Best Mulling Poems
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
My three-year-old put his hand on his chin
like he was mulling over something troubling
I said, "Son, look at this place; what a mess!"
“But, Papa,” he moaned, “I pway wifh these!”
His room was cluttered from wall to wall--
books and crayons, even an old football,
an old sippy cup, its contents long dried up,
cars, trucks strewn about from a huge pileup,
game pieces and his Christmas roller skates,
and things I’d long forgotten he even owned.
“Straighten it up, now!” I commanded.
He began to pout. “It’s myyyy wooom, Papa.”
Stifling a tear of my own, I nodded, agreeing,
“But YOUR room is in MY house,” I explained.
When I stepped out and closed the door,
I heard stuff being tossed hither and yon,
So, I stood there for a good long while, and,
this is what I heard: “Otay, I queen up my woom,
but next year for Quissmas....” then, loudly,
“I WANT A HOUSE OF MY OWN, OTAY!”
Loud enough for him to hear, I replied,
“SO, WHEN NEXT CHRISTMAS COMES, SON,
I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO!”
Submitted to "2022 Marathon Mile No. 12" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
August 12, 2022
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Submitted to "'Funny Memories'" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
January 16, 2022
Written 3/24/2021 (edited slightly 3/27/2021)
Submitted to: "Look At This Place!" Contest
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
BRONZE WINNER
"Anything Children" Contest - All Poetry
September 3, 2021
I don't suppose
the white hums of summer
will ever out strum the blues;
but here before me,
two colors mingle
in polite harmony-
spouting about
like versed chums
over black coffee
so why do I stand here,
all cockeyed
and bashful
in these careful shades of yellow,
mulling over red
and its poignant way
of bruising my heart
a callous hue of indigo
whereas I, by chance, talking to myself, finding myself
alone, enclosed by four walls and a door, knock
to see, in the invisibility, with x-ray ability, not held,
if you dear reader, sitting by your nightlight, might
switch it on and find a word to speak silently
or out loud; your choice. the ones you borrow
from a native tongue, feeling
their incomprehensible weight,
stopping mid-sentence, to ponder if you are moved
in the slightest bit; I’m biting my lip in anticipation,
though I’ve no inkling that you're mulling over
my thoughts, my doubts, my innards, my all.
now, I, think of you, sitting by a scintilla of light,
moonlight marvels at the roundness of your lips
as you nearly sing your “o’s;” sonnets seem
sensual alongside the bed, though always grieving.
love is a dog, a walk in the woods, a lark.
leave me be. let me remember you as I long to.
don’t say goodbye, but leave my sighs on the table,
where you first met me, and I almost met you,
and you, dear reader, take back up with me,
though now there’s a familiarity between us,
lost in the shadows, amidst the stars
and you can nearly hear me breathing.
(*Glossy and costly! Family name imprinted,(as if we did not want know
their first and last names? And surely no verse allowed!*)
(( But, I made this one up. Heh-heh!))
Sorry…we simply haven’t a second to call..
We are not cheap, oh, no, nothing like that at all.
Been traveling up and down this great state.
See our stunning picture, next to the Golden Gate?
That’s our Jenny, my, oh my, she’s so tall.
Ben and Tommy, as you see, play football!
Mom and I, are sure getting lots older…..
She’s already two inches below my shoulder.
Doggie Dan is a barrelhouse of fun.
See him there, chasing a cat in the sun?
Granny, nah, she ain’t in our picture.
Old and young~ heck, that’s no good mixture!
Do message us, if and when you can.
Nobody writes emails, they are….‘also rans.’
Limits on personal words, we know sound crazy.
Least to Grandma, who we know, one day.
Will soon be pushing up those daisies!
So bye, till next year, we’ll send more of these.
We just adore mulling about saying,” Cheese!”
Grandma wastes all her time at a poetry site?
Makes her feel good ~ better than being tight!
Love From All!
“The Cheeze-Its”
12/8/2022
Unfluffed, unearthed and uncrated my eyes just will not sleep
beneath a dome of dark this heart is mulling over way too deep
Unfettered, unbolted and unrestrained I float to heaven's nook
to watch the stars shine brightly as a summer's bubbling brook
Surely sounded and surmised I suddenly close my eyes and pray
Like moon asleep by midnight hour I have nothing left to say
Sedentary, secluded and seated at the desk, I write a poem true
about the way I feel tonight, and Oh ! how much I'm missing you
Tried and tested I trod towards, ... knowing even gold can't stay
like stars of night after spreading light even them must go away
Feeling thankful for the times we had I know that love endures
Feeling floored at the font of loss I know there is no simple cure
for this....
Not Me, But He
Miracle Man
2/9/2018
In mulling over the testimony of my existence,
My remaining time is anchored to His assistance.
Since the time of rebirth when I made my debut,
Each challenge I’ve faced God carried me through.
The speed bumps I’ve encountered along the way,
Have ushered me to the spot where I stand today;
Look past the window dressing you assume I’ve done,
And fix your eyes upon Jesus, the empowering one.
I walk in a daze never somber
I speak from my heart ever fonder
I see the light in each person and ponder
Why is she so different you might wonder
I will brief you this that's just me
All the fuss about what to wear closets calling
I find discrimination and popularity terribly galling
I sink so deep into books the words alluring
Why is she so divergent you may be mulling
I disclose this to you that's just me
I fall in love Yes! as a true Aries so easily
My heart could shatter just as needlessly
I love the wind gallivanting by teasingly
Why is she so fragile you think repeatedly
I will inform you this that's just me
I enjoy the beat from music in discretion
I believe in my ability to sing without question
I dance without a care for the haters aggression
Why is she so obsessed with music you think mid-session
Well my friends this is my utmost confession in possession of concession
That's just me
~In A Day Like Today~
(Sonnet)
For winter,kind of cool here,yes,it was
Very nice today,completed quite some,a bit
Then just relaxed,reflected 'long,did sit
After many chores I've done,took a pause
Read in 1927 Dr.Seuss marri'd Helen Palmer
In 1927, King Tut's tomb was discovered too
Many events in a day like today
Befell.Some good,some bad,catchy scar or star.
Turn off TV.Only depressing,joyless shows
Today,writing here another new sonnet
Now,again,for a third day in a row
Mulling over,just surfing round the net.
In 1877,Edison his crank'd phonograph play'd
In 1981,famed,actress Natalie Wood died.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2015
January,15,2015
1am: The clock strikes like bolts of lightning as my brain rapidly
fires neurons creating a torturous play field in my tired mind.
Pangs of loneliness hit me like a full speed train.
My bed feels emptier than the Sahara, colder than Antarctica.
Sleep evades me at this hour.
2am: I am nestling in my bed, tossing and turning, longing for
a restful sleep.
Calmness of impassioned night haunts me in my awakeness.
Wild fantasies flow through my mind provoking my sensuality
as i slide bare legs against the sheets.
I curl my arms under the pillow like apostrophes to imitate
an epic fail pillow talk with my thoughts.
Mulling over love; aching and craving for romance.
My fabric rustles, tugging onto the heat on my nude skin
as my body starves of slumber sweet.
3am: I am my own philosopher.
Taking twisted turns with life’s ironies and experiences.
A late night’s discontent filled with mind blowing debates,
trick questions, mumblings, pointless gibbers and quizzes.
Drifting in and out of the blank, endless room –displaying
sights and seeking answers.
Staring at the ceiling in the vertigo of the night.
Watching the steady accusations of the clock, and the
long gaze of the wall judging and mocking me.
I am plagued by the nagging thoughts, past recollections
roam the noisy streets of my mind.
Sleep still enervates me.
4am: My eyelids remain agape, my mind is agitated but my
soul accepts the enthralling path of uninterrupted
consciousness.
Time drips like a leaking bathtub faucet –flooding my
mind and reminding me of my sleep debt.
Bored, i rummage through my archives trying to dust
off yesterday’s verses and fading rhythms- editing
memories and reciting old poems as the world snores.
5am: The galling sound of my alarm summons my day’s routine
like a clarion call for duty.
My night’s sleep was a failed marathon and i must join the
awakening world with a stone face.
Damn Insomnia!
I wonder, sitting in the corner,
mulling over the child cleaning tabletop for the owner;
Owner of the shop where i am drinking tea,
And feeling sad about the boy's plea.
I rose from my seat-
Moving ahead with trembling feet.
Then offered him a piece of cake,
Which he took gloomily and mutely ate.
As if his eyes questioning me:
“Could this piece of cake,
Change my unfortunate fate?
Is this really the ending of my all work and toil?
Will I be able to play like other (children) on the same soil?”
I could feel his desire’s ocean,
I was moved by his seamless notions.
I wish I could write sweet memories on his life’s pages,
Wish I could free him from entanglements, the bondages.
How he desired of getting freedom from his master’s rule:
And how he must be longing to go to school!!
Desire that I could stop his sufferings, agony and pain,
Could lessen his grief, could save his life passing in vain.
Every child hath the privileges to live thou childhood the ingenuous way:-
But the innumerable innocent questions remain unanswered.
Undiscovered – the child’s mind so curious,
Alas! The vice of old brains created child labor:
The unjust thought itself makes me so furious.
I feel I’ve conquered
the majestic night
in an open field sodden with
love of a countless gasps
I am not new to the world
swearing in the shadow of a cactus
and mulling over the smiles
of Northern stars tirelessly
taking photos of my soul, which is always close
to my birth, craving for prosperity
And, I crave for breath
accenting to mine
Ah, I am forever
the tropical wind of my land
where poetry is like a flower’s gatherer
sweetly teasing my thoughts
to sing like a little baby bird
in an open field sodden with
love of a countless gasps
Some days you struggle
Deciding what’s right or wrong
Mulling it over
Listen to your inner voice
It’s usually right on track
1/20/16
His rote now writ, too large for him to tote.
In quiet mode, squirming ambitious fit...
Yet sit he would, to savor what he wrote;
mulling the twist and turning soul of it.
It gleams of gore and life’s ensuing gait;
impassioned pleas of love to softly grow
while nebulae whirl and patiently wait;
the poem’s only thought “to get up and go”.
So, go it will-- ride the stars far and wide,
to ramble or hide, what e’re the demand.
My fervent wish, for life on the far side,
have somewhere to write and a pen in hand.
My lasting goal- - -to finish what I seek
for better, or worse, an ending to speak.
Scents mingle; phlox, lilac, jasmine etching June,
evening tingles neath shimmer of shooting star.
Aromas' rhythmic breathing below blond moon
held on breeze's ripple - please don’t go afar…
Dream's moonstone is reasoned in cream afternoon,
adularescent blue tones season memoir.
Days lazy, lost lulling red raspberry rhyme,
gaze hazy, mulling sangria summertime.
Susan Ashley
August 12, 2017