it
on sleeping eyelids laid
will make man
or woman
madly dote
upon the next
live creature
that it sees”
poet or pup
crimson berries crushed
against a velvet tongue
bedazzled and
bewitched
fires crackling
logs like legs
drop and wrap around
the flames
while in my dreams
I await beneath
the sugar coated
blankets of a bed
charmed by snowflakes
dusting houses in a row
through misted windows
where “paper people....
dream
their cardboard dreams”
“how unreal
the whole thing seems
can we be living in a world
that is made of paper mache?
Everything is clean
and so neat
anything that is wrong
can be just swept away”
inside is very still...
not shaken
like a snowglobe -
surreal
damned be
the dams of
Love-in-Idleness
where eyes reflect
your shadow
in my dream
like opium smoke
across cracked glass
remember how we
all once were
some beautiful happy
if we could just pull the chord
so fresh out of ...
class
rewind our time
rewind it
to yesterday
like a toy
across the
ocean bobbing
like a buoy
an Iceberg keens and cries
Nutcracker twirls
Sugarplum
Kris Kringle Kisses
Kalliope
Oberon...
reals
Titania in
Slo mo’
Magic
mmm
Romance
lacy
frosty
melting
snow.
An iceberg cries
in time with
Christmas eyes
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2020)
“Paper Mache” / Dionne Warwick
https://youtu.be/85TK2Bia6w8
"There must have been some magic in
That old top hat they found
For when they placed it on his head
He began to dance around"
I have always felt that love wasn't real,
no matter what other people may say.
And I wondered, is it love that folks feel,
or is it the body's hormones at play?
Is love real, or like papier-mache,
a collage of hopes that easily fray?
I turned to family to seek love there,
and yet I found nothing but tears and pain.
Never having felt loved, it seemed unfair
that I kept failing again and again.
I felt no affection, only disdain,
and whatever hopes I held were in vain.
I looked to friends for love, to no avail,
for though often spoken, it was all lies.
I believed love to be a fairytale,
till I met you, and you opened my eyes.
You swore love was real, to trust my heart,
and I fell in love with you from the start.
To love, and be loved, is living a dream,
and I'm so happy, I just want to scream.
I know how to make your makeup run
Make you bleed like light bleeds from the sun
Cause the mascara you wear to smear down your beloved face
Tell me, how do tears stained black taste
I know how to rip you scars internally
Force you to the brink of pain for all of eternity
Have you scream until your voice reluctantly burns out
And eat at your soul as you annoyingly Pout
Girl, I know how to make you squirm
Make you wiggle miserably like a hook punctured worm
You're the one who made this insanity be
Who caused this madness to run wild inside of me...
I know how to raze your pitiful life
Read your lies and cut through them like a knife
Break your bones with painful words
Sticks and stones are just so absurd
Darling, I know how to make you cry
Make you beg to me not to let you die
Cause what goes around to come back around
Run your papier-mache heart into the ground
I know how to torture every spot in your nervous system
Take the atoms of your mind and soul and twist 'em
Stick your pretty little face under the barrel of a gun
I know how to make your makeup run
We always lay flowers on the grave
but rarely give them to the living
we hide our true hearts in fancy vases.
When we finally say I love you
a sundial whispers -it's too late.
You think you've mastered forever.
'til forever scratches at your graying door.
Dreams never fly without feathers of hope
Blowing away like Mojave Desert gold.
Limestone hearts worn away by indifference.
Everybody's taking -so very little giving.
Everybody's sitting in paper mache caves.
Of their very own making.
Talking to the saddened shadows of themselves.
Hearing only the echo of their desperation.
Sliding into the mouth of the burning bell.
In a pinch of the slenderest fingers
like tapioca beads to the wind
the mercury fog is popped.
Wild silver happenstance rains down
and settles quiet. Quiet.
Had my pale head touched the earth
at the moment of it's impact
I would have drowned in the mist.
With slender fingers turned to roots,
hair to moss, blood to sap,
a papier-mache skin to the earth's skeleton
To be popped, by the tenderest finger's of soil embrace
drawn to the sky like tapioca beads to the wind.
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
There is a place so beautiful I'd love to see again.
My dream vacation started in Madrid, in central Spain.
How I long to stroll again down by Retiro Lake
and see El Prado art museum. Then for old time's sake,
I'd find some iced “horchata” down by Alcala Gate,
and later see Flamenco at a bar where folks stay late.
Come tag along with me as I remember old Castile.
We'll bring potato omelets in french loaves for our meal.
In any one direction, heading north, east, south or west,
is something quite amazing for your senses to digest.
A cross upon a peak is near the great Escorial.
And Avila, by Romans built, is circled by a wall.
Segovia, Toledo, and further by the sea,
lies Valencia. That's a place I want to be!
Try the calamares (squid). I like it best when fried!
Oranges abound and the paella's bona fide.
In March , through all Valencia there is a grand display:
people burning giant statues made of papier mache.
Northward are the Pyrenees, rugged, vast and green,.
Sheep in fields, refreshing clime, and villages serene.
There's bustling Barcelona if we journey up the coast.
Farther west, along a bay in Galicia, I like most
a place named San Sebastian, a very lovely town.
It has some trees with tops like cute umbrellas upside down.
Last, to Don Quixote's Andalucia -south let's drive
where for centuries the moors' enlightenment could thrive.
Cordoba, Granada, and Seville we have to visit.
The mosques with marbled columns at Cordoba are exquisite.
Granada has a palace like none you've ever seen.
The ornate rooms and gardens were fair pleasures for a queen.
Malaga I never saw, but if ever I should go
back to Spain, that's a beach I really want to know.
So many different nations arrived on Spanish shores:
Greeks, Phoenicians, Visigoths, Carthaginians, Celts and Moors.
Iberia is fascinating. Its diversity
is so enchanting, it's the best vacation spot for me!
4/28/2015
"Poisoned Passion"
hollow heart impaled
tears blind eyes once touched by stars
betrayed by love's ruse
flesh and bone breath pain from grief
dreams swallowed by molten ash.
empty soul stings hurt
love evaporates to dust
golden Sun shines black
passion's flames died in fierce blaze
extinguishing emotions.
masquerade exposed
this "te-ta-te"called mere farce
stolen moments cease
paper mache' promises
tumble shattered pedestal.
*For P.D.'S Tanka Me a "Sad Song" Contest.
*Oct. 5, 2012.
Yes,
you figured me out.
My smile has become crooked,
hammered down upon guillotine pedestal.
Her strands of tormented wishes,
now caressed by singer’s ebb & flow.
Baritone lyrics glide out in wanton scope.
Hope
no longer choked by charred rope,
double-knotted sadness.
Mercury skies rain down.
White satin mystery, solved.
Or so it’s proclaimed…
Joy’s declaration made upon Paper-Mache falsities,
placing reservations on matters of the heart.
True happiness thrives on sunrise currency,
not clouded futures.
…
Yeah, you figured me out.
This smile has become crooked.
No toothpick can hold this up high.
I guess this tear knew all along.
But, I walk on.
As I continue to pay my price,
writing out reality checks.
I know I’ll always be your friend.
Just
not today.
© Drake J. Eszes
United Nations, United Nations
What an oxymoron!
What an oxymoron!!
The platitude goes-
‘United we stand’
In the UN,
How erect we stand!
How erect we stand!!
We are *****erectus
Aren’t we?
This genocide-friendly unity of nations
With extra-care tending
The weeded garden of poison-trees.
When Hutus and Tutsies blood-bathe
The UN closely observes the situation,
When Israel unchilds, unhusbands and unfathers
The Palestinians, the UN
Appeals to both the parties to exercise restraint.
When the Theravada fanatics exterminate the Rohingyas
And the West-engineered Arab Spring
Tears the Middle East asunder,
The UN condemns and condemns and condemns!
O UN what a paradox you enflesh,
Bringing to the forefront
The anti-thesis -
‘United we stand, divided we fall’
To what insurmountable height you have taken
The human(un)kind, we have seen
Now anti-thetically we would like to fall
As ‘fair is foul, foul is fair’.
In your acronymic form
When in lower case
How prophetically you become
An ominous prefix!
UN, UN you are non-existent
An ethereal entity, a papier mache;
Ailan’s death has finally declared
You biologically dead.
Let this cenotaph be
Placed on top of UN HQ:
Here once architecturally stood
The divided conglomeration of Nations – the UN,
A metonymic entity
Proudly pronouncing human unyokability.
RIP, dear UN.
Female lips that don’t belong on me
Can anybody sense those colors are not mine?
I cry in blue, red , yellow twirls
just mutilating body that doesn’t belong to Soul
Incarcerated in a breathing mask
I look at YOU begging to see ME
As pupils burst the deepest love
Eyelashes can not flutter free
So gracious Nymph approaching silent me
Those candid, open lips Do belong on you
I grab my hands protective of the unknown
I’m just a paper mache… melting in the rain …
copyright 2011
iolanda scripca
JADE
by Rosemarie Rowley
I knew you fainthearted what side you were on
When you talked of social reality: not Jesus at the well
With the Samaritan woman, or the invisible loss of power
Which halts her speech and causes His deference
Holding her in trust for what she is.
You can talk of rural communes in China
Till the cows come home – leading them will be a girl
Bearing a key-ring and a dead black raven.
Your ways are sweet indeed, nectar and honey
And vinegar to end it all: you’d let all the
Wells in the world run dry for a principle
And proudly show us the papier-mache women who survived,
Embalmed with bitter hope and urgent salvation,
To tell the tale on electro-magnetic tape.
Nature's divided into four seasons
each eye-catching in a similar way
and yet, different for many reasons.
Winter's crystalline beauty carries sway
but She is both barren and deathly cold
with a hollowed-out heart of papier-mache.
Spring’s spectacle slowly breaks Winter’s hold
accompanied by a moist April breeze
She showers snowdrops as petals unfold.
Summer is known for Her emerald trees
dandelions, coleslaw, a picnic spread
grasshoppers, hummingbirds, and honeybees.
Autumn colors the leaves in shades of red
scarlet, crimson, puce, orange, and yellow
weaving a fitting shroud for Summer’s dead.
Together they keep the planet mellow
each a fine-tuned string on Nature's cello.
10/12/2019
I have withstood this austere year
Waiting on skies which never clear
Shadows away
Fingers restless for an hour's peace
Scrapes gold flakes from a drying crease
of papier-mache
Random resistance too refined
Leisure, a luxury consigned
To yesterday
Now, tart impatience I require
Passive manners swiftly expire
Against delay
In rushing tempo, I rejoice
Straight-held shoulders, marching my voice
Into the fray
On stout cliffs, I refuse the same
Meek rain, in favor of bold flame
Where bright hopes lay.
7/31/20
For 'Tail Rhyme Stanza' contest
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
(a note on papier-mache: howmanysyllables has it as 3 syllables but in rhymezone.com it is listed under the four syllable words. I used the count from howmanysyllables.com, but to check it in rhymezone, it is under the four syllable count rhymes - just so there is no confusion.)