Best Out Of Step Poems
“God like, not so different”
She wrote,
“where do you go to my lovely?”
my response,
“I sink into the screen
like a scream queen goddess,
I am Lilith most of the time
tap dancing away and
singing off key unashamedly
loudly in life out of step, always
out of time, the ballyhoos
clap apathetically warning,
"watch out, incoming, car wreck!",
more like a shipwreck
broken-in-half, sunk in the deep,
treasures scattered on
the seabed, keys missing
loot unreachable
the flotsam of an ego
jetsam to lighten the
sinking load, arriving
amidst the shallows,
half cracked open
on the Ocean's shore,
waiting for the electric storm
to penetrate the brain, then
I become the electric storm
come to defibrillate the broken heart,
the haunting hero haunting heroes
dashed on their cerebral rocks
like Sirens alarmed all going off,
the feet both punctured,
walking over the sharp unopened
and opened broken shells,
mothers of pearls
bleeding stories,
their cornucopia unblessed
blessedly overflowing in the flow
of long nights' bittersweet darkness,
walking from room to room
talking in tongues,
strange and estranged,
adlibbing alienation
through boundless walls,
carrying a heavy cross like a ghost
in a residual haunting,
a storm in a teacup
sometimes passing,
the cake all eaten,
hungry for more
of something;
but on the 7th day I rest
and become God like
pleased with the turmoil
and calm I have jusifiably created,
there I will be seen
heavenly comotosed
resting under the duvee;
I am what I am,
then to the relief
of my monsters,
I fall,
I sleep …
I sleepwalk
commanding them all;
there is no escape.”
“you gotta larf,” she says, "how do you stop?"
the response,
“easier said than done, my friend;
the red shoes are killers to take off."
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
ljb - llb, klb, mlb
llb - gvlm
“Most poets are mad. It doesn't qualify us for anything.”
Anne Sexton
“Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.”
Anne Sexton
“I am not immortal. Faustus and I are the also-ran.”
Anne Sexton
The Three Graces
The Three Fates
The Morai
Monoko 4 - Solitude
rhythm all my own they all seem so out of step so I march alone...
Sandra M. Haight
~7th Place~
Contest: Monoku #4 Solitude
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Judged: 02/09/2016
Nowhere in the whole wide world,
Is there anyone just like you.
No one touches other's lives,
The same way that you do.
No one does things like you do,
Has that certain flare.
No one has your specialness,
Has that certain aire.
When something doesn't turn out right,
And you feel out of step,
When others tend to put you down,
And make you feel inept,
Think on the talents that you have;
The things that you do well.
Where we could find another you,
No tongue on earth could tell.
The eve of darkness they come out to play
creepy crawly with our senses. The street
wise, the waifs, the tiny cherubs all blend
together to form a society of sorts that is
out of step with time; they become invisible.
They come with their drums, their guitars to
serenade the unseeing humans in tourist
tee shirts. You can see the beauty of
this youth who dances and plays from a
heart that just needs freedom.
You look into their eyes and you fall in
love with the innocence of a child who
sees his place in time as cosmic.
You smell their odors, their very essence.
A not so spent youth and you wish you were they.
You find yourself being pulled in by
their ethereal nectar and song...you see
for the first time what you could of had.
You are pulled in and the fight leaves you
the unseeing being the unseen...welcome!
*My impressions of the homeless youths of Ocean Beach, San Diego
There was a little girl that never quite seemed to fit in
out of step with a world that seemed to her full of sin
No matter what she did or tried there always was a gap
that seemed to grow even when she sat on her dads lap
Time passed by with little change except that she was alone
every one else appeared to have a special some one
One day the sun shone so brightly and flowers scented the land
it seemed a day full of expectation while softly played the band
Through the door stepped a man who also didn't quite fit in
yet at the same time it was apparent he was without sin
Mrs. Lightfoot had taught music at Talbot Elementary School for years.
A couple of her pupils excelled in music but most became engineers.
She sat at her desk to muse upon the past after another trying day,
Recalling events that had contributed to the 'dyeing' of her hair gray!
She remembered concerts when the cacophonous din made her wince,
And Mrs. Lightfoot approached such musicals with foreboding ever since.
But beaming parents saw their prodigies destined for musical acclaim.
(Only one she knew strummed a banjo at the VFW with a modicum of fame!)
Tubby Aruba wrestled with his tuba, ever out of step in the marching band.
Sissie Pyaner tried to emulate Liberace but she battered the concert grand.
For some reason one of the valves on Clyde Crumpet's trumpet always stuck,
And the trombone players could never harmonize - such was their bad luck!
Pat Claret could never adjust her clarinet reeds to eliminate the squeaks.
'Tyke' Biddle fiddled with the bull fiddle but never mastered its techniques.
Hubie Crums thought he was Gene Krupa and went crazy on the drums.
And when it came to playing the French horn, Sydney Corne was all thumbs!
Many times Mrs. Lightfoot thought she'd chosen the wrong speciality path,
And oft' wondered if she should have majored in history or maybe math.
In a couple of years she could lay down her baton one last time and retire,
To reminisce about fatal concerts, bleating horns and inharmonious choir!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Speak to me my muted heart
where went your rhyming ways
The voice of a hearts deepest hour
in mysteries a soul explained
Is your rhythm lost or simply hiding
in the noise of life as it whines
expression tied by hopes revising
sweet serenity and peace of mind
You run and ride with speed in your stride
ignoring all fear of the fall
you dig your heals and hold on tight
then question how momentum has stalled
An erie silence rests within
like unwritten lyrics implore
when inspiration is crushed to dust
supposing your song should be more
Poetry to you is a mountain
raised and balanced in a hand
yet your fountain of speech has ceased its flowing
like the trek across untraveled sands
If inspiration is swinging from a chandelier
opposing the status quo
and insight a vehicle to merely be steered
why now is there no marrow in your bones
Words keeping time with the beat of a life
linguistic expression out of step
lancing the poetess with a wordless knife
a beat-less palpitation in her chest
Return to me dear creativity
like frankincense anointed and blessed
convey the miracle of a heart unlaced
my poetic world at rest
Could it be I feel too much
farther reaching than any sea or the sky
or is this a symptom of insecurity
for all the where the when's or the why's
I am disassembled, rearranged
the safety net beneath me removed
everything familiar suddenly changed
with the muse of my rhythm unmoved
Perhaps when the seismic quake has passed
and my world is as it should be at last
I'll write of how transporting through worlds
was like a dance with a tornado as it twirls
Until then I'll retire my pen
and pray a new melody plays
some new, never known before tune
in the awe of poetic display
Oh you tell of a forlorn maiden
so much out of step out of time
one so close to this my heart
alas simple of mind
yet she is my kind
she’s my mother
age exposed
withered
lost
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Inside Out Upside Down
There are times, at least once every day,
when I seem to be turned inside out,
when life itself seems to get in my way.
My mind is cluttered, clouded with doubt.
My decisions have flipped me upside down,
wearing the saddened smile, so out of place
on the painted facade of a circus clown
who stood on his head to draw on his face.
I'm floating in space, caught in a safety net.
Spinning through time, clockworks inside out,
Yet, I'm not out of control for I've no regret
for walking the path of my chosen route.
On a sandy bank, a fish out of water.
There's a place to park, but it's upside down
a parking meter, but I can't find a quarter
groaning inside, but I can't hear a sound.
I'm stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel
feet dangling, but I'm touching the ground.
My heart is numb, so how is it I feel?
My emotions have turned me upside down.
I keep buying tickets for the roller coaster ride.
Should I get off? Suddenly I'm filled with doubt.
Not yet. I've just had a thought that's inspired!
Soiled laundry is clean when worn inside out.
Unable to move, as though suspended in air
shirt is wrinkled and turned inside out
ignored the label marked 'handle with care
removing the wrinkles is what life's all about.
Because of the decision to give love a chance
The smiles I wore turned into frowns.
Life out of step, but I'm learning to dance.
I can dance to the rhythm, even upside down.
The lights of the city reflecting from the aqueous pitch, pavements in a kaleidoscope of colours create a melancholy ambience for the few who venture within. The city is transformed as the animated bustle of people, seemingly with purpose, abandon the streets to their suburban abodes, leaving a nugatory melting pot of the "Ill at ease" to pursue or solicit rudimentary shelter to respite their weary frames.
The man is homeless.......
To the city streets he is confined, incarcerated by their invisible partition that circumscribe his ability to breach the tenticaled alleys and lanes. For buzzing in his mind, "I'm not aloud" echoes through his sub conscience cerebrations. Involuntarily his legs move his ageless body, one foot in front of the other in timeless motion like a driverless carriage aimlessly meandering through the city thoroughfares.
He sits to repose on a lichen encrusted slab that has entreated a myriad of his ilk for generations past and assuredly for many more to traverse. For the briefest moment the fog that clouds his mind is pushed aside by a gentle puff of memory as he is transported to a place where children's laughter fills the room and a woman sitting at a dining table, her auburn hair comfortably resting on her slender shoulders as she gazes admiringly at... Then thunderclouds rush over him like a tidal wave to the sound of, "Move you filthy wino", he scurries off as the fog settles back into its occupation.
Lost within the multitude of human quiddity, like the leaves of a plane tree aquiescing to the winds dominating gusts. He is swept along the tide of life, existing but never living, obedient to every buckle and wrench, never adapting to the changing seasons, accepting feeling of cold and heat with equal passiveness. The drum of life ever beating, yet his march is incessantly out of step.
How does one remain engaged with life, so incomplete
Gaping holes in mind and heart, will have you take a seat
From there, you're left to fence the goings on throughout the day
Observing in third person, what you do and feel and say
Exhausted, you will hide and find a place to rest your head
Remains whirl round inside, while lying still upon your bed
Inevitably moving, subjects bring you to comply
To live, out in a world so lacking, you could wish to die
TELL ME IT'S NOT TRUE, OR TELL ME YOU KNOW SHE GOES ON!
TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER I WILL RAIL THAT IT WAS WRONG!
EVEN IF IT'S TRUE AND YOU KNOW BEST WHAT'S MEANT TO BE!
I'LL TELL YOU WE LOST BEAUTY HERE THAT WE DESERVED TO SEE!
Madness stills and mundane forces push you to advance
So off you go to follow in this unfamiliar dance
And as the world now plays the saddest tune you've ever heard
You realize you're listening and hearing all the words
Thank you dear / Debbie for / pointing out / my mistakes!
Now I can / see where I’ve / been getting / out of step.
“Statuesque” / was one of / my early / efforts and
Then I had / not learned the / rhythms of /poetry.
If I were / Writing it / now I’d be / tidier.
I’d know my / dactyls and / iambs and / … other stuff …
But since the / subject was / utterly / frivolous,
Frankly Ms. / Guzzi, I / don’t think I / give a damn!
.......................
I thought my original entry in Debbie’s meter contest was in
dactylic tetrameters.
Sadly it was not – but this one is!
Rage fills my brain
As these fists come up
Regrets visualize
Suicide some
Anger overtakes my body
Evil complicates
Goodness fades
Waking the death
Upon these grounds
I bring back those
Who once stood around
Knifing your gut
Slicing your skin
Opening cuts
Bastard sin
Evil communicates
I stand by
Listening
Waiting
As you die
Last moments of breath
Last moments on Earth
Find your way out of step
Daggering threat
I visualize
Your sacrifice
For your kindness
Angers me
Nothing stirs the languid souls of folks like a hometown parade.
Friends and neighbors uniting to form a colorful cavalcade.
Any special occasion will do such as Veterans or Independence Day,
To uproariously celebrate and put on a spectacular display!
The parade is led off by aging vets proudly carrying Old Glory,
Stepping lively despite expanded girths and looking rather hoary.
The mayor is next in a flashy convertible exuding all of his charms,
Grinning inanely and greeting folks with his out-stretched arms!
The local high school band marches slightly out of step,
And playing a bit off-key but tooting with mighty pep!
The equestrian saddle club prances by in well-formed troops,
Followed closely by a couple of clowns wielding clean-up scoops!
Anxious moms herd a troop of Brownies so small and so cute.
Here comes the Hometown Queen - isn't she a charming beaut!
Vintage cars and John Deere tractors put on quite a show,
But a Model T Ford stalls causing its owner misery and woe!
The Rose Bowl and Macy parades are planned with great ostentation,
Designed to entertain TV audiences across this great nation,
But small town parade committees are just as proud as they can be,
To plan and sponsor a pageant to please local friends and family!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Whispers from lips as innocent as brush fire, dance with these words, they're mine to lead with.
Spin me around, dip me, into your Desires. Your demand is to be followed, yet my compliance will lead the way.
Grace in that moment, power in the next, your hand leaves my waist and leads by choreographed restraint.
In my hair, around my neck, the hushed demand to follow what's next. To remain obedient in this number, if I fall out of step, the desire to succeed will appear, red marks a reminisce. Counts to remind you who's steps your dancing.
Tilted chin, eyes up for direction, parted lips, betraying hidden longings of acquisition.
Direction is given, these steps are traced, repeated for good measure, replaced with pleasure.
This song is new, whispers of suggestion follow the chorus.
I'll let you lead, I'll be the good debutante, hold me under your control, while I melt into your every direction.
But must we remember, this number is mine, I chose to dance.