Best Matted Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
I left her behind
emaciated
I left her
dying
I left her
I left her
I wanted to die there with her
there in the desert
where I left my mother
there where the stench of the dead and the dying
filled the air
I left her
my other children dragging me on
the soldiers shouting
threatening..theatening
I had to go on...for the others
I left her
my little girl
who was too weak to speak
too weak to cry
my little girl
whom I smothered
knowing it would be quick
not wanting night to call
the animals to crawl
over her still living body
not wanting her to hear
the death wail of the old and frail
all around
I smothered her
and kept on walking
not hearing
not seeing
not smelling
not living
not breathing
I left her
I left my heart
I left my dreams
I left my tomorrow
and every yesterday
every memory
every hope
of a better day
I left her
and in that starless night
there in the desert
naked and bleeding
starving
shivering
I knew....
"the rest is silence."
Eileen Manassian
"The Rest is Only Silence" is from Shakespeare's Play...Hamlet. I, however, will not be silent about the Armenian Genocide. This is in memory of the 1.5 million Armenians who lost their lives in the Genocide of 1915.Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. April 24 marks 101 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them.
If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.
Biting winds and swirling flakes of snow had finally abated
We surveyed the deep drifts, which lay on the fields
The silvery moon peeped through the clouds and lit our way
It was bitterly cold, but the pitiful sound of bleating spurred us on
Some friends and neighbours had joined us – we had no time to lose!
Grabbing our spades we worked tirelessly throughout the night
Digging out the sheep and tiny lambs one by one
Their fleeces were matted with tiny icicles
As dawn broke we had rescued all but one of our precious flock
Suddenly our trusty sheepdog Shep started barking
We trudged to where he was frantically pawing at the snow
Our hearts lifted as we pulled the final sheep out alive
At last it was time for us to return to the farmhouse
In the distance I could see gold and silver lights sparkling
and scintillating on the Douglas fir tree in church in the village.
I raised my eyes to heaven and gave thanks.
A Winter Poem
Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Required words
silver, gold, sparkling, flakes, icicles, drifts and spades
12~02~16
Nobody observes her leaving her room
wearing just her nightdress and red felt carpet slippers
Shuffling silently she slips out of the front door onto the street
Rivulets of rain start to soak her to the skin
Her straggly hair hangs down limply
It becomes so matted and twisted
Soon it looks like writhing snakes are alive on her skull
Her once pretty face is now lined and wrinkled
Rain drips off the crevices and onto her sagging breasts
Wandering off into the night she begins searching
Walking the empty streets with her arms outstretched
Searching, searching, desperately searching
Eventually she reaches the children’s playground
Sitting on a swing she rocks backwards and forwards
The rhythmic movement seems to calm her down
Tears form in her eyes and mingle with the raindrops
Strong arms hold her and she is powerless to resist
She hears voices telling her she must return home
‘We knew you’d eventually find your way here Maisie
It’s time to return to the sanatorium …
In future we will make sure the door alarm is activated’
10~19~15
N/A in previous contest
Submitted to screwed XI
Sponsored by Rob Carmack
Sponsor Nathan D
Title amended and submitted to ''P'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France
Today I found you cornered, drenched in cold,
your fur coat nothing but a newborn's down,
a tiny ball unfolding while I hold
you shivering. Your lacerations frown
and at a distance, I can see the why
of your abandonment, the birds of prey.
I’ve saved you, but you’re causing me to cry:
serrated weapons, Nature’s passion-play,
as blood-attracted sharks, still circling, wait:
I sense the breath-starved fright that made you flee,
those teeth, those claws, you were their blameless bait.
You can’t yet comprehend that you are free.
I see the wounds, some healed, some raw and new,
they're deep, beyond the matted fur and skin.
Four little paws, so tender, sprawled askew,
I seem to feel that you and I are kin.
You mark each move. Mistrustful eyes, so green,
incapable of rest, stir to suggest
you'll try to bite if I will try to clean
the bloodclots, so I hug you to my chest.
You flinch to feel my cuddle. Have I planned
some fiendish way to torture you anew?
The tiny space your wretched life has spanned
has taught you only suffering is your due.
Careful now, I’ll wrap you in a cloth,
And whisper words you cannot comprehend.
Oh tiny one, you're no more than a moth!
It’s alright now. You’ve come across a friend.
Your warmth is blossoming against my breast.
I want to teach you gentleness and calm.
There’s nothing here to threaten you: so rest,
You’re safe now from anxiety and harm.
I'll guard you through the night until you sleep,
until the chesty wheezing eases up.
This is protectiveness, it's seated deep:
I’ll always help a vulnerable pup.
Your heart is racing hard against my hand,
awaiting pain, as wizened captives do.
Believe me, Little One, I understand.
For I have been a broken prisoner, too.
***
May 30, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
I encountered her on a dark stormy night
Her huge trout like lips were a scary sight
Strands of white spittle formed on angry lips
huge folds of fat spilled over her wobbly hips
With scaly grey skin and blood red eyes
and legs so fat they chafed her thighs
Hair tangled and matted like limp seaweed
She reeked like a fish of an ancient breed
Reaching out for me with her claw like nails
Slime dripped from her hands like rancid snails
I tossed her a coin and hurried on my way
She’s not been seen since that stormy day
03-28~17
Pick a Title – Wild Is the Night – Sponsor: Edward Ibeh 1-9-25
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wild Is the Night
Night wakes
In atonality of imploding infernos
Stretches,
Tossing matted tresses,
Throws off serene quilts
Of winter’s full golden moonlight
To thrash about with bare feet
On icy floors,
Tripping over the remains of dawn
Where shreds of crumpled thoughts,
Like shards of icy hailstones,
Claw at windowpanes
Clothed in nakedness.
Night shivers
As jumbled fangs of hunger
Rattle chimes and unbroken stares
When gusts of darkness ravage lullabies,
Gnaw on jawbones of savaged dreamscapes,
To race through hairpin curls of obsession
Night huddles
In tempests of dead ends,
Decorated by fixations,
By graffiti of the grotesque,
Where despair masquerades in cyclones of deception,
Storms of mania as solutions.
Whispers of wind driven earworms hatch,
Step in front of Heaven’s voice,
Cutting into Heaven’s heart
With blades of infected gales;
As the blood of angels stains doves
Anxiety floods in downpours
When the litany of the hours tosses and turns
In explosions of black noise;
Wild night paces in midnight,
Caught by scurrying tornedos,
Waiting
For the first light of resurrection.
The Haunted House
An aging Victorian graphite three story house sat on a
promontory, lonely, deserted, weathered and forlorn.
Broken windows showed signs of cruel abuse from
passersby amused by throwing rocks we surmised.
This skeletal shell of a one-time elegant beauty
became a welcome refuge for my sister and I, wet
and chilled to the bone on that stormy autumn night.
Our car had broken down about two miles away.
There were no other homes or buildings nearby.
To our amazement the door was open and after
knocking loudly with no answer, we let ourselves in.
Cobwebs clung to our faces and hair as we entered
and brushed them away squeeling disdainfully.
I had a small torch on my keychain and with it we looked
around to try to find something to dry ourselves off.
We moved in unison across the creaking floor, shivering.
It was then that I felt cold fingers grasp my shoulder.
Wide eyed I slowly turned my head but no one was there.
We both heard errie laughter as chills ran down our spines.
We ran to the door but now it was locked and we were
trapped inside as panic set in with our hearts pounding.
Then all of a sudden two creatures appeared before us
standing there with matted hair and we both screamed
so loudly we scared each other, but with my little light I
could see we were looking at ourselves in a full length
dusty antique mirror. We laughed hysterically in pure relief.
I tried my cell phone again and miraculously got a signal.
I managed to contact the auto club who estimated 2 hours.
We waited impatiently until the auto club came to rescue
us and our car. The driver sat outside and honked his horn.
We screamed to him that we were trapped inside. He came
up to the front door and to our shock the door flew open.
We hurridly left that haunted house and never looked back
as the driver quickly drove away in the pouring rain.
8-27-18
Sponsor- Dear Heart
Contest- The Haunted House
A glass half-full of August pours its gold
on autumn's copper turning it to bronze.
The brittle Santa Ana gusts unfold
to rattle omens hidden in the fronds
that burst from trunks up high like absinthe flame
and singe October's turquoise-matted sky.
Each puff of smoke that dormant clouds became
has disappeared from desert's opal eye
as amber winds come shrieking from the east,
igniting saffron plumes among the brush
like raptor birds of paradise, a beast
awakened from a summer's verdant hush.
The crows in flight are ashes on the air
that scatter in the sunlight's molten glare.
Ambition in its prime dwells within over time —poet
My special poet…
is one who gets their point across
without agendas or alliterations of a bitter boss
No need for perfect literates who sip on bitters
and pound out heartless ink to other bulls*itters
A black heart smells rotted and oldened by experience
with ordinary nothingness to relay for instance
Webbed tough with matured matted material
used over again, makes not a special poet’s verses imperial
My special poet…
does not grope for interpretation of what’s in the soul
Or use blackened words of mystery that serve to cajole
Or spits floundering anxiety pending
Nor is in one’s own tight confining skin
Nor a swollen head enabled by encouragement,
rigid and giving nothing back
Nor do they look askance from their egocentric self,
Outspoken words that hurt, sensitivity they lack
My special poet…
is one who gets the truth out
reporting issues of division and about
undecided poets who need to explore
not to shun away from what dangers implore
Expresses what’s needed to say
words you trust along the way,
to make what’s important aware
for those with no voice and in despair
We’re all a part of it, the crime and border
God is good, He wants you to know justice’s order
My special poet…
a girly-girl of a soft disposition natured
still rides along within, now matured
I have too much respect for poets
to call out bitter versed ones, we know it’s
not going to change anything or anyone
We are who we are bar none
Understanding the universe that comes first
Time is of the essence not disparaging the worst
When making a split discission
when it’s obvious surrealism,
there is no more discussing what is
special, sincere, sealed woe IT'S me
My special poet…
is not better just unique
It's not a prowess poet that I seek
It’s nice when real poet's genius peak
Cannot hit the ball out of the park every time
Yet it all maybe rendered sublime
We cannot alter our voices
This covers all poets of our choices
You’ll find poets who well articulate
though meanings may particulate
Every poet is special to somebody
and have one thing in common
including ME
A wounded animal retreats to the scrub,
where anything worth saving lives.
It licks wounds inflicted by a wicked, wind-whipped world.
Filled with big stone faces, unsmiling.
The wounded animal re-emerges with a perfected limp.
One eye missing, the one that viewed the cruelties.
Fur matted by fingerprints, uncaring.
Hunger and anger are its only remaining God.
In time, everything transforms.
The rotten freshens.
Eye sockets fill with colored stones.
Ugly will beatify.
The angry limp becomes an exotic floating blossom.
That only exiled Buddhas and black cherubs dare recognize.
Tediously bored, Sir Drake
Prolonged afternoon of tea and cakes
Jam coats his chin with gooey paste
A beard of crumbs hangs from his face
His manner somewhat hard to grasp
Small fingers smother giddy laughs.
.
To sup he’d need a tuning fork
to confound the smacks from lamb and pork.
Lanky strands of cabbage slaw.
Gravy splashes grease his jaw
Pastries flurry dandruff flakes
A grubby mess, grandiose Sir Drake
Theodore Aka Teddy Bear
With soggy paws and matted hair
Needs a scrub from his stout chin
to the furry spats about his shins.
Carried off by loving arms
A bath restores his stately charm.
The glamour of their squalor is found
in specular highlights of crisp brown eyes
peering through mud-matted hair, crying.
Weeks of eating an abundance of whatever,
which consisted of scarcely more than bugs
fished from non-potable cesspools.
A decade seems a long time, until singularly
it accounts for one’s whole life…and yet
we won’t home them, because they are a plague.
Self-righteousness cannot bear the reminder
that “refugees” might be people…children even;
running from nightmares that persist in daylight.
Ignorance is bliss, after all…
and who chooses to come down from a high?
We have full tables, full inns, and empty hearts.
Opportunistic politicians see a platform,
borne on the backs of the starving and desperate,
they manifest feigned outrage and farcical hand-wringing.
Droves follow droves out from the gloomy dread
greeted by cool apathy or worse; outright derision…
what more is to be expected of humanity?
The squalor of our glamour is found
in hopeless disconnection to what matters, or
to the reality that we could have been them.
11/18/15
A dark room with a small wooden desk, no lamp
A thick pad of paper and a typewriter, never used
Like a museum exhibit, though they aren’t allowed to gather dust
And dead flies and moths, a pack of playing cards
I never learnt to play, but still they’ve turned yellow with age
The shelves full of books, thumbed and read a million times
The pages fall out sometimes onto the slanted shelf, broken
The cascade of over-used books falling into each other
A literary car crash
The carpet burnt by years of clumsiness, dark and worn
The ceiling stained by years of nicotine, the cigarette smoker
Looking on at a world frozen, the books are the only living things
Read a million times and thumbed to death, the dirty pages blending into each other
The faces and the timeless, frozen authors and poets, trapped here forever
In the corner, a lonely television set, never used and not even plugged in
The lonesome keyboard, beaten a million times, my voice recorded
The German tongue, screamed above piano murder, the manslaughter of my violin
A cultural car crash
The curtains, white to ivory to ashen, unopened in an age
Time to let the world come in through the never-before-seen window
I sit upon the bed and watch the silhouettes gather, their vagabond army
Creeping over everything with their tired and dirty little hands
The books I’ve read to death, the literary suicide, gathering in a spot of light
Like flocking birds fleeing for the winter, their matted feathers and scabbed legs
They can’t fly anywhere, trapped here, my favourite victims, dead within the covers,
Like broken pigeons trapped within damning cages. I close the door and leave
The untouched car crash
Snow fell in dollops, in kite like laziness
too wet to stay white except in the margins.
The contrary air kisses each flake
melting each heart of ice.
Bittersweet the temperature falls.
Teardrops cling to greedy braches
reminiscent of hand stitched jewels
on a queen's gown.
The matted margin of lingering grass
crisps like spun sugar
snow flakes on the lash of night.