Best Plastic Poems
When we search for answers from egotistic minds,
life is full of meaningless questions that lead us nowhere.
You sabotaged the sandman who brought me my dreams,
corrupting and confusing the clarity of my conscience.
In a world of betrayal, I thought you were my
saviour,
but your promises were sworn from a throne of lies -
where you perch as the king of false pretences.
Tired from being a victim of your insecurities,
I am not your mistake nor your abandoned
trauma.
Fate led my empathic sanity into your labyrinth of splintered hollowness,
confining me within a soulless sphere of unfair
madness,
yet, I still remember how you pledged to show me the moon -
falsehoods which led to an eternal eclipse for my eyes.
You stole the silver sewn with perfectly metered syllables,
calming the storm I carry in cacophonous silence,
but now, all I see is a megalomaniac monster, draped in rose tones of synthetic rhodolite, pretending to be an ivory dove in a horizon of vicious vultures,
hiding behind a decaying province of black petunias.
Your synthetic smile veils your cruel character, afraid that the vermilion you paint across your
sunsets,
will reveal the poison you fed my paralyzed soul.
My ink will always portray your true parasite persona,
about your attempts to assassinate my authentic aroma,
as now i blossom in meadows without your
toxic touch.
Time's running out for whooping cranes,
the buffalo, and prairie dogs.
For they've been predominantly
replaced by cattle, sheep, and hogs.
The elephant and the blue whale
may share the fate of the dodo.
For these species are endangered,
like the dragons of Komodo.
Alligators and crocodiles,
tread the fringes of extinction.
And the California condor's
future hangs on its distinction.
Seal pups are slaughtered for their fur;
otters for the fish they've eaten.
And the wild lions and tigers,
are routinely caged and beaten.
In sanitized utopias,
we plant the occasional tree.
But in this plastic paradise,
there’s little wildlife left to see.
Sitting so pretty in a vase
You lift your deceitful faces to the world.
I may arrange you how I wish
And I may rejoice that your thorns
Lack the sting of real thorns;
But betrayed, you always are
When I touch you.
Your delicately moulded petals are cold,
And you stand upright
Because you can do no other.
You lack the perfume
That is nature's inner attraction,
And you do not droop and wilt,
For you know not what it is to lack water.
In pretending to live
You are no flower.
Forever beautiful,
You live not at all.
Forget artifice, but dare to take a drink
From the bottomless well of life,
And you will find the wonder of your making,
The divinity of life, ripe for the picking.
I just thought as I looked at the table,
to love I am no longer able.
I look at the vase,
take a second look just in case.
It came to me,
our so called love I now see.
Our love may be fake but forever will last,
despite our troublesome past.
Plastic flowers I stare,
not real but who would care.
Our love is as fake as the flowers,
to revive you would need powers.
Yet fake flowers need no tending,
and love you are not sending.
You can just leave them their,
forever they'll last not needing air.
Plastic Playground
The plastic playground sits on land,
Land now defaced of nature’s scheme.
Scheme offers colored shapes pristine—
Pristine like board games played inside.
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
~6th Place~
Contest: Four Lines Only - Visual 5
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Judged: 06/12/2015
.
In grimed secluded alleyway’s it’s his key into the divine,
Believing deliverance has arrived while he walks this narrow line,
Those eyes begin seeing reality his mind now lucid has cleared,
The truth’s of his past now a cacophony welling up within perfect ears,
Numbing out his nervous system a blind faith blanketed brain,
Sporadic lighting of violent flashes lost within his mind deranged,
Everything once believed assured now snippets of a life long elapsed,
Consigning his soul to valueless spirits his self worth allowed to collapse,
Without destination a wandering shell conforming to push through the days,
Ignoring the voices of pleas and salvation sinking farther within mired haze,
Memories taunting of mandible grasps devouring slowly his will to survive,
Nightmares convulsing those hideous features transforming beauty into
despised,
Shrinking in angst from real vindication devolving back where the journey began,
He ties off his arm inserting the needle releasing the demons inside once again.
A butterfly
on a plastic rose...
how long
does it take to know
all that is fake
Published in A Hundred Gourds
kash poet (kashinath karmakar)
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD
Shadows of leaves against migrants stripped of bark
Children hidden against a darkened sky
A cup of river foaming at the mouth
Suited men and women laced swirl about with noxious airs
Walk blindly into an imaginary sun longtime set
Sink into the plastic remnants of bottles drank
The dew on their skin stings like acid spilt
Breathing particles drawn with charcoal pencils lit
And I think to myself what a Trumped up World
08/26/2018
A matted cross of gray does catch the light,
In muted form it shines atop a peak
To all of us who hate the dreary sight
The massive model church awakes to speak:
"Embrace the waste! Industrial people!
For whom are you to say, 'I stand apart?'
The Earth constructed this plastic steeple
Because you molded dreams with plastic heart!"
"So bow to your God! Industrial men!
The plastic veins inside me gush with you!
You're made in my image! Say it! Amen!
We'll write a Good Book, friend -- gray plastic, new!
But like all gods to which humans pray,
To wake from kneeling dreams, god fades away.
air rockets skyward
uppercutting inside
plastic neon flesh
contorting at inhuman angles
what does my body language spell?
ankles anchored into the Earth
to stay grounded as the wave
of time and space crashes
a flood of stagnant flux
there is a symphony of bones
snapping and cracking
in twisted orchestrations
the act of existing for me
is a resilient demonstration
the sun's a furnace...
or angels glorying god...
meaning or nonsense...
which 'isness' is truth...
if either then therefore both...
truth's not paradox...
truth's situation...
truth means separate problems...
science or poem...
truth means purpose...
a different circumstance...
responsible choice...
words degenerate...
over any and all reads...
so truth means context...
that's reality...
words are compliant plastic...
for you and for me...
to relate a now...
describe in part or total...
an experience...
stan sand
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
And it's always the same.
As I look into the camera.
Back out through your eyes.
We know each others secrets.
Yet "believe" the other's lies.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
it's easier that way.
It's not superficial.
This glorious facade.
Keeping up the act.
Is always super hard.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
They're the rules it's not game.
I've forgotten who I am.
You've forgotten yourself too.
I'm sure that this normal.
Matters not to me nor you.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
When I'm done you're thrown away.
Purely fictitious.
A character you create.
Image equals status.
Only have to imitate.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
Why would anyone complain?
It's not disingenuous.
I always play it straight.
Clearly you're enamoured.
I'm pretending I'm not bait.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
I'm perfection on a plate.
Vanitys a virtue.
You're a stepping stone.
My new flashy bauble beauty queen.
Shows how much I've grown.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
The limelights faded you away.
Like the film in an old camera.
You're no longer on a roll.
Hanging up to dry.
In a flash negative of soul.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
And it always ends the same.
What I Love – The Midnight Garden
Beneath the silver hush of moonlit air
The garden breathes with jasmine’s secret bloom,
Soft petals tremble, fragrances laid bare,
They weave enchantments in the quiet gloom.
The roses bow, their crimson hearts awake,
While lilies glisten on the mirrored lake.
The stars lean closer, whispering to the earth,
In darkness, blossoms find their truest worth.
What I Hate – The Plastic Tide
Upon the shore, the ocean beats her song,
Yet plastic shards invade her foaming breath,
They choke the waves that carried myths so long,
And stain her womb with fragments born of death.
The dolphins weave through broken glass in pain,
The seabirds starve where poisoned shells remain.
I rage against the greed that drowns the seas,
The world’s own hands unmake her harmonies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They rise on thermals we cannot feel,
these white-winged wrappers of the air~
shuddering their thin, translucent skin
against the fist of every March wind.
No nest to claim them, no song to sing,
just the hollow rattle of their flight,
the way they cling to chain-link bones
like ghosts who forgot how to fall.
Sometimes, in the slant of dying light,
they almost fool you~
drifting lazy as herons,
dipping like terns over parking lot waves.
But watch one snag on barbed wire,
watch it thrash and twist,
and you'll know:
this is a bird that cannot die,
only tear itself smaller and smaller
until even the wind says goodbye.
I used to press two plastic hands together,
And stage a perfect love upon the floor.
I watched my grandparents and thought that forever
Was something simple, safe, and guaranteed by law.
I was so little then, so sweet and naive,
Building a kingdom out of make-believe.
I wanted to be Cinderella in the ballroom light,
Spinning with a prince until the clock struck midnight.
I wanted to be Ariel, with children of my own,
Building a happy family beneath the ocean foam.
But storybooks are flat, and fairy tales lie;
The colors fade away as the years go by.
Growing up means watching the illusion break.
Learning love is heavy, a constant, fragile ache.
It isn't always admirable; it isn't always kind.
The gentlemen I dreamed of are impossible to find.
Now the thought of marriage feels like a foreign land,
And holding a child feels too heavy for my hand.
I promise I am not just waiting for the perfect guy.
I promise I am not just building walls up high.
I am just Belle now, left alone with my thoughts,
Finding comfort in the pages and the lessons I was taught.
But even Belle found magic in the castle's quiet spaces;
Even she found love in the most unlikely places.
Yet my fairy tale ending looks different inside my head.
No prince, no gown, no promised vows to be said.
Just a quiet room of books, a life I built by hand,
A solitary kingdom where I am proud to stand.
Maybe the happy ending isn't a shared forever—
But learning to love myself, alone and altogether.