Best Moth Eaten Poems
Blindly..
I beseech you
for my eyes won’t adjust
to this shaded maze of despair -
neither the lantern’s flame
nor a compass rose can help me now
in disrepair I need to find you
with fingers outstretched I raise my arms
groping for you like a eyeless babe for her mother
..but you’re not there —
a cunning thief this despair
for stealing my sight for a way out
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness
nor warm this anguished atmosphere..
am I to die here where I lie?
my undressed soul exposed to the wind-chill of your loss
naked in biting throes beneath a stony sun
desperate to thaw ice dams lodged in my bloodstream..
the winter sallow of my heart’s shallows a skater’s delight —
a cunning partner this despair..
ice-dancing with my pain
Where is the air I need to breathe..?
it’s evaporated with you and the dreams we used to dream
the weaver a double-dealer stealer..
life no longer lives in my poker-faced lifestyle
nor in fantasies long gone from sleep’s clouds
moth-eaten desires and grit and tears
too holey and harsh to knit a warm reason to swaddle in -
just let me close heavy hope-chest-lids of empty eyes
and take my last shrinking violet breath —
a cunning spy this despair
for infiltrating my will to survive..
Susan Ashley
October 11, 2020
N/A
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22
Sponsor: Mark Toney
(reformatted)
~ First Place ~
Contest: Will To Survive
Sponsor: Silent One
“A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied, I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.
I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself.” Rumi.
When you cry,
I wish I was those tears,
rolling down your cheeks,
dripping upon your strawberry lips.
I yearn to reflect like rainbow dust,
so you mirror like a confetti mosaic.
But in the duration of distance,
I walk barefoot upon a path of
dead roses, whose thorns are
covered in crimson drops.
In between the phases of pearls
and eternal embers in our sky,
I cannot sleep when you remain awake.
Afraid the moon will steal our dreams.
Time is an impatient muse,
but my adoration is timeless.
If only we could pause
and move in slow motion.
With the humility of Rumi.
My words are a colourless chore,
my mind a moth-eaten blank canvas,
but when you appear before me -
I'm a poetic waterfall of ivory ink.
In periwinkle petal phases
of personification, place my
choral carnation blossoms
in chronological chapters -
inside the personal memoirs
of your porcelain soul.
We are fragile figments,
but our serenade is not a fable,
so I keep writing orphic poems,
portraying your innocence and honesty
through an opulent sonnet,
reflecting your moonlight majesty.
Revealing desires of an enkindled heart.
If prose is too simple,
I'll create you a mausoleum of metaphors,
so when silence suppresses my speech,
my arrows of alliteration
will protect you until your last verse.
Before my last breath,
I may not create a perfect masterpiece.
So I wonder if my words will be worthy
or will you forget me
like the others who wrote before me?
In your analogies of abandonment,
I am a pristine scarf in your suitcase.
When I surrender to time,
will you wrap me around your skin,
until the end?
The cold night air wraps around my shoulders like a moth-eaten shawl.
A rasping rain pelts the bitter sidewalk below.
Visions of what once was flash in and out of the headlights passing by.
How did it all go so wrong, as lovers become nothing more than mere strangers?
Your heart has grown so hardened to my pleading touch.
Ghosts we have become, passing through each other in our home that has slowly become our tomb.
Words have become a foreign language to each other's ears.
How did this divide go from small fractures to seismic shifts?
We loved each other so, now we lay next to each other like phantoms.
How do we bring back the light within our souls,
Before we slip through the cracks of this cold, lonely cityscape?
Shivers run up my spine as it's getting close to 2 a.m. now.
I stick my hands in my weeping pockets and jingle my freezing keys,
Look at the blank screen of my phone, waiting for you to call—but you never do anymore.
I guess it's time to start walking home; you'll be long in bed.
I try to tell myself we can find our love again, I just know it, if we try hard enough.
Walk up to the rain-soaked building, enter with silent tears in my eyes.
Put down my keys, take off my coat, and crawl into bed,
Hoping that when the first rays of sun peek through the blinds of the windows,
The space between us will slowly evaporate like dewdrops on a flower petal.
DEMENTIA CASTS LONG SHADOWS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sunlight fades from the window ledge
hands tremble, reaching through
mist where memories dwell
her memory – a moth-eaten shawl
whispers cling to dusty frames,
familiar faces blurred
like rain on windowpanes
keys forget what doors they knew
chairs hold ghosts’ warm weight
the clocks hands swim backward
through forgotten dates
footsteps echo in empty rooms
long shadows cast where memories pass
the only tree for a thousand miles
gave him welcome if temporary shade
a kaleidoscope of mockingbirds filling its branches
it was no longer possible to be blind
but very possible to be jailed
for being unaware of our surroundings
being that we are panphibians capable of TV
where apathy and turmoil don't mix
wracking our brains for the worst solution
every day since time began again
banding bending binding bonding bundling
mind turned upon itself like minds tend to do
a moth eaten panorama of agonies
everything still broken the breakers unpunished
our narrative not telling anyone anything new
long live the revolution in wisdom
that's my drooling occupational therapy grin
it's gotten me out of more than one derailment
feeling life as a prelude to a guillotine basket
or worse a juggernaut of ambition
now that will immediately inaugurate
a prison epidemic of eyeball rolling
can we escape seeing the unseen
or is it just a bigger cage
don't let the blighters
sell you your own real estate
or discoveries in hysteria research
from the Intergalactic Whats Next Council
acting in accord with the statistics
make it more aerodynamic
everything means something
a tool for every job
daily nightly I try to be less stupid
a simple formula designed for
the sweet gurgling idiot infant within
out cold but still in the game
now you got me laughing
momentarily dazed and surprised
prepare only for the eventual
because what remains tends to
influence what is to come
in a logic both apparent and subtle
not exactly free from ahem connotation
as most doors don't open themselves
meanwhile somewhere back in history
the Dog Clan had trouble finding women
with eight or ten ****
there that opened something up
from the spare parts bin
apparently his bulging eyeballs
were on full creme d'menthe death ray
the universal sense of alarm just went off
wailing it's not all brain chemistry
he spoke many tongues in faucet mode
the ramifications came tumbling out
but often heading in opposite directions
while the oppressive crows circled
where the Wizard parks his wagon
every home from Kansas to Atlantis
instituted a reign of madness
terror and ballroom dancing
Written: May 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "There is a loneliness more precious than life, there is a freedom more precious than the world." By Rumi
****************
The frosty night breeze embraces me tight,
Such as a moth-eaten shield, enticing flight.
Bitter rain lashes against the sidewalk face,
Delicate drops pirouette, each finding its place.
Visions flicker by in headlight, fleeting beams,
Love's echoes glimmer akin to vanished dreams.
How jaded lovers lose spark, turning strangers,
Specters in their home, now cloaked in danger.
Foreign dialects speak in words we once knew,
Widening cracks claim seismic shifts through.
Still, optimism clings as I traverse the city chill,
Dreams still nudge that love may cure what is ill.
Silent tears trace paths down my weary skin,
Longing for dawn light, for a raw start within.
As the sun rises, distances wantonly wane,
As rainfall fuels flowers, may our link heal again.
Old flame memories, and game show repeats,
viewed through tobacco, it's smoke fills the room,
loneliness, only, stays glued to defeat,
blue-bottles, can't help, but choke on the gloom.
Dreams like the remote, corroded to rust,
unopened, unpaid, bills sit by the door,
surrendered and lost, to despair and dust,
no-one levelled up, around here for sure.
Each day's an ashtray, of stub filled regret,
while moth eaten drapes, block out the world's light,
another neat gin, will help to forget,
added indifference, towards day and night.
The blocked drains and sink, dirty old dishes,
all that remains of, yesterday's wishes.
Bartholomew Barton; his friends called him Barty
Eighteen years old but no birthday party
Slumped in the mud, a gunshot to the shoulder
But unlike his comrades at least he’d get older
Tyrannical forces sought world domination
And Barty had marched with his mates for his nation
They gave him some medals for some of his actions
They don’t stop him flinching at noisy distractions
Those heroic deeds he did when he was able
His medals he'd sold to put food on the table
Brought him a pension that won’t pay the rent
With callers demanding the money they’d lent
One day the council demanded his key
And food graced his table now infrequently
But ‘table’ is merely an old cardboard box
And food is a bin-find he shares with a fox
He could do a D-Day and steal a small boat
And hit a Kent beach in his moth-eaten coat
But the taxes he’s paid since his battlefield hell
Do not seem to warrant a four star hotel
So thanks for your effort Bartholomew Barton
It’s qualified you for a pine veneer carton
You gave us your all to give us our today
Then too many governments turned you away
The question is now would you do it again
As you sleep under cardboard in torrential rain
For fighting a war for a brighter new day
Should not mean that home is a dank alleyway
Eyes the color of twilight hours,
looks down from a canvas throne.
Captured for an eternity,
her languid form, in repose.
Queen of all she surveys,
within these crumbling walls.
Moth eaten Brocade, silk spider's web.
Marble stairs and dank halls.
Once the matriarch of a dynasty,
that lived beneath this roof.
She still exerts her own will,
as watches, uncaring, aloof.
She is within the very mortar,
that binds these ancient stones.
Her blood is on the very air,
that chills you to the bone.
The floors and she are now as one.
Listen! You can hear her footsteps.
There within the mournful wind,
hear her laughter where she once slept.
The ballroom still hosts soiree's.
Muted music of bygone years play.
While in the South Rose parlor,
you can feel her pull take sway.
She will conjole and pout,
until you agree to stay.
Then she'll lead you to the cellar,
where all her guests must pay.
These windows, on a stormy night,
show shadows walking by.
Tattered curtains fall into place,
while evil hides from prying eyes.
But do not feed the impulse,
to enter and investigate.
For within these walls, her spirit dwells
and for fresh blood, she lies in wait.
Paula Swanson
For the contest: A Creepy, Scary,
Haunted House Poem, Please
Sponsored by Constance La France
Placement: 2nd
MOTHER AFRICA
"This is the most difficult letter I've ever written in my life. Where do I start?
What do I say? Does she know I still exist?...She probably thinks I'm dead!
I just wish I could touch her once and feel her warm embrace...That's so distant in my mind...I wonder if she remembers my name?
Will she recognize my voice or understand the words I speak?
Oh well...all I can do is speak the truth...She knows you're lost..."
Mother Africa...Only you posses the beauty unlike any other the world has ever seen
Elegantly adorned in all of nature's grace with the equator wrapped snugly around your waist
Ancient mystical pyramids jut up from your soil guarded by the wondrous Sphinx
Mother Africa...Dry your eyes the Nile River has overflown from all the tears you've cried
Diaspora broke your heart so maliciously
All your wealth and your children were taken away...Strewn across this old earth like a tattered moth-eaten blanket...Still used anyway
Mother Africa...Surely you know we not only sing...Africa! Africa! Africa!
Your endangered offspring's have created so many things of which you can be proud
Mother Africa...Don't despair one glorious day we will return and bring the bounty back home for all to share...AFRICA!
Check out our library of e-books @ amazon.com in the kindle store, or visit:www.booktango.com
authors website:apluszips.com
Thanks
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way.
I looked for clocks, found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about.
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that.
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
On the wall was a photo of a Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Also displayed was a chamber pot and a scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge?
Displayed were coffee grinders and old Prince Albert tobacco cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and a hood ornament for a '37 Mercedes Benz!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
I have no need for a hornet's nest that once held and angry swarm.
Though I found many things I could do without, not so my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
First Place in Black Eyed Susan's "Antique" Contest - May 2014
MOTH-EATEN PAGE- LOVE SONG OF J.ALFRED PRUFROCK
An Apology to T.S.Eliot
Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
Let’s drink and be merry and dance on air
Friends and foes of Sindbad, in the dragon’s lair
When the Rock will sit on the rock Norfolk
We will find him under grumble stone -Mr. Prufrock
He was settling a pillow and throwing off a shawl
Set about on eternal questions with Pablo and Paul
Drank a cup of Horlicks followed by ammonium sol
He was older than his legs and slender like a doll
Squeezed the universe into a bouncing ball.
Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
Let’s drink and be merry and dance on air
Everything is fair in love and cab fare
Have you gone to Country mall? No, it’s rare
I have earned already the lion’s share
Nobody was there to watch out with a vacant stare.
Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
Let’s drink and be merry and dance on air
Move in on to enemy territory a solitaire
Don’t panic; don’t be scared, I am on down stair
I‘ll join you if I can care.
Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
Let’s drink and be merry and dance on air
Till I dare.
© RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
16th October, 2014 17:57:00 IST
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
I stumbled over things and stepped 'round clutter to make my way!
I looked for clocks - found none, but saw many things I could do without,
And those are the things that I propose to tell you all about!
There was an old buggy wheel - I could see no use for that!
I saw horse collars, washboards and someone's stuffed Angora cat.
Hanging on the wall was an austere Victorian guy glaring back at me.
Prominently displayed was a chamber pot and scraggly Christmas tree!
What use have I for a manure fork or hubcaps for a '47 Dodge,
Or a shaggy buffalo robe or shriveled scalps from an Indian lodge!
Displayed were empty cigar boxes and empty Prince Albert cans,
A portrait of Napoleon and hood ornament for a '27 Mercedes Benz!
I saw a set of 1920 Brittanica Encyclopedias and a Corona typewriter,
Well-worn snowshoes, a tuning fork and strangely, a bishop's mitre!
Hanging on a clothes rack was an old soldier's moth-eaten uniform.
What on earth would I do with a hornet's nest once hosting an angry swarm!
Leaning against a wall was a hood and bumper for a '37 Ford Tudor.
On a shelf was a gas mask and tin helmet from the First World War!
Though I found many things I could do without, not so with my spouse!
She bought a cart full of gimcracks and trumpery to clutter up the house!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
CINDERELLA’S CLOSET
spawned-jeans ripped to shreds
moth-eaten-sweater distressed ~
fit teen in fashion
1/5/2022
Cold-blooded,
I poison my precious poem
with the tip of my quivering quill
to quench the venomous quest
of my crystal inkpot!
Burying the edited lexis from my perished poetry
in the grisly graveyard of
dusty Dictionaries and tattered Thesaurus
I nip a bud from a withered bouquet of
touch-me not blues
and preserve the petals in the perky pages
of my decaying diary…
I push my pristine poetries in the ‘tower of silence’
for the heartless hungry vultures
who will devour them briskly,
while the inedible skeletons will melt
in the holy fires of eternity…
I crumple my unpublished work
and toss them in the unfathomable depths of dust-bin
lying near the moth-eaten closet at the Editor’s dusty desk!
With my ink-stained immaculate fingers
I strangle my perennial poem to premature demise.
Lets pray for her sanctimonious salvation
And hope she attains Nirvana
and get a peerless placement in
the lexiconian library of immortality…
Amen!