Best Molted Poems
I had survived how many summers? Five?
Six? 'til, self-taught, I learned at last
of terror that lurks in situations
which those I trust (myself included)
would swear offer only perfect safety...
My ball rolled under my Grandma's house
and I, well-guarded, scuttered after to retrieve it,
mindless of the tarry soil fleeced with fluffy,
small red feathers, newly molted by matrons:
hens that clucked contentment,
set upon their hidden egg troves.
Spying their nests, I thought to rob them
and so earn a Grandma's love for a city boy
unversed in country ways. Thinking, I acted,
reaching for a nest unoccupied,
half hid behind a house block.
I closed my soft, expectant hand
upon a wriggling creature coiled among the eggs,
drew back like lightning to watch
a brightly spotted snake slide off
into the farther, deeper darkness
amid a squall of squawks.
Emerging empty handed, terrified,
it wasn't Grandma's love I earned that day.
I have always since encountered similar brilliant colored
dangers whenever I have thought to grab,
for myself or others, unclaimed treasures
in strange places, in warmer or in cooler weathers.
Now, life has almost passed us by,
and peaceful resignation reigns;
the beach, a spawning ground of old,
shrieks mournfully in sea gull tones.
The neap tide’s come to lull the shore;
crab moltings own the water’s edge.
Forewarned, am I, of nature’s course
in grains of gray and casings banked.
Now hand in hand, we lovers walk-on;
each throbbing with the pull of tide.
We sink in sands both wet and warm
soothed by the skies now overcast.
As faithful as the moon on high,
between the water lines, they spawn;
in estuaries at peace, they nest;
eggs as small as grains of sand.
Will you come when the moon is round
and leave your molted shell beside me?
Will you sense the celestial call
or let the scavengers find me?
First Published by Page and Spine
Winter's winking wearily in the sun
gracefully giving ground
knowing Spring will never run
Muted, molted, monochromatic colors turn
vibrant, vivacious, victoriously
welcoming the return
Soft, subtle scents in the air
lilacs lovingly linger
in the tresses of my hair
Pink petals purling to the ground
blossoms blindly blowing
whirling all around
Daisies dancing daintily in the breeze
flowers frolicking freely
after thawing from the freeze
Daylight dilly dallies, delaying days end
encircling, enticing, enchanting
like the embrace of a friend.
*end* TDR 4-14-15
A light mist of ethereous rain falls
silent on his thin, sharp-angled
face. He lengthens his stride and
leans toward the wind. He walks
through plundered poverty; crumbled
by the weight of exodus. Abandoned
to the blood-rough nails scratching
on the concrete diasporas of multiethnic
history.
Past the playground echoes of PS #59,
as they drift along the faded asphalt
haze of time. Echoes still ring true with
elemental bones of hope: the children
break out and through gunmetal gray,
graffiti covered doors, outside to the
saturated heat of inner-city rage.
Past gothic orthodox cathedral
mausoleums which sit like ancient
stoics and stare through burnt-amber,
azure, crystalline-blue stained glass
eyes; focused out with a kernel of
eternal mustard seed hope: souls will
come again and warm the sacred pews.
Past the Puerto Rican market
where the pig's head led the
carnivore parade of mastication
promise every day. A meat-market
window of letted-blood and death
reminiscent of Amsterdam whores
with their wares on display for the
dead-eyed stares of the men outside.
He comes to the dust and
grime of an empty lot covered
by old and broken concrete slabs.
He stops and lets his mind drift
back to watch a woman who wears
a ratted fox-tail wrap around her
neck. She holds a long, un-filtered
cigarette, loose, between her two
bright, fuchsia painted lips. She
wears a black velvet hat with veil
to her nose and a straight black
dress that flows below her knees,
mid-calf, above her shiny black,
high-heel, patent leather shoes.
He can almost see through the blur
of a chiaroscuro choreography his
mother, visiting with the Kazakhstan
neighbors, in this dreamlike memory.
The multi-plexed, subsidized project,
where he was born, once stood just
beyond his vision of a mother's visit in
high-heel, indigo, tangerine, sibilant
sounds; lit with electric light smiles
of denial.
She would hold her cigarette between
fuchsia lips and wear that ratted fox-tail
wrap until the cancer cough began to spew
Chesterfield blood on the molted fox-tail
head of her beloved fur.
Then she went to bed. Went to sleep. And died.
Pigeons cooed quietly on that New York City night.
Tonight, the horizon burns like metal
Molted and shot from a mouth of fire
The trees stand scorched, coal-chalked pictures
In the sky hangs a fleeting smile
Molted and shot, from a mouth of fire
Twisted from wire, but tender, yet to be shaped
In the sky hangs a fleeting smile
The work of an artist, holding beauty in crude hands
Twisted from wire, but tender, yet to be shaped –
The trees stand, scorched coal-chalked pictures
The work of an artist holding beauty, in crude hands
tonight. The horizon burns like metal.
To dwell among the ruins;
littered with broken bottles and flattened plastic cups,
stamped out cigarette butts
Cast off lottery binges,
crushed ghetto dreams and empty syringes
Poisoned by so many stings of inequality
Flickering opportunities ...
shed your skin, and perhaps poverty
will become a molted nightmare
I stand amidst
a people in a narcotic induced stupor,
their drug of deceit is a false sense of identity
They want to believe so bad
in their adopted society
Still slaves to orphaned naiveté
My feet of clay are bruised
on the shards of this shattered glass menagerie
A ghetto cage with rusted hinges,
creaky freedom that depends
on intensive mental lubrication
Trapped souls within tend to not have enough strength
to swing open the cage door
I stand amidst
a people with weeping desires
of soaked happiness wrung dry
Shuddering in cold urban projects
left ill-heated and unfinished
We who came here with nothing ...
stripped of everything --- our heritage, our dignity
Then subsequently told we are not entitled to anything
I fall to my knees
in the midst of my people's pain
As the dagger of disillusionment
is plunged into our collective heart
again and again
We are assimilation's spitted out bitter raisins
sublime quilt
of dormant shimmers
in lethargic winter sunshine
stretched on shivering earth
as finger caresses of peace.
turning variegated world
into a room filled
with feathers floating from
bursting womb
of sailing pillows on azure.
pouring wisps of manna
from chalices in heavens,
falling through misty translucence
to salve blisters on
breast of earth in chilblain.
muted rhapsodies of drizzles
resound as whispers of
snow crystals with soar throat
humming ambiguous strains
in ears of indifferent Boreas.
hymeneals in albescence
floating in the chilly breeze,
prayers of angels for children
and dreams for animals
dormant in hibernation,
from land of Morpheus reach
the world as prismatic snow.
like molted moonlight
raiment of night covering
visage of earth's verdant realms
piled on treetops and roofs,
turning kaleidoscopic canvas
of existence argent...
On the morning of April 19, 1995,
Terror was heard through the Oklahoma sky.
At 9:02 A.M. the explosion did occur,
And the blue common day turned into a blur.
A memorial was built to mark the state’s loss,
Memorializing the one’s who paid terror’s cost.
A monument of seats stands brightening the night,
In nine rows of chairs illuminated by lights.
Brokenhearted and lonely we seem to be,
Silent and lonely but forever empty.
Built with emotion for who we symbolize,
In our bronze grain lies the pain of lost lives.
Born from molted bronze, given life through death,
We stand here for those who took their last breath.
But from where we stand, we stand with glee,
For in our sights lives the Survivor Tree.
Married together in this sacred place,
Imparting to those mercy and grace.
When families come here to see and reflect
Our memories live on as our loved ones connect.
Names of young and old we proudly bear;
In nine rows of 168 empty chairs.
_______________________
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
—The Chairs Tale Contest—
You can take a virtual tour at
http://www.oklahomacitynationalmemorial.org
Autumn saunters in
Silent as a new spring breeze
Stirring fallen leaves
Blanketing a cold worn earth
A year of greenery molted
Brisk wind dips treetops
Naked arms stretch fractious
Shivering in the chill
Creaking, groaning with cold ache
Arthritis here now till spring
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
How a little ball of molted lead
has changed our nations history
and why they shot him in his head
became a shrouded mystery
Theories popped up everywhere
no suspects were exposed
and every answer that was spoke
more questions they arose
Thirteen score, no less no more
since the last tear hit the ground
and through the years of hopes and fears
the truth was never found
I sometimes think, that's it's a plan
That the good ones must die young
and while we grieve, we must believe
they go because they're done
It is Now, up to us
to carry out His goal
even though, why He was killed
The world will never know
We scratched and scrapped and piled it together,
thin as cobwebs, like molted bird feathers,
spread out on the frozen lawn,
a gossamer frosting in early dawn,
a meager, stingy December snow,
hardly enough to foster a glow
from the Christmas lights candycane twirled
about the evergreen swags softly whirled.
A new sled from Santa's gift giving
was mine to enhance childhood living!
Why he did not provide the blizzard--
(He could have called on the North Pole snow wizard!)
we just did not know,
but to work we would go
and make a snow ramp out in the yard
about as thick as a worn playing card.
The rest of the story is not hard to guess;
my dad's in the doghouse, my mom in distress.
That snow ramp was built quite poorly it seems,
engineered from child wishes and misguided dad dreams,
and though for a moment, I thought I would fly,
at least, sitting here, I still have an eye.
Copyright, December 5, 2017
Christmas Rhymes Contest
Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor
broken spirit and wings,
this bird no longer sings.
forgotten are the days of intoxicating flight,
replaced with fears of another fight.
this was a day much like any other,
but this time the lightening force of his punches created thunder.
through watery eyes and rain-stained glass, she began to see.
as she molted transparent skin and grew thick feathers, she prepared to flee.
like embracing the change of seasons, she embraced new insight.
she learned her own husband made her wings less bright.
visions of the sun on her back as she soared above the situation
gave her the perspective to no longer tolerate victimization.
you see, this bird can't be caged; her wings are too bright.
her mind bends bars as she exercises foresight.
i know because she sings to our kids every night.
fly, baby, fly
Soaring sovereign, white-crowned bird,
Shanghaied silently without a word.
Strong feathers molted one-by-one.
Pinfeather plumed on bare skin.
Wet market ready.
3/19/2023
here i am in the flesh
no victim levelled in scope
22 catches im cashing
not selling the dope
i watched the sunrise
used to pray sometimes
kids thatd played outside
tho fate did seem unkind
chased a better understanding
even struck with fear
i snuck the beer
tried to duck my peers
i followed a different meter
nothing a solid measure
chosen to conquer pressure
everything a destresser
heart holding me hostage
molted to honest
i bolted the hardest
when the weather was modest
a mouse a giant in microns
goodbye to those by gones
dont question my sigh wrong
my glance isn't sidelong
grapple like pyslocke
i baffle this time slot
id raffle what i got
if the apple had dry rot
a value subjection
the cowl of perfection
the now in dissection
with an owls direction
i mirrored reflections
considered my being
chose service of special
situations im seeing
putting words to the onset
throwing curves in a concept
praise a merge of the object
from curse to the prospect
Let clocks unlock unbroken birds they bind:
Too quick in May they peek Azalea’s bloom;
Wide eyes enlightened bound by darkness blind,
And spring reflected bares a thinning plume:
Like pearls of April nestled smooth and deep,
Those dizzy doves that danced in drizzled mist;
When June denounced they shed their plumage cheap,
One hand from two returned with feathers missed.
And now where frost encroaches one remains,
And strains the waning sky for molted May;
But night is cagey, so their sight abstains,
Until reduced by winter, cold and gray:
Where I am still, unable still to see,
One dove from two; in spring reflective: Me.
11/28/2018