Best Mud Poems
I, to the pasture's green could run,
and fly a kite beside the sun,
but choose, I do, to linger still,
among the dirt, what is my frill?
Low, be it may, to sink my feet,
into the slimy, pungent peat,
but with my grandad by my side,
would daily stroll along the tide.
To rescue guls stuck in the mud,
or gather sticks for firewood.
As luck would have it on one day,
the tides did change and under clay,
a viking boat from days gone by,
with shields of pine and rivots ply.
Unmasked itself from muddy deep,
a secret for ourselves to keep.
Each day, we returned, with a spade,
with picnic full of marmalade,
and feasted there beside the boat,
in our wool hat and winter coat.
Charmed not only by history,
but by such untold mystery.
Then on one fateful dreaded night,
the waves were high, the wind a fright,
storms blasted down upon the shore,
Until the longboat was no more.
My granddad early on that day,
forgot to mention or to say,
he felt unwell, or rather ill,
but trudgeoned on, a soldier still.
But in the haste of wind and gale,
I didn't realise he was pale.
By the morning when I awoke,
to no smell of cigarette smoke.
I went downstairs and saw the fridge,
his oatmeal there, still on the ridge.
Maybe a lie in, thought my head,
I ran upstairs to grandad's bed.
There asleep, I thought at a glance,
I nudged him, but he kept his stance.
He was gone, how? I hugged him tight,
and ran for the river at twilight.
So here I am beside the tide,
Waiting for the mud to reside.
But if it does, what shall I do?
For treasure is nought, without you.
In a playground of mud
One time I made friends with a pig
He had the most wonderful gig
In a playground of mud
My new friend went thud
I’ll tell you, that sucker was big
Then one day it seemed he was shaken
I realized that he was mistaken
I said, have no fear
I’d rather have beer
And really don’t care much for bacon
He went back to playing again
Then got on his knees in his pen
He looked to the sky
And let out a sigh
I swear that pig grunted “amen”
8/31/18
For the: Any Animal or Creature Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
Yeah,
go ahead stare at my crows feet,
I don't mind
I'm proud of them
earned every one...
broken my back
broken this
broken that
ninety proof patch
thatched hut for a heart
and broken clock soul
Yeah, crows feet, look closely,
there etched in unforgiving-unforgivable
tin miscarriages
cornucopias spilling the seeds of lust
sticky-petty jealousies on a path of forever
the broken flesh of those never born
gouging at the skin around the soul.
You on the other hand
don't have any crows feet
your pallet and brushes are clean.
haven't earned any
haven't buried what you love...
enough
given (it )all to a heart
only to retrieve (it) from the earth
to be put out of it's misery.
you haven't gotten those pixie dusted eyes broken,
but you'll catch up... some day,
its coming
way-way down the tracks...at the empty station,
where nothing breathes but crow prints
in a fragile evening mud-
One day, not long ago, I was careening
like a kite on the winds of happiness
twirling through spaces of days that shone through all dark clouds.
Muddy puddles were beneath me, but they were far beneath.
My Sunshiny days evaporated the puddles,
yet always mud remains,
and from the mud a shadow form took shape.
It never seems to fail. . .
I’ll have almost reached the summit of my bliss,
a loopy kite somersaulting through blue sky
when by and by. .. the shadow form I’ve managed to pretend
I do not see has risen from the mud, awaiting me.
Bad luck, like a thunder clap, attacked my happy sky.
Joy’s buoyancy lost its grip on me. I slipped
plunging to the frigid ground -
again to be in disappointment’s shadow.
Written 10/6/2015 By Andrea Dietrich
For the Dancing with Description Poetry Contest of Casarah Nance
Has she been sleep walking all her life?
Or has her frustrated volition taken the upper hand
And determined what she should remember
Or what she should best forget?
What was their life like, when as children
They loved to race each other in muddy fields,
Leaving their footprints in the wet clay?
There, his strides were deeper than hers
For he was stout, and she was thin.
But as time passed the length of each heavy step got shorter,
Their days grew lonelier and lonelier.
Until in the muddy field there was but one set of strides.
Then the rains came
And wiped all footprints from the field of mud.
30 April 2021
Placed 2
Salute to a Man of Mud with an Unblemished Heart
Rommel E. Gabitan
Clouds of mud cover his forsaken face
His hair showing strands of entangled complexities
His arms are covered with stingy memories
With all the world’s judgmental presumptions
He wanders in the corners of our fallen castles
Filled with hatred,, ignorance and neglect of men
We hear not his voice but deep in his heart
He is shouting “Hey, have mercy on me!”
We dream of Cinderellas and Prince Charmings
But this Man of Grease has nothing to cherish
Except finding tranquility and serenity of mind
In the midst of emptiness, yet he resembles a smile!
Woe to you people wearing clothes of pretention
Glittering with false gold and silver of indignation
You eat chocolates of sugar coated bitterness
Yet you spit sour drops of your putrid arrogance
He is a man swarmed with grease, mud and flies
He eats the leftovers of our bountiful banquets
But I say to you, he eats with dignity and cleanliness
For his heart is pure and sincere, despite his ugliness
Animal was happy in mud
rolled in it whenever he could
Miss Piggy looked aghast
Kermit said what a blast
Gonzo thought all Muppets should
Penned 1 Sept 2018
All creatures from the Muppets
when he spoke
words broke like glass between his teeth
14 minutes past 8PM 7 weeks after the red river
in his brain ran almost dry
he the acidic and sullen shadow of his youth
turned to me
(one side of his face a landslide of flesh
frozen into freefall
thus i won't mimic the inarticulate sound of it)
look after your mother
and my ten year old self nodding
wishing i were not there
then she who had married this man to protect her
plus one boychild from a condemning Catholic family
and a rabid priesthood
having thus become a widow at 37
being only 5 feet high in her pumps
also as slim as a whippet
turned to drink dying quickly of a gastric ulcer
never mind her failing liver
no wonder
i turned out more angular then an open razor
biting every hand that fed body and mind
thinking that same hand would one day turn against me
as it usually did
but i unable to stop my breakneck race to personal destruction
until poetry found me wandering a bitter earth
it entering my soul one turbulent night wailing like
a hungry infant which i fed and carried for years
not knowing i needed it much more than it needed me
and so
we ate broken glass together until
words bled into red flowers floating upon a river
that flowed through my brain
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….”
Robert,
You let the split remain unresolved,
and while we stand in awe,
staring at your crossroads
etched in gold and shadow,
do you ever wonder
what lay beyond the path
you did not take?
Even though you say,
“I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Did the road arch upward,
an unfamiliar melody on the wind?
Or did it tumble into brambles,
a half-forgotten warning?
Even now I see your boots----
Mud-caked, maple-tinged-----
pausing at the edge.
Here’s my advice, if you allow it:
Don’t linger too long
in the pondering.
Step once more
into the thicket, the gravel,
the unknown blaze of paths.
And when your pen hesitates,
push it further
to sketch the forest where both trails end-----
or perhaps where they entwine,
branches brushing like old friends.
Some questions don’t need answers,
but oh, how they crave
a different kind of wandering.
Regarding Robert Frost’s famous poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
Mud Puddle Muddle
Why must mud puddles always be
Just sitting there in front of me?
Calm and still in sunlight’s flash
Inviting me to make a splash.
And why do I, though dressed for school,
Just wade right into this muddy pool?
To make mud pies and muddle muffins,
A make believe turkey with muddle stuffin’.
Somehow the mud moved here to there
From my shoes into my hair
From head to toe, I’m a muddy mess -
I tried not to, I tried my best.
And now my dog’s in here with me
Oh, what a messy sight to see.
My dog, who used to be so clean,
Covered with a muddy sheen,
Covered in a grayish brown
That used to be part of the ground.
And then as doggies always do
He shook and all that mud he threw
Muddy droplets every place
On my dress, in my face.
So I threw some mud on him
And then, my dog, he shook again.
I hear the school bus down the street
But the mud won’t let go of my feet.
I need some help with what to choose
Stay in the mud or lose my shoes.
Who are these children who can resist
The invite of a muddy tryst,
Can wait contently for the bus to school
Without jumping in this muddy pool?
When I get home, I’ll be in big trouble
Take a bath that will have to bubble
And I know it’ll happen again
Because “mud puddles are for jumpin’ in!!”
John G. Lawless
6/3/2012
He simply could not resist,
The mud puddle he could easily have missed.
As he carelessly tripped into the middle,
The bottom of the puddle he kissed.
He could not have had more fun,
As into the puddle he would run.
Now mudcovered head to toe,
There was no place for the ray of the sun.
After playtime had come to an end,
And much energy he did spend,
It was back again to his home,
And see if Mom’s intolerance would bend.
He stood there before her and squirmed.
She looked at him and stood very firm.
He knew he had crossed the line,
As there was now no place to turn.
He was amazed at what he would hear,
As he stood before her in fear.
She fought back the laughter that day
And simply said, “No play today, dear.”
Something comes to mind;
It is no evil thing.
Objectified it stands,
Sings loudly with open mouth,
Nearly speechless.
So is the volume turned up,
Turned on
When frogs croak
In muddy ponds
And tadpoles wink the day.
The field is all clover--
Pure;
It feeds the sky,
Pleases the eye,
Is false
Like some lovers.
Frogs are lovers,
Hopping.
People hop too--
Skip, jump, dance
Nightly by the moon,
Restless as sin.
Then they croak.
Where do they go?
They inhabit the hollows;
Their breath is fire.
Personification is no
Evil thing--
A gift, perhaps.
Out of the mud come frogs
In their season.
People inhabit the mud
As well--
Splattered and spotted
Like freckles
They come.
Random is the field of clover
Growing,
Eating the mud,
Feasting like vultures.
The body lies down in clover;
It is covered,
It is decked out in glory
The glory of clover,
All fresh.
Out of the mud
comes a phantom.
He drips with slime.
He carries his pride
Like a tomahawk.
He is clean shaven.
There is no regret.
Wanting peace he comes,
And she the wolf-hound
Is waiting.
Our star
Feel its sting?
The little dingy one
with jagged edges
in the basement of the universe.
the star that winks... sashays ...
relentlessly teasing- then merrily slices away.
Our star
Hear it careen like molten dreams.
The lost one that mimics a 2am ambulance.
The one that offers fruit
then sends you crashing to the reef...
A smiling spittoon to purge the poisoned
glass from your bombed out sheltered soul.
Our star
Smell it?
The one that passes perfume.
Beneath the fragile being of self-worth of your gravity.
Then jerks it away.
Our star
Once a blooming evening flower
now nibbled raw..down to the stump.
Face down in the cold black soil,
Our star has turned to mud!
Stuck in the Mud
Dr. James E. Martin
©March, 2014
The wheels continue to spin,
My patience is growing thin.
So here I sit,
Having a bit of a fit,
Not going where I sometimes have been.