Best Pouches Poems
I’m on my way into the grocery store
when I see him huddled near the shop doorway
In his outstretched hand
an empty coffee cup
I throw in a coin or two
smile, and ask his name
I’m Jack ma’am’ he says politely; and this is Benji ...
it’s only then that I notice a small brown terrier
his black nose poking out
from underneath a stained sleeping bag
Benji leaps up and wags his tail excitedly
at the mention of his name
I stoop down and he nuzzles my hand
I’ve a lump in my throat as I tell Jack
Benji reminds me of my dog Sam
who I lost last summer
Oh, how I miss the comfort of my pet
Jack’s blue eyes fill with tears
it's then I discover
he’s been on the streets for a few months
Benji’s my only true friend, he says
He’s never let me down -
not like my folks back at home
I can see Benji is well cared for
the exact opposite of Jack
who looks like he’s not eaten a square meal in days
I rise to do my shopping
and pass them both on the way out
I drop a brown carrier bag into Jack’s lap
he opens it like it’s Christmas Day
Inside are several pouches of dog food
and some substantial sandwiches
It is but a small gift,
yet I can see it means the world to him
he reaches up and touches my hand
I’m sorry son,
I wish I could do more to help
but I only have a small widow’s pension
I walk away,
knowing how fortunate I am
"This is no life, just a way of surviving another day"
I’ve had ups and downs in my life, but ...
“I've never been where they've been”
Writing Challenge 2, November - A Poem Meaningful - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Written on 10/7/19
Sire she's been sighted
two miles south of Sinai,
our sentinels say she has brought a river,
her baggage train stretches into the ancient sands,
the envoys of her retinue spoke of marvelous gifts,
beasts and creatures of the Orient
gems that glitter like the eyes of children
summer baskets of gold bullion
and satchels of spice from Siam,
our men said they could smell the barrels of balsam Sire...
To travel with such unmistakable wealth
the Queen must have brought a war machine along,
have desert brigands been spotted near the route...
No my King, no raider encampments have been observed,
just the regular rabble and agape villagers,
it's been confirmed that her associates
are passing to the people pouches of cinnamon...
I don't trust the Egyptians,
they may try to incite the Bedouins to foolhardy thievery,
our Nation's honor demands
that not even the dust of the devil's danger
deign to dry upon the clothes of her most distant servants,
if the House of Zion can secure a partnership
with the trading powerhouse of Sheba
our supremacy over the Babylonians will be indomitable...
I pledge my life, and that of my family's
to her caravan's safety Sire...
So mote it be General,
your loyalty is my blessing,
may it be as strong as the staff of Moses,
dispatch 333 of the Lion's Legion
to reinforce the Queen's guard
and send a circuit of 15 water wagons...
What does a Queen dream of
in the calm desert nights...
I dream of roses melting
into snake bitten hearts,
I've dreamt of citadels broken
by the grips of greed,
I've seen a child walking out of a tomb,
what does a King dream of
in the shadow of paradise...
I dream of thorned stars,
the division of labor and wages,
of priests and Judges
whom wish to rule quietly without blame...
Do you know what thrilled me the most
about the Court reception...
Tell me, my cinnamon Queen...
The seduction of your Servants' silence
as I entered your meticulous throne room...
I understood their awe,
you moved so gracefully,
your body like an ancient lust
your face a flame of royalty...
I think I fell in love with your eyes,
there is something rough about you Solomon,
but your eyes and lips
relay a sweet mercy to me...
Mercy is never free Veronica...
I will pay the price...
We will pay the love cost together...
J.A.B.
Hare trigger instincts
always served Roger well
He had an oh, no-no lettuce nose —
a hyper-keen sense when to leave
Roger was rabbit good
at knowing when
to skip out on his responsibilities
Before bedtime stories
would end afoul, he could always tell
the impending sour cabbage signs —
The ***** scent in the air pregnant with crisis ...
rabbit feet had better odds,
than a roll of the dices
Women said he was a tricky daddy dodger,
his friends said it was in his DNA
The court affidavits said his name was Roger,
the summons said he wouldn’t pay
Those hare trigger instincts
always served Roger well
Pearl hip handles, he loved to caress
Hop aboard a bullet train,
when the bad news got belly swell
Twitchy nose rabbit hole escape
was his poker face tell
But one determined Alice
didn’t give
the baby carrot carriage subject a rest
Roger got tortoise marriage cold feet,
half-hearted turnip turtle vows
was his delay strategy best guess
Women said he was a tricky parent draft dodger,
his friends said it was in his rabbit DNA
The court affidavits all said his name was Roger,
the arrest warrant said he wouldn’t pay
Roger has good long hare instincts,
he’s Copperfield cool ... a Houdini Blondie
Angel Eyes bad you better not blink,
every time your back is turned, he gon flee
So deadbeat ugly he’s just a Tuco-hearted rat,
a kid welsher ain’t no rabbit doubt about that
The rabbit in his blood,
is simply hop-along run away DNA
He love to cabbage patch play,
but he hate to bacon lettuce pay
Women said he was a tricky daddy dodger,
his friends said it was in his DNA
The court affidavits said his name was Roger,
the summons said he wouldn’t pay
Roger don’t like
looking at paternity suits,
it just give him the Dodger blues
Rabbits don’t care
to stay in one place too long ...
in a standstill
That just ain’t how their feet DNA think
And those angry Alices kangaroo purse pouches,
holding those court-ordered papers unfriendly ...
they be pushing the Dodger to the brink
Roger’s an absentee parent wearing slipper slouches —
Hopping-mad child support check is an empty
Cassidy signature signed in invisible ink
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done
it was cold, yet hot,
a fever.
i am surprised,
as though I didn't fill myself with poison
just the night before.
my arm is taped down,
attached to an iv,
four pouches of medication seep into my veins
it burns,
yet any tears i have left have been taken by my father,
crying in the seat beside my hospital bed,
next to my mother, a stoic statue.
how rare to see your father cry,
how jarring.
to see the grown man who has been a fortress all your life,
break down like a child
the violence of the sobs,
the sharpness of the gasp as he realizes my eyes are open,
as though he were drawing his very first breath.
this is not how i wanted this to go.
and to see your mother,
silent and still,
for once, she had no words to say.
her pain would come,
but as the world told her,
she needed to be strong.
the plan was simple,
sleeping pills before bed,
the perfect excuse to lay limp.
eyes shut,
it'd be over within a few hours,
a smile rests on my face when i realize, this funeral bill would be cheaper than the countless medical ones.
a hug to my parents,
who i never hug.
a goodbye.
i play my favorite song on repeat
and close my eyes,
waiting for what comes next.
but as i sit up in this bed,
gauze shielding the barcodes carved into my arms,
i see i've simply made things
so.
much.
harder.
their trust would be the last to come,
that's for certain.
but first would be sleepless nights of my parents arguing about where they went wrong,
loud whispers as though our walls were not thin.
debates,
not knowing who to blame.
mimicry of their actions,
going through a range of motions,
they are no longer whole.
i wish i could say this changed my perspective on life,
my taste of death inspired a new life,
but it didn't.
they took out the poison but left my brain,
my body's one true toxin.
Sierra Leone
Imagine being a kid
Running for your life
Behind you explodes a bomb
Feet splash in mud,
Diamonds hidden in your teeth
Rightfully yours
This is your home
Everything about this equation is wrong
De Beers
Imagine troops pushing maids carts
Full of Diamonds in a glass case
Your five senses breathe money
Messed up childhood, it's the only love you embrace
All the goats you cut to stash pouches in
It's the bully, the devil coming out from within
The underground tunnels,
The lies you funnel
Paperwork? Straighten collar
Hu Hum, That doesn't exist, grin,
When I walk through the mall
I see jewelers and their prestigious counters
I mind goes to all the kids torn from their parents
Forced into drugs to stay alive
How can anyone be ok with this?
Blood Diamonds will live forever
Too many chose ignorance.
Talking to them about it
All they've got is a blank stare
Extra weight no longer a problem for shallow water,
We bulked up for the next leg of our journey,
Water containers, even some canned goods
An acceptable luxury in our seventeen foot canoe,
A canvas topping lashed everything in securely,
Offered some weather proofing for sensitive gear,
Our sleeping bags, some staples, and clean clothing.
Cameras were kept in waterproof pouches
That stayed within easy reach of paddlers,
Fishing rods and car mounts for the canoe,
In case we burned out, topped the load,
With ice chest and Dr. Peppers easily accessible.
In high spirits we set out on the next leg,
Destination Cass Lake's Boy's Camp Chippewa.
I had traveled this leg before as a twelve year old,
By canoe, but with less luxury, until Bemidji,
Where each of our crew went to a late movie,
And downed a Paul Bunyan Special banana split
One banana and seven scoops of ice cream,
Camp four miles across open water long after dark,
With only a fire on a distant shore to guide us home. (4)
Poet's Notes:
(4) People die pulling stunts like this. In fact strong winds arose forcing us to shore shortly after we started, light rain and lightning flashes high in the sky! We had to pull our canoes wading in the dark along the shore for 3 hours to reach our camp. Our counselors pledged us all to secrecy for they would have been fired had management known the danger they put us all in.
As peepholes windows rattled on over pot holes,
In the inner sanctum, dim-light show darkly,
As prolific pickpockets glimpsed full fat purses;
With stealthy filty paws to fiddle and fondle inside hot
pies
Where hustling market's women chests underwear pouches,
Raucous kerfuffle flew after razor slashed deep pockets;
Like the flight of Flamengos
Dropping on motion, the golden stolen wallet assailant
vamoose;
And here, disgraceful disguise faces of nourished notorious
beggars,
Glib salesman eulogize marble chalk tablets and
turpentine,
To singe one thousand and one sickness,
And lifeless crowd spilled and shrouded lapsed on the parts
of poison ivy;
Thrust-thronged, defacing the emerging showcase of faceless
skyscrappers,
Better forgot in the museum of pyramid antiquity,
And rot on the garbage of yawning-gap memory,
Dark films smoke caked on drooping ill-faded fountain
Hibiscus,
Tree-lined traveling barb-wire amid
Toxic sludge plaster grass on muddy carpeted borderline,
The prowling beast trailing, triggering machine-gun
shrapnels and blasts;
Screaming smoking tires scattered shimmering lights on wet
avenue,
Turning bank of orchard blooming in red pomegranate into
cemetery bay.
I am a slender looking sea bird having forked tails,
long hooked bills and a white under belly.
My genus is marked by sexual dimorphism.
My mate tries to do so many wonderful things so that
I would fall for him.Likewise,wonderful courtship display allows me to do a perfect selection and hang on to an everlasting relationship.
Possessing fantabulous stamina and striking feature~
he inflates his red gular throat pouches like heart shape,kept drumming love call untill I became impressed.
Each male took turn to out do each other ..
But, I loved him at first sight attracted to his musical performance.Aah..he looked magnificent with puffed chest.Shortly we engaged.He gave me a cozy nest to rest.
We, at times perch on tree tops at night for romance.
Being aerial ~he soars throughout the day
hunting for food and late night he comes to me.
Essentially categorised as kleptoparasite ~either we catch other birds or snatch food from their savings.
Swooping down to feed on squid and fish he is often attacked by our predators tuna or dolphins and chased to the surface.
I worry for him untill he is back home.Once he's back we enjoy, care & fulfill each of our desires.
Laying single egg, each year we relish the experience of parenthood every breeding season.
17-7-2020
Disclaimer: Sexual dimorphism is the condition where the two sexes of the same species exhibit different characteristics beyond the differences in their sexual organs.The condition occurs in many animals & some plants too.Differences may include secondary sex characteristics, size, weight, colour, markings, and may also include behavioral & cognitive differences.
Third place in the Contest.
Note: "I am a bird" -personification Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
i watch the sunrise
unbuttoning the stuffed pouches
of thunderclouds
soaking
imagination
with dry-drunk dewdrops
becoming bubbles
blown through
ringbarked
jewelry
worn
by the roots
of rhinestone rapids
growing in
spider
webs
trying to catch
a flying_fox
there has always
been a silent
soft echoed
beauty
dancing on the tides
from down
under
perfect pirouettes
showing ligneous dustdevils
proper form
forming
Dead-Sea
chiseled
respect
healing ones
inner folds
unfolding miracles
tucked away in moonpedicured
moments missing myriad music
marching in eucalyptustars
shining smiles upon licorice
chainlinkisses
in my minds eye
blackroom sound-proofed
in blacklighted boughs
creating windframed
wisdom
seen with the hearts
meshed monocle
revealing purity into
eternaluminum sliced skies
painting
memories
throughout dimensions
of a multi-faceted
prism
watched
from verandas
of velcro vicidreamt
sand
waking
up the sleeper
still
nowhere
near you
but
closer
than we've
ever
been
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/due-season
Vertebrates with feathers and tails
Reptiles with their shiny scales
Birds of which that range in size
Returning cycles that comprise
Solid seal, protective shell
Danger near, seek to repel
Contained therein with varied roles
Porous eggs of tiny holes
Nest of twigs, eggs to hide
Incubate the birds inside
Predators across the land
Hiding place beneath the sand
Born to hunt, equipped with age
Acquired mate, there to engage
Age’s grand of which to reach
Return journey to their beach
Storks upon the solid sticks
Within the nest of feeding chicks
Frozen wasteland of no nest
Penguin pouches, eggs to rest
Giant fans attract a mate
Tail feathers, peacocks shake
Birds of tropics, colours bright
Such a ray of sheer delight
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Peter’s pesky Pekinese Pepe
produced puddles of pee
proceeded by piles of pernicious pongy poop
Pauline's plimsolls got plastered!
PLEASE use plastic pooper pouches Peter
Pick up your pestilent pets' pooh!
Fiction poem - but my 'pet hate' is folks who don't clean up after their pooch and for now Pauline's plimsoll's are poop free!
2/16/19
The shattering monsoon is over
The showers have broken up
The downpour was greater in valleys
Country side , court yard and markets
The sunny days had gone on vacation
Leaving clouds and gloom
And a faint sun
With a terrible beauty
Marching clouds were piled high
pouches of black doom in the sky
Water streams fell from the dark
But no thunder or dreaded spark
Large mango trees have fallen
Street children collect the windfall harvest
Croaking crows go back to their nests
Fishing boats nets lie at rest
School Children go with umbrellas
Blue and white turning brown
Bad weather , bad weather rumors
Are no body's concern
Nothing can go far
Ninety days of clouds fade away
The sun regains its glory
The dark sadly retreats
Spray of colours come from a blue sky
The rainbow green a light for departure
A sign the monsoon is leaving
Leaving the soil fertile and alive
It is a proud part of our existence
But like our lives
It will have to sadly depart
Everything comes to an end.
(The average level of annual rain fall is quite high in our
region - the southern part of India - , and we enjoy four
seasons : winter , summer , south west monsoon followed
by north east monsoon.Monsoon starts some times near the
beginning of June and some times lasts until December.
The people of this region are very dependent on this rainy
season and they are passionate about this annual visitor.
The above poem , describes a period during January , just
after the monsoon season of the previous year , recalling
cherished and rejuvenating experiences , coupled with
certain lethargy.)
Padmakumar
I recline with my cherry tree musings…
a fount of blossoms rise
and curve up from the ground
up into a heaven-and-cloud scene
to spread in splendor a festoon of blooms
like cumulus-puffs plucked from above
placed in tufts to fluff graceful branches
plush with clusters the pink of an ingenue’s
blush captured within her maiden buds
before she even knew how to bloom
born of Nature’s wealth
she is rich with frilly flourish
steeped in scent of morning dew —mist and moss
heaped with pollen-gold pursed within
petal-pouches 'til unfurled like hooped petticoats
each bloom thriving with a thrill yet only for the span
of a brief fantasy conjured by the cosmos
she wears the fuchsia mantle of a romance regent
a spring queen amongst peasant green
but her reign not designed to last beyond
the swoon of April's rouged moon
..and I the lowly grateful grass beneath her class
am charmed and soothed
by the aestheticism of her coral confetti rain
as her flowers relinquish control
reaching into their shared soul
realizing it’s time to let go… falling
oh f a l l i n g from heights of her feminine fame—
a shower of rosy carnival streamers
—the curtain call of a nirvana-drama-diva
..and I the lowly grateful grass beneath her shade
am humbled by the melancholy of her fading beauty
but cheered to wear her eye catching mantle
and bear her vanilla scented love letters to the earth
transforming me
from the peasantry of chlorophyll unfulfilled
transforming me
from the mundane to the ordained
for in this moment as you gaze upon me
these staid blades of gravestone grass —even I
am e n c h a n t i n g as the last petal falls
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment
1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother
let it bring light
to our radish-red love-story
to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal
the bottle could be filled
from the voice
when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready
when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home
although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love
2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics
my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms
people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats
yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love
now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips
don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands
3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window
to some extent
in the lipstick too
on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord
that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree
i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho
this happenings may have been
the right search for love
on either-side of which
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle
whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories
4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude
now i’m in very much
distress
or i’m in love
i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only
so easily are those interactions
stitched with words
strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion
but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i write the games of the street-charmers
the birds again and again
pierce the archery
thus becoming ashes
through travelling
in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you