Best Mouldy Poems
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
So many pennies,
lost in the system,
rejected, neglected,
dejected -
cursed by '99' price tags,
a charity box favourite,
nobody wants nor waits for.
So many forgotten pennies,
lost on the streets or behind our sofas,
yet pounds are never thrown away.
Both are round, so why do they only care for the pound?
Maybe its a matter of currency and colour,
or social structure, value and power.
No pound without pennies,
only empty piggy banks and jars,
but pound lovers take pennies for granted,
abuse us, belittle us, try to control us.
They get jealous of our shine,
try to manipulate us into a mouldy depression -
no wonder there are so many homeless pennies.
When did we stop being a priority,
descend to the bottom of society.
Just because we are misunderstood, do not fit in,
we are still round, but ignored by the system
a conflict of civilisation.
Imagine if all the pennies got together,
instead of being slaves to the pound?
Then surely we'd be stronger,
or would we just become pounds?
Has the penny dropped yet?
Sunday thoughts
Silent One
9 February 2020
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
At the fold of day
a veil shrouds the hills
as rising fog drifts
over tapering fields.
Rain falls softly,
dimpling the river.
It’s sombre waters swaggering
beneath a narrow bridge.
Rambling oak trees line
the steep grassy banks.
Ferns furl
their long slender fingers
into tight fists.
They recoil
into rooted mouldy stone.
Moss carpets the woodland,
the earthy air, damp
as dusk slinks in.
A murder of crows
sweep the sky
smothering the light.
Squabbling
they swoop to roost
on tall tree tops.
Settling,
a rustling murmur
whispers softly, sweetly.
They sleep
under a saffron moon.
silenced
by a blackening night.
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
Leading his horse in the heat of the day
Been gone a long time but he still knows the way
Just a few shacks when he went for the gold
He’d found a few nuggets but now he’s too old
So, home to the town that he’s heard has expanded
He’s also aware that the town’s been rebranded
He knows he’s too late to catch up with the guy
Who’d bid him farewell but now lives in the sky
He stops on the trail by the boundary sign
He don’t read-n-write but he knows the design
He knows that the words on the board aren’t the same
Must’ve been changed to display the new name
“Howdy, Old timer,” a passerby said
“The hotel’s just yonder for resting your head.”
The prospector said, with a big toothless grin,
“What’s the new name of this town that we’re in?”
“It’s now ‘Milton Creek’, as it says on the sign
It’s new name remembers a good friend of mine.”
The old fella, grinning and shaking his head
Said, “Milt said he’d live on long after he’s dead.
“I used to tell him he was being absurd
but he always was just as good as his word.
To be sure that fella deserved the ovation
But can we just rename the towns in this nation?”
The passerby said, “There are them that makes rules
And then there’s the ones that behave like their mules
But sooner or later things get a bit rich
And the mules all rear up and scratch at that itch
“Soup Creek fell prey to the powers that scheme
With lynchings and lashings an ongoing theme.
There’s cells in the jailhouse where innocents dwell
Soup Creek’s reputation had heard its death knell.
“You see ‘Soup’ emerged as a four letter word,
And good folk would tremble when e’er ‘Soup’ was heard.
So we ditched the mouldy old cheese for best stilton
And renamed our town to remember our Milton.”
The prospector slapped on the passerby’s arm,
“You think I just ran from the old funny farm?
When you said ‘Stilton’ twas just for the rhyme.”
The passerby grinned, “Fella… got it first time.”
Men of Honor in the mist Kokoda 1942......
Men of Honor in the mist,...
Sometimes by a bullet kissed,...
Shoot the buggers they'd insist,...
Threeo plonked, lee enfield .303cal.
Japs dead, not missed....
Men in khaki dyed to green ,..
Kokoda men so bronzed and lean,.
Fought the bloody Jap so mean,...
Die did run till khakki/green....
Move in silence in the green,...
Keep your mouth shut, be unseen,..
Pull off a shot when you are sure,...
Head shot got him, yes one more....
Jonesy shot as we pulled back,..
Found him eaten on the track,..
Kill a Jap for sure today,...
Shoot the buggers make em pay....
Walk with death there every day...
Fix your bayonet, smell of hay?...
Keep your guard up, bayonet parry...
Butt slap drongo Jap, old Harry... Don Johnson
As Don Johnson2/25th Aussie Btn. said of his time on the Kokoda track in 1942, you would
smell the mouldy hay smell when the Jap was close. The dyed green Aussie uniform became 2
colours in the constant rain, green and khaki patches. (did we invent camoflague
uniforms)You heard the rattle as the Jap put a bullet in the barrel of his Arisaka rifle.
After his 5 shots the predictable Jap would come for you to bayonet fight you. So you'd
spike him or plonk him with unit .303.. The Japanese were losing many cargo ships to Yank
Submarines during the war, as payback they put American, British and Aussie prisoners on
board to be sunk to die on their way back empty to Japan....
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush
"Possums on the Run - Part 1"
Well she ran away
danced the F.U.
Revolutionary Dance
Jokers are trumps
Euchre, 500,
Queens Slippers
no Deuce, no Romance
Holey holy
blue jeans torn and buried
underneath the house
with uneaten sandwiches
going mouldy in plastic lunch bags,
old unwanted items, school books
torn pages, hessian bags, burnt pots,
newspaper wrappings fading
tales of the city with
dreams of necromancy.
She’s upstairs deliberating
sitting at the kitchen table
writing her stories
Over with doing the dishes
done with Rainbow Princesses,
homework squats and
buried small town garbage runs
over strawberry jam and creamed up
Sunday Cream Buns.
A good day out
some holiday
collecting cut grass
she stands watching
red skinned motor mower man
barking orders
while the other daughters
stand en garde cross-armed
no hat, sun burnt,
barefeet, blistering in the
boiling Sun.
En Garde, patiently waiting
watching Frilly Lizard Black Boy
Kangaroo Paw Hibiscus
“There’s a tortoise under the
outside dunny!”
there’s a flaming tortoise
on the run
slow mode
totally bizarre,
wonders where
it came from…she thinks,
“run tortoise run”.
She knows better, she’s 17,
she’s the Dancing Queen,
she’s Top Gun.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. .... x
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZUX3j6WLiQ
This Poem Is Trash
Stinky winky yellow spots on rusty tinnies
Mouldy food on smelly plastic
Damp paper and rubber lactic
That the mice think fantastic
Gooey substance iridescent
Cartons glowing so florescent
Furry knobs being unpleasant
Fingers grubby very sticky
Shifting ugly and so tricky
Feeling sick and rather yucky
Uttering words from the bible
Invoking help from St Michael
To sort another weeks recycle
I’m a racist shopping trolley,
I’m proud and happy and clean.
I don’t like hanging around with trolleys rescued from the river,
Beaten up all rusty, and mouldy, and green.
I’m proud I look after my wheels,
Never crashing into shelves in the store.
I can’t stand those horrible trolleys that let themselves go,
Making folks fight an unwinnable war.
I’m a racist shopping trolley,
I’ve a bright red handle and red baby seat.
I can’t stand those blue handled trolleys, they look so different to me,
They can’t even try to look red, I know, I’m better, I am elite.
She sits by a dying hearth, an album open in her lap
The cold silent room startles like a slap
Mouldy images stare back from the past
Prints are all she has now
Memories that still cling
To the old Silverfish ravaged photographs
Like slips pegged to a line, flailing in a gale
One minute they’re there, the next they are only an apparition
Burnt to a retina searching the void, of a memory long forgotten
Her finger now rests upon the “rising sun” of the AIF
Of her son’s slouch hat, to which casts a shadow
Across a face too young to shave
Only but a boy, learning how to behave
In a moment etched in time
Yet those moments before it
Remain immortalised within her precious album
And those that came after
Lay buried in the Somme
He leans on a stool, one hand in his lap
The other supporting his shouldered rifle strap
His mouth blurred delivering a sentence
She closes her eyes, with thoughts of his independence
Sifting through the years of a boy in this room
Searching for his laugh through a cheeky grin
Probing for those silvery words etched in gelatine
Of a boy leaning on a stool, a conversation frozen
A mother’s memory of her son, reduced to yellowed images
A mother's loss between these pages
Shreds of the past fog the room
Pieces of a boy lay mute,
Within her reach
Creases form on her brow, a tear escapes
The memory slips, it flaps uselessly from the line
And hangs by a thread
Then it’s gone…
----------------------------------------------
AIF = Australian Imperial Force (1914 – 1918)
Rising Sun = AIF Insignia
Isaiah Zerbst’s Poetry Contest – Pick a Title
23 Oct. 2014
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing
Now at the name, silently growing, that shy
Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning
© T. Wignesan, 1960, first pub. in "Forum Academicum", University of Heidelberg, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
Depression Is
Depression is...
a dog-paddle in The Tar Pit of Agony
a slow drop into Quicksand
a dark marsh at night
a fallen, hollow tree
a desert of endless sand
an ocean of impenetrable deep
a long, troubled sleep
a nightmare that lasts into day
a patient gasping for air on a metal table
a preacher preaching an impossible fable
ghosts in an empty house
a frozen lake
exhaustion on top of a snowy mountain peak
the sudden gutless drop of a roller coaster ride
the drab convention of yet another day
a pen running out of ink
a song with no singer
a bird with no wings
a mouldy bun
a shorted electrical circuit
a landscape with no observer
an empty coffin
a smoke-filled coffee shop
a hyena on heroin
an ending with no story
a beginning with no end...
The End.
For Bob Dylan
sheltered from the howling winds of vows and scattered souls and sweltering hate
she is a refuge from the blistering sands of dread and loss and torn and twisted fate
when the emptiness inside becomes an abyss so dark and wild and cold
my words get lost in the jangling alleys where dreams are bought and sold
I met her in those alleys among the withering roses on a bed of thorns
and she filled me up with poems banishing the scowling moments and their baleful scorns
now I lie awake and wish that I could sleep and drift away into the maze of her dream
but slumber has fled and slipped the noose around my words as they thrash around and scream
words that swirl around and around like that scarlet scarf wrapped around her face
she's a mystery still as she will always be while I sift through this empty desolate space
the storm it broke and ceased and shuffled my words as they drifted forlornly into the chasm of the dead
leaving me here still and mute and frantic as I try to pick up the pieces of all the words that have been said
far too many far too often far too conceited and far too proud
for I failed to hear the stillness of beauty as I rambled along barking my words out aloud
she hushes me now as she hushed me then in the cobwebbed tunnels of the past
while I weep more words in blood and ink onto dried parchment meant never to last
so tell her that her whiskey has been greedily gulped down and now that I am soberly drunk
I see her songs and hear her breath reaching down into my mouldy abode of hapless funk
fare-thee-well for now as I slide into the scribbled hubris of another battered rhyme
dazed by the glaring embers as they scorch the moments of quickly fading time
and if tomorrow finds me here still shell-shocked and drained in body and in mind
tell her that her wine has slipped through the loose knots that bind
tying me to this place of sanity and insanity all rolled into one
while all is numb and scarred from the deed that has been done
and as I flee recklessly chasing away myself from me once more
she'll know the words for its a song that's been sung far too many times before
(for bob dylan)