Best Mewling Poems
Soul progress
back field in motion
The guff
Chose, chose, live grow leave! GO!
Leapt from heaven's gold
Jump started into a human mold
White clapboard poverty with tiger lily blooms,
blueberry rake poverty woolen looms.
Riffs of Emerson, Whitman, Longfellow dawns,
mothers’ hazel eyes, father Davidesque form,
chosen to drive twixt a Jew and a screw.
Magnet of lunacy...
Tumbled like an agate into the stream of life
part of the dream lesson
scream lesson
Abuser of power, one who had once roared,
Eve shaped now, weak and mewling
between the weeds of woe.
Care taken by lovers torn.
Watched over by pedophile uncles.
Befriended by lewd Father of sons.
Adult child, searching amongst the Word
for the Word is God and GOD …
There are so many words
Root ripped scenes from beauty to horror
Shiksa* taunts seep in with the smell of borsch.
A pumpkinseed amongst the pricks of Brooklyn
A wild rose planted in the asphalt soil
Doo-wop ditty
Jew’s bop to a Dago harmony,
bagels, bialys and the French twisted strands
of great grandma’s hair.
Clipped, stripped of family shoved whole
into yet another new mold.
True believers, ah yes, fanatics all.
The struggle to survive whole healthy
dipped in, dripped in, a bath of acid and thorazine.
Polish priests pedal platitudes to the sisters of St. Joseph
behind the gilded glory of the Church.
Raped by trust and betrayed by lovers,
a rose married to a prickles thorn,
so empathy is gained, and a healer born.
Metal must be formed in a crucible of fire
A healer can not be born without tasting the pyre.
Categories:
mewling, childhood, faith, family, father,
Form:
Verse
Darkness engulfed me
I struggled to adjust to the shadows
blinked when my vision brought to light—
an empty room, rumpled sheets of an unmade bed
a tear-stained pillow where I'd laid my head
There was a wooden luster on the furniture
I sniffed the unmistakable church scent of candles
six long white tapers on two candelabra
My fingertips smoothed white satin beneath me
Thoughts began to drift, sifting through... what?
I was carrying the weight of an albatross
My back bent from the burden held too long
Something was wrong
A mewling of fear formed a question
that I dared not ask
In my ear, a whispered hisssss
"Go ahead and asssk it. It'sss commonplace."
A voice without a face—
disappeared without a trace
My submissive nerves feigning bravado
I tried to rise but curdled
There was a hurdle of some sort in my way
Eyelids too heavy to open
My arms reach to set me free
but I cannot move
No words escape on my tongue
I cursed the albatross that held me down
Away from me, I wanted it flung
I searched to find courage to ask
if I was facing death or a demon's call....
In my ear, a whispered hisssss
"Go ahead and asssk it. It'sss commonplace.
Asssk the question if you dare."
That voice without a face—
disappeared without a trace
I felt a kiss upon my cheek
from trembling lips that did not speak
That pungent scent of too many flowers
should've had me suffering a headache
Had I been resting here for hours?
"If this is not a dream
then tell me...." I beseeched
But the world was out of reach
Thoughts abandoned me
I tried to feel a pulse, a heartbeat—
There was another kiss
Tears on my cheek, but not my own
I froze at the sound of another hissss
Categories:
mewling, dark, fear,
Form:
Narrative
It was the best of tines; it was the worst of tines.
It lay, distraught, in silence on the road.
He came around the curve, saw it too late to swerve;
the puncture caused his front tire to explode.
A silver-plated fork, her lineage was perhaps York;
a heritage of which she’d long lost track.
Her dreams as ballerina, faded like her patina;
now, pits and scars festooned her neck and back.
Her mind played back her fall, the horror of it all;
despairing life, she hoped it would end soon.
At first, upon a dare, burlesque with the flatware,
to end in shame, pimped by a plastic spoon.
Not wanting to be saved, she’d crawled out on the paved,
and waited for the crush when all went flat.
But in that car’s careening, her life took on new meaning;
an unexpected blowout saw to that.
For there, just up ahead, a kitten, surely dead,
was spared as the man slammed upon the brake.
Once stopped, he now could see her mewling pitifully;
he gently scooped her up to calm her shake.
Then, trying not to swear, he wrestled with the spare
and stowed the blown-out tire in the boot.
That’s when he saw her, mangled, her tines all at odd angles,
a fork that placed them all upon this route.
And so with certain care, he also placed her there
beside the kitten, on the padded seat.
Now straightened out and polished, she watches York demolish
the breakfast that her tines scooped out to eat.
—————
for the Metrical Tale Poetry Contest
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 01/03/2022
Categories:
mewling, destiny, meaningful,
Form:
Metrical Tale
The curse of an
inflated imagination.
An escarpment of thought
in a blistering mind.
An invasion of insolence
amidst a tempest-tossed
cacophony
of mewling memories.
A throat restricting,
heart galloping,
and eyes trembling.
A voiceless scream for help.
A crouching body
in cold defeat.
A quivering being,
gasping for an
exasperating breath.
Then, a ferociously seized breath -
transplanted
from an enchained soul,
gives birth to grave apathy.
A silent tear dissipates
into an endless ocean
of trepidation.
Categories:
mewling, anxiety, depression, emotions, fear,
Form:
Lyric
Jim was a young black lad,
In the era of slavery in the States.
And there was nothing he had,
Except a merciless owner filled with hates.
He worked hard on the plantation all day,
Only to face discrimination & pain.
He pined for days when he would live his way,
And would be free and sans chain.
One day, while dusting master’s house with his frail hands,
Jim broke a priced souvenir which earned him whips,
And also harsh words which were tough to withstand.
Later, with teary eyes he asked God why was he cursed with curly hair & big lips?
The following morn, when master’s baby was fast asleep;
The homestead was being consumed by the flames of a fuming fire.
The child woke up mewling loudly with constant weep,
While distressed master watched helplessly as the flames went up higher.
Now who could save his little son?
From the blazes & sparks burning the house?
And right when everyone thought that the kid could be saved by no one.
The hero inside Jim did arouse.
With guts & courage, he jumped into the fire, took a dive,
Trying to save the boy with all his might & lots of pluck.
And after a few minutes of struggle, master’s boy came out alive.
But sadly Jim got burnt; nothing could save him, neither prayer nor luck.
Amidst the relief and happiness that his child got saved,
Something touched the master’s stone heart & he broke into tears,
For he couldn’t even thank that young slave.
It was something which would haunt him for years.
The boy’s demise had made him repent his evil deeds & malicious sins.
He went into a state of depression & began questioning his own soul.
Repented he deeply on his acts of malice on people with black skin,
Realizing that he only had a white hide but a heart as black as coal.
so the next day, all his slaves roamed unchained & free from slavery;
As master freed them all with a sense of redemption.
And the slaves who were leaving, saluted the late Jim for his bravery,
A boy whose actions had shown that even hatred can be turned into love & affection.
Categories:
mewling, america, black african american,
Form:
Rhyme
It's only a paper-mache
moon, they say, too cool,
too full of interstellar space
to sympathize or stress about
lovers, kings and fools.
Or is it? According to Deutsch
the so-called final ignition
into outer space
is a product of man's meditations
moving, as if via gravitation
the magician to the other end
of the expanding universe. Sure,
in yr computer. Meanwhile, nursed
in a nursing home, mewling and peeing
as accurately predicted by Shakespeare
my old Marine, an ex-sailor, bitter
at life's ending, waited
too long to dispatch with dignity.
All alone, as in Corbiere's poem,
old soldiers are fated
to fight unnecessary wars
as we all are. Except for the fact that
every helium and hydrogen atom
ever born or made (whatever you believe)
has taken positions, passionate
and predetermined as republicans and dobermans
over eons and epochs. Thus
I don't think it behooves us much to care
if we're getting too little clean air or
bacteria are better adapted than us. This
obsession with identity, survival
a name and a leg of lamb is lame
even uninspired. The entire universe
including the professional baseball season
is canceled when yr dead. No blame.
Categories:
mewling, care, computer, fear, magic,
Form:
Free verse
A Troubled Soul
They use these three words for countless endeavors, a face with no soul and a body with no mind
Impaled by my inside thoughts, my heart and mind dueling each other for control, a civil war
My heart yearns for the smile of my past while the mind shoves me towards a future devoid of a soul
My future smile disgusts me; a place filled with the stout stench of dying souls and haunted cries
I yearn for peace within me; I yearn to soothe the cries of my weeping heart
I search for an escape; I yearn solitude, a place where the actions that stem from my thoughts offer no consequence
They call it the greater good, yet the good from such actions is hard to decipher
As I sacrifice my virtues to settle with someone beneath me, to avoid mewling over a lost love
I tell myself if you keep me distracted then my thoughts are diverted from her
I convince myself to fight on, yet the warrior within me has long been laid to rest
Heaven has shunned my romantic soul, cupid`s aim is a distant memory of what it once was
As my heart drowns in a love that betrays me, a cruel sick twisted gut-wrenching deceitful love, a false love
Stuck in limbo my essence remains fragmented and my dreams still remain tormented
Left behind to pick up the pieces of a shattered heart, left behind to reminisce the past
Dead inside my dreams are in black and white; my dreams are to leave this world behind
My lungs choked as they struggle to breathe the breath of life
Like a fishing line my soul has been reeled in and cast out into the open repeatedly
And like a game of football, my love has been kicked around far too many times
Left to meander aimlessly like the soulless creature of darkness that I am
Left to ponder on the inevitability of a demise yet to be told, yet to be unfolded
I am stuck and my emotions betray my secrets to the wind, betraying my cause of life
No love within the depths of my heart, no compassion to embrace the cold wilderness within me
I walk the path alone and see what you`ve become without me, I sink further towards the gallows
You *****, at least now I`ll see you in the misery and the hate of what you`ve become
Categories:
mewling, lost love,
Form:
Sonnet
an icicle
drip, drip, dripping away
slips of spring
sunlight gleams
winter garb cast aside
petticoats flash
rays of gold
glistening on the glen
flicks of foxtails
mewling mouths
nuzzle at their mother
come spring
[“petticoats” in this instance are meant to signify
glistening white snow, hidden beneath gray snow banks,
and exposed suddenly by early spring sunshine.]
Categories:
mewling, seasons
Form:
Haiku
Flood waters gushed in
From all sides roaring dreadfully!
Only sinking heads of water reeds,
And a few hut roofs could be seen,
That too remained shedding tears;
As the dark cloud-mountain burst.
Mango trees lost arms, some shoulders,
Coconuts perched on its strong boughs;
The mighty survivors of all seasons.
Snails, Frogs, Snakes and gnats,
Ants, bugs, Lizards, spiders,
Set out their conventional exodus!
King Fisher and Woodpecker found
Abode in hollow jack fruit tree!
Poor and feeble mass, hunger-stricken,
Assembled by the wet school floor,
Waiting for the next charity food-serve;
Hot porridge and wild-roots boiled.
Burning chilly dish would add heat
On their ice-cold tongues.
Mothers had their saved rags in lap
With their tender ones mewling in,
Their ribs netted with wrinkled skin.
Fathers looked at the skies and winds,
Returned to the old wooden benches,
Cursing their fate, while the slant drops,
Pierced on swollen flood-waves.
A blind fight of ripples large and small
Left yellow froth wear a taunting smile!
They could not hide the dismay of
An impending disaster, that would
Shatter their small dreams
Into many a chips, beyond bonding.
Stars got blind by the broken clouds
Ascended from the verge of horizon.
Nocturnal chorus of legendary frogs
And of beetles added awe and gloom.
Some slept with open eyes and sense,
As they knew how dreadful the water
Might turn in the monstrous night,
Sweeping off every trace of existence!
Categories:
mewling,
Form:
Elegy
I frowned when I found my new pup was gone,
so, I searched all around for my little foxhound,
listening with profound intensity until dawn.
I was gowned but changed; headed to the pound,
in the eastbound lane that would take me there.
I yelled to expound, '"There's no time to spare!"
Traffic moved slowly, so I found a way round it,
now westbound, my nerves were coiled and wound.
I stopped at a campground and called his name, "Jit!"
I heard no barks or mewling. Not a single sound.
Pup, where are you? Hiding behind a hill or mound?
Did you dig holes in the ground, earthy and browned?
Pup, if you're lost, in salty tears I would be drowned.
Fears abound that I would never see his face again.
My spirits low, not much further can they be downed.
I heard, "Woof!" and my heart beat in quick refrain...
Quickly, Jit ran to me, faster than a racing greyhound!
All this time he'd been asleep in my car's backseat.
My pup continues to astound me with kisses so sweet.
He follows me everywhere, hoping for a doggie treat!
~ April 26, 2022 ~
Nursery Rhyme 3 Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
Categories:
mewling, dog,
Form:
Rhyme
Villanelle : Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
No not all the tasters of Isphaha can patch it back whole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Poetasters all to echolalia Babel be haunted gone
Where words will sour and curdle in a soup bowl
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
No patchy poet’s torn image can verily be sewn
Whose poems cannot own up to an innate soul
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Who says poets are not to the calling be yet re-born
Which mewling mumbler hacked his way to the goal
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
The easiest persona is still the begetter of the poem
Words strung in any old order fit well into any old hole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
No treasure equal to a people’s spirit anyone disown
The fearless voices of a people’s pain the world console
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
mewling, creation, poetry, poets,
Form:
Villanelle
Rumbling floor leech
Mewling kitten becomes The
Hunter's new target
Categories:
mewling, animal
Form:
Haiku
There is, in the Los Angeles area, a well-known brand of milk, called Alta Dena. Near also,
is the city named Alta Dena, and my grandson lives there. I asked him if he had seen the dairy there, and he told me that it does not exist. I then asked him if he had seen herds of milk cattle there and he said that he had not, and doubted that there were any. Of course I wondered why the milk had such a name, and jokingly asked him to look for at least one cow in the city, since it was well built-up, and there were no obvious open pastures at all. I told him that we could only conclude that it this had to b a very famous and rare cow that could supply all the milk needed by a large urban dairy, and thus must be insured, protected from the idle public, and secreted in some private home where she would not be disturbed. The whole story and speculation grew into a riotous family "search" for this wondrous animal. I, of course, ask my grandson each week when I see him, for a progress report on the search. Finally, I have decided to turn it into a poem:
A Search Continues
Something very hush-hush is going on
and Alta Dena folk aren't going to tell.
All cowdom secreted within its bovine lair
yet Bo would stare contentedly at us
with no incursive moo directed at the hellish
vine that she must eat, in lieu of meadow grass.
That ever-present cud must still
be masticated; yea, her celebrated udder
must be filled.
Yet none admit to having sighted her.
Beastiana though she be, no Altadenian
will dare so much as low on her behalf,
no bull, Eden-bound, is ready to exchange
his bold, testicular desire
to service mewling ruminants
who merely run away.
Nay, uncowed are they, though cowed they be,
and cowards not--and if you do not see
their wisdom, chalk it up to power,
Bo's mammary magnificence, so easily
in jeopardy before a single squeeze,
not of a nipple but a trigger
thus applied, and speeding out of sight.
Challenge, indeed, our quest to find
this noble and prolific queen
who dominates with graceful quietude
her milky empire slurping quite
without a care, lush liquid destined
not to slosh within her, rather
in those tumescent tummies
ever crying out for more.
Would I betray them for a share?
Of course. Away with those content
to sour the milk of human kindness
with deception. Let the search go on!
~
Categories:
mewling, humor,
Form:
Free verse
Sometimes, I wander outside in the hours of midnight.
And boy,every time I'm welcomed with a strange sight.
There is this ominous silence, no mewling babies and howling banshees.
And the moon looks like a shining, white pearl of the dull, black seas.
The god Hypnos lulls the stray dogs and even the watchmen to sleep.
There is hardly any soul to notice me loitering around like a creep.
All shutters are down and the one hue that you see is black.
A few brats lay on the pavement after an overdose of smack.
Only a few cars are to be seen; the street lights have also turned dim.
When the clock strikes twelve, this night vibe is both amusing and grim.
Finally after a few hours of dawdling, I see the rising sun giving out its radiant light,
And I realize that I actually found more solace when the city slept in the midnight!
Categories:
mewling, feelings, good night, moon,
Form:
Rhyme
It was on a day quite ordinary
that the stream of consciousness
bore gifts of green and white
and frozen silver,
where the old ones walked.
For here a boy
about to turn away
broke off his waking reverie
when something, not quite rising
as a memory,
thrust in upon the scene
and bound its peace.
From out of history it came
to all the tumult,
sacrificing time,
its blood not stanched
but flowing still. He climbs
the stockyard fence to watch
the mewling ghosts
hold sway once more, while
just beyond the hill,
the pines are sheltering
the little owls who never sleep--
their wisdom tractable
and flashing from their eyes.
~
Categories:
mewling, childhood,
Form:
Free verse