Best Off Center Poems
He would enter the corral in the thick fog of mist,
up long before daylight would christen the air
The skies would be coral, and the sun glazed the crest
Dust clung to the heels of his old leather boots,
and gathered in shrouds around the hoofs of the mare.
Billowing were clouds, and a whirlwind of grief
that followed the storms of long hours awake
Endless were nights without the refuge of sleep
while he waited for sun to arrive and relieve
Caressing the flank of her sleek narrow, frame,
his favorite mare, Queenie, was the color of dawn
He would gather her reins, for a moment of calm
then, bury his face in her rusty brown mane
He'd watch as the light slipped over the hills,
smoothing the shadows, that haunted his world
Without ever knowing the worries we found
as we saw those same shadows, splay rapidly down,
drowning his eyes, with dark circles and frowns
Grief and the love of his horses, would ride,
together, off center....wherever, to hide,
and soften the hours, that waited for night
For the house was a shell, and the bedroom, upstairs,
became the forbidden, without her to share
The nights, ever long, were just waiting to tear
open the wounds that couldn't be shared
Up at the sunrise, and out until starlight
Where shadows grew stronger, and nights even longer
Burning the daylight, until light was in ashes,
then thrashing the midnight, with the darkness of mourning,
wading through dust-clouds, to see morning's light
Waiting for something to make it alright
____________________________________________________
4/28/15
Dedicated to my Dad
Galactic flashes pulse rainbow bold
bright neon waves flow into black holes.
Shooting stars ricochet through night skies
rings of Saturn cut loose and rise.
Drifting Sun sidesteps off center stage
Mercury blazes white hot, then fades.
Fat old Neptune looks bored and pouts
poor little Pluto wanders in and out.
Venus fusses, preoccupied with her looks
Mars tries too hard, Earth gets him off the hook.
Jupiter two steps, Uranus tries to prance
at the first ever annual Galaxy Dance.
Written on 8/25/2016
Fragile to the touch,
Like a rainbow in the sky,
When you dream, you live,
In the heart of the sacred,
Let your dreams carry you off.
It is the grey of evening...soft lamps glow as our hood readies itself for some crumbs of comfort:
Old widows wrap themselves with pillows for third- hand affection,
Children yawn sure as rain that mothers will lullaby them like so ,
Single fathers brew coffee to tide them from a hard day's sweat-
Senior men listen to music begging for new memories...
Young ladies lonely shut off their doors... praying Psalm 91,
It is evening. This is where we are...getting older in wisened thoughts , to gather slivers of reflections, of dreams met and unmet...
Icy winds shiver a bit asking: how will we savor to the pulp, this one beautiful life possessed?
And the light shuts off.
bamboo pipes heaving raindrops
breaking silence against stone
deer runs off
wind blast cold to bone
plants, animals frozen stiff
dead winter kill off
Written By: Carol Brown
Written on: 12/13/2011
Written for the: " Dead Winter Contest"
Sponsored by: Sidney~LeeAnn
4th Place Winner
Welcome To The Party
Written by: D. Collins 9/8/14
Welcome to the party black, white, yellow, and brown.
Where you can get “Hippy” and let your hair down.
Treat it just like it’s another “Woodstock”.
Come in, just blend, and turn this party out.
Welcome to the party from New Orleans to L.A.
Those in Angola, and those in Pelican Bay.
All are welcome, we’re going to “set it off”.
Some food, spirit, and knowledge for all ’o ya’ll.
Welcome to the party, where some jazz may kick in.
And, before the song’s over you’ll holla “play that again”.
There’ll be good conversation, and the sweet, smell of myrrh.
People from all over the globe joined as brothers and sisters.
Welcome to the party, we’re just getting started.
Those who want drama should have already departed.
This party’s not for them. They don’t possess what it takes.
The uncanny ability to see far, beyond hate.
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she-cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The kind that makes you obsess about
why they're one hour and five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange, strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You all know what I mean).
Admittedly, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco-oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
Glimpses I caught between the swishing traffic
on that sidewalk in cold rain and colder wind
and a cast-off Cleveland Browns windbreaker: a man
tottering a mime of an off-center grandfather clock,
and, oh yes, in a dirty orange unrav'ling
woolen cap with flopping pom-pom.
Then he caught himself, a sudden vision
in that plate glass, and froze as one struck,
arms spread, splayed fingers for balance,
gaping at himself and his wobbling pom-pom.
And I too caught him, uncanny in the black
glass beyond a CLOSED sign, among
the white tablecloths.
And then, my god, he started to dance.
Well... Okay, more of a gaucherie than dancing.
Shuffling, spread-legged tottering (he'd a clubfoot, I noticed)
interspersed (and this is the point) with little
leaps; but now without progressing as
before (if progress is the right word
for going nowhere) along the wet sidewalk.
Minutes — or was it seconds? — he gaped and leapt
and danced while busy folk eddied round him.
Then a rain-beaded bus of limp-faced,
stippled tourists stopped right there,
and I lost him, the pom-pom man, who danced among
the tables of the Café Boulevard.
Well, it was for him, you see, a vision
(for me a far feebler thing, a philosophy)
grand as Milton, Dante, St. John the Divine,
oh, even St. Simeon in the Temple. The ecstasy
of an achieved leap ignores how high you rise
(pace Nijinsky, Nureyev, Barishnykov).
It's how low you started.
Writing in a room with an insolent ceiling,
Haughty in its skill at keeping thoughts out of reach,
Emotions darted above me, bat-like in their evasion,
A rapture of denial, pushing me away.
Ever I spun toward memory - always a quarter-turn ahead;
The seasons hid their faces, the Heavens turned their back,
Inspiration's cache stood just offshore, vanishing in fog;
What room was this - I was lost, off-center.
Every poem unwrote itself, the merest beginning hope
having fallen to dust; my mind and body were false constructions.
At the last, light and darkness gave up definition,
The walls and floor coming to the point without me.
March 25, 2017
poetically fractured retractions
gnashing night prayers,
scribbling braille,
written sideways
dipped in holy water's resolution,
compromising statements
of disbelief's proclamation
spinning music the color
of nakedly sick psycho, yet
burnished souls keep on ticking
quarter past total trade-offs
in a spoonful of smoky reflections
sans acid's sugar trip,
anointed of rose-reddish
bloody false pretenses
dancing off center phases
in disillusioned
pirouettes of pseudo redemption,
whirling out of control on
staged tapestry's loftiness
surrendered ballet slippers
in blistered half promises,
as twisted metaphors sprightly
tuned out spun anomalies
below birds on a rusty wire tweeting
admissions' cobalt blue hazed execution,
rendered inky alterations' inquisitions
'pon pedaled pink fluff profundity,
exhaling paroxysms' jazzily engaged poesy
in vehemently enraged deliverance,
naught one is ever as they seem
through pigmented film 'neath
figment's imagined looking glass
of ingratiated delusional grandeur
I found my passion where
I started shining there
Got admirations from everywhere
& I stopped for a moment
In a deep well I plummet
Then I learned a precious lesson
Poeple, praises & admirations
Are the shinotactic flyers
(movement in the direction of shining person)
In less than second's quarter
Fly & changes their direction
In the self-encouraging rain
I started climbing again
Towards the light of my aim
With a sworn statement
"That I'll definitely shine
Brighter than yesterday
But without being flyer affectionate
I will keep my heart
Simple & pure
From fake flyers
Flying back & before
I will climb & climb
I will climb & climb
I may fall or drop
But I will NOT stop
Until & unless
My Passion's light get off"
What makes us take off, off in flight. Our wings, wings upon our back. Each beautiful feather, makes up each of our beautiful wings. With our wings we can fly high or low, we can cover you for protection. You will find us in all different sizes, we are your loving guardian angels.
Date Written:2/13/2022
He would enter the corral in the thick veil of mist,
up long before daylight, fog christened the air
The skies would be coral, and the sun glazed the crest
Dust shrouded the heels of his old leather boots,
and gathered in clouds around the hoofs of the mare.
Born with the morning was a whirlwind of grief
that had followed the storms of a night without sleep
Endless were hours , without refuge's peace
while he waited for sun to arrive and repeat
Caressing the flank of her sleek narrow, frame,
his favorite mare, Queenie, was the color of dawn
He would gather her reins, for a moment of calm
then, bury his face in her rusty brown mane
He'd watch as the light slipped over the hills,
smoothing the shadows, that haunted his world
Without ever knowing the worries we found
as we saw those same shadows, splay rapidly down,
drowning his eyes, with dark circles and frowns
Grief and the love of his horses, would ride,
together, off center....wherever, to hide,
and soften the hours, that waited for night
For the house was a shell, and the bedroom, upstairs,
became the forbidden, without her to share
The nights, ever long, were just waiting to tear
open the wounds that he couldn't bear
Up at the sunrise, and out until starlight
Where shadows grew stronger, and nights even longer
Burning the daylight, until light was in ashes,
then thrashing the midnight, with the darkness of mourning,
wading through dust-clouds, to see morning's light
Waiting for something to make it alright
____________________________________________________
Steppin’ Off
My Platform
I
Will
Miss you,
It’s only so long
And not a swan song
I have projects awaiting
They need some attention
An untenable encumbrance
Far too many to mention
So I’ll be takin’ time out
Or bound to get worse
September First
Steppin’ off