Best Retrieves Poems
Shadow Play
While Freud sits at the mind end of the couch phallus in hand
shapes others’ dreams in unspoken imposition ‘must-abation’
analyses abuses his daughter in metaphorical incest projects
his own aggressive sexual drives and neurotic megalomania
Jung after killing the father figure sits with and under shadows
gathers the zenith of clouds rays collects collective conscience
unconsciousness retrieves ancient symbols propagates mythical
archetypes to archetypical conclusions reflects tainted sunshine
He forges gently I surmise poles and vaults of contradictions
opposites polar juxtapositions seemingly un-mutual mysteries
and ponders light and darkness tearing torn apart thus healing
in the complementing contrast of void change completeness
Where Freud posits polymorph perversity bit by sexual bitter
sweet bit in a bid for so called science of mind over matter Jung
morphs perpetual change crafted and cast through a different
lens admits to poetic licence narration oral traditions and growth
******** in mind not of the ***** castrated in fear not envious of
phallic dominance over clitoral defence wombs groomed entombed
by guilt transgression sexual submission shallow **** oral penile
ossification of flaccid resurrection Jung begs and offers to differ
In complex incomplete never-ending search a path from change to
change and beyond dialectical synthesis played enacted in parallel
processes and progressive psychological drama of a different kind
he much kinder more reflective less regressive and adventurous
Lets shadows erect and paint play dance reflect and move on
16th August
LOST SOUVENIRS
Your distant gaze flits, nearly bare
Like a mist that smothers the road
Windblown by chill; here, everywhere
A promise ending as breaths explode
My heart trickles as dew submits
To a quivering that grieves,
For our tattered love now wilts
As sullen face of moon retrieves.
Oh, cloudbursts wrap hours’ deep pining,
Traces of ardor become one;
And souvenirs no longer bring
The charmed laughter and its reason.
1/7/2017 Nicola Byrne's Poet's Choice-
End Of The Road, Just Friends
Noticing his neighbor’s young child
has laid a ladder against a tree,
determined to rescue a pet kitty stuck up there,
a middle-aged man crosses the street
and offers to help.
He STEPS UP the ladder
and retrieves the cat for his neighbor’s son.
A young woman
stands behind a harried mother
who struggles with a wailing baby
as she tries to take items from her shopping cart.
Without thinking twice, the young woman offers to help as
she STEPS FORWARD
to place the lady’s items on the grocery conveyer belt.
A teenage girl, eager to see a certain popular movie,
is standing in line waiting to buy her ticket.
She hears the couple behind her
speaking excitedly about this movie.
Learning there are only two seats left for that showing,
she STEPS BACK
and lets the couple buy the last two remaining tickets for themselves.
At a nursing home to see his mother,
a busy office worker is informed by his mother
of a lonely widower who never gets visitors
and who is feeling abandoned by his children.
Asking a nurse for the man's room number,
he STEPS IN
for a visit with the elderly widower.
A young boy who delivers newspapers
has noticed one of the older women on his route
is now using crutches.
Instead of tossing a rolled up paper to her lawn
as he usually does,
he STEPS OFF his bike
and delivers the paper to the woman personally at her door.
It matters not whether you are old or young
or whether the person you might see in need
is a stranger or a friend,
Don’t let opportunities for random acts of kindness
pass you by.
Whether it’s UP, FORWARD, BACK, IN or OFF,
just take a little action; take STEPS!
March 7, 2018 for Kai Michael Neumann's Random Acts of Kindness Contest
A trackless wind scatters his mind
leaves fly away where no leaves are.
A hummingbird inside his chest drums,
the evening is escaping down roads
long plowed over with remorseless change.
It never used to be like this;
he had once been the bold pirate of his fate
his ship sailed away one day only to return in flames.
Sometimes you have to shrug,
keep walking around a small municipal park
until a parked car follows you home
The city will swallow its many tongues
then bury its hummingbird mind
until the dawn
retrieves a life once more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside silent museum halls
behind glass they rest.
Fogged by our own breath, they reside--
the things we never said.
The curator preserves the almost-was,
each artifact dusted with the breath
of words we swallowed whole.
Exhibit A: The unsigned love letter,
its ink dissolved to ghostly stains~
the envelope still warm, the words still fresh.
Exhibit B: A child’s unfinished question,
lodged like a fossil in his throat.
Beside it, the father’s reply~
a shadow stretched too late across the floor.
Exhibit C A woman’s rage, polished
to a fine, decorative sheen.
The plaque reads Patience,
though the cracks suggest otherwise.
Exhibit D: The Mirror
Visitors pause, then quickly walk past.
It reflects nothing but the weight
of all the words swallowed whole.
Last, the centerpiece—a hollow bell,
cast from every I’m fine that ever rang
true enough to draw blood.
We pay our fees, we nod, we leave,
carrying relics we’ll never display.
The museum grows, and no one retrieves
what they came there to say.
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney*—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, dirty, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat.*"
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
--For Debbie’s Tell Me a Story contest…
*jeepney—is a public transportation vehicle here
*Salamat is “Thank You”
My dog is not a manly dog,
she’s my dog just the same
A manly dog rides in a truck
and retrieves the hunted game
My dog, she is a lady dog…
when we got her she was small
A little puff of fluffy fur…
all wrapped up in a ball!
They told us she would stay that way,
but her waistline it went south!
Everything that hits the floor
just ends up in her mouth!
A cookie here and a cracker there
now she’s a butterball.
And when she steps up on the scale,
the Vet’s face says it all!
I love the Pit Bulls’ bully grin
I love the Labrador
I love the Husky’s arrogance
And Sheep Dogs even more
But none of them would last a day
In my Dutch wife’s clean abode
But Mollie she has passed the test
and has never hit the road
I sure don’t feel real manly
when I take her for a walk
The neighbors they just kind of grin
But deep inside they mock
“That big ol’ guy; that little dog”…
I feel like such a sap!
Mollie really does belong
asleep on Grandma’s lap!
Now she’s getting on in years
her jump is not so high
She really hates to get her bath
when soap gets in her eye
The day will come when Mollie dies
and yes I’ll get choked up
Remembering my little puff
who once was just a pup!
David Kettler
March 23rd 2011
As I lay one sullen autumn morn
on pearl dew turf with the day unborn
staring at the grey grimacing sky
with the mood and moment not quite high
sepulchral static wherever I looked
when my dreary dizzy gaze was hooked
at a lone leaf's death-descent down
to join its wilted kin on ground
then a sudden silent slithering breeze
deprived me of my warmth and ease
and the disturbed withered shroud of Fall
hustled revived in a rustling brawl
hurled and curled in the fading mist
till the whispering winds chose to desist
but Nature lies dead once again
until the wind resumes,retrieves restrain
and I know this flight of life is brief
for I'm none other than a fallen leaf.
Again, the snail of time seems frozen:
White grass surrounded my cauliflower;
Now, naïvely visited by mice, -a dozen,
Come from the huge hoarfrost`s tower.
Furs with the variegated undecided color
Stay in the bed of tired yellow leaves,
Telling their jokes with old dark humor
On what poetical surprises fate retrieves.
Beyond the horizon of their question,
An echo in the season of the frozen sea,
Whose trembling hands, with scent of onion,
Squeeze the lemon of the sun in my cup of tea.
My morning tea`s made from leaves of time;
Flying leaves,-I tried and never I was able
To catch while tasting my dry biscuit`s rhyme
Fallen down under the sky`s golden table.
Lonely hearts roam in memory lane
Events that are dear to heart pass like links of a chain
A window in the past opens for breeze cool
A sweet fragrance of love perfumes the soul
The awesome serenity retrieves the loving moments
Hand in hand with your love you walk
To your heart’s content you talk
You feel the lavender of each other’s breath
To fret for the one parted is in vain
Just enjoy the bliss of your memory lane
Sintra, Portugal 24-01-2015
Dum -- -- -- Dum -- -- -- Dum -- -- --, the moonlight bell,
Beyond the city noise of cars I overhear the moonlight bell.
Warm fatherly advice and smell of fresh baked pies,
The sister's hug and even my first cries endear the moonlight bell.
Sweet childish kiss she gave with fear in her blue eyes,
And youthful sweets, retrieves in my forgotten ear, the moonlight bell.
Old roads between green plains and hills where grapevines rise,
They softly reappear whenever I rehear the moonlight bell.
The city tears in my brown eyes now advertise,
That where rock rolls and where it ends there I will hear the moonlight bell.
"The Chain Letters Road Trip"
Freedom Fall 8
removed
her Ray Bans
The Light
was blinding
on the other side
dark tunnels
lead to highways
unrealised
goin’ gangsta
driven
to distraction
hell bent along the
Road to the Lotus Eaters
at Loon Junction
chain letters
flying in the breeze
let loose
out the driver’s side
window,
to the past
like bugs
sticking
to other’s windshields
behind the wheel
terror forming
smiles
one hand steering
the other
retrieves
her android,
voice
activating
Mojo
dials
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” / Pomplamoose
https://youtu.be/z3IGoniElrE
"The Dilettante Diaries: Goin' Gangsta on the Road to The Lotus Eaters at Loon Junction"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_dilettante_diaries_goin_gangsta_on_the_road_to_the_lotus_eaters_at_loon_junction_1059240
An Astonishment...
A Dispute between,
My mid and conscience
Yielding me to astray,
Annoyed my studies,
Twenrty-Four hours daily...
When?, Where? do myself retrieves,
Condemned as an introvert,
That Holds my prosperity?
GOD...Please Help Me!..
for you, m
-------------
pale horse led by shrouded spectre through foggy thicket
dark days behind them illuminated by soaring ember skies
saturated soil slick under their feet impeding their ascent
leafy shelter their only escape from the rainy elements
their trek is treacherously long, winding over the countryside
days on end, not another living, breathing soul in sight
the spectre locked in inescapable conversation with his mind
rationalizing the pain and loss given and taken without ask
muscles sore, aching back, throbbing feet, gasping lungs
resting against damp bark, drinking water from a leaf
looking, his eyes piercing through the thick foilage
a sign of life comes to him, the humming of a muse's song
a lady in white, aimlessly about, content to herself
her fingertips gently caressing both flora and fauna
stumbling over a tree root, her majestic dress soiled
the spectre witnessing, rushes over, aiding her recovery
her arm draped over his neck, rolled ankle hindering her steps
taking her fully into his arms, he seats her atop his steed
back on route to new life, the company now made three
her inquiries met with silence, not so much as a name spoken
destination reached, he retrieves the damsel from on high
carrying her through the inn threshold, to her rented loft
dressing her ankle, elevating it and massaging away discomfort
his eyes fixated on hers, remnants of his past reflecting out
== see part two ==
Aerial dribs and drabs, a sidewalk canvas
As a toddler chases bubbles her mother blows
from confectionary soap,
Fluttering fluidity in spring air
Child's laugh, a mosaic of innocence, discovery and glee
Her run after each globe, unsteady, twisted gravity
Her footwork shifts in warfare wobble, no sinkhole falling
Her reach to pop each bubble, circus kerfuffle, giddy,
giggles that swing like a trapeze artist,
while a mother retrieves
unexpected memory
shards of recovery
that coat a guarded self
Neverland jester, a child's guileless glow,
routing air baubles
unconstrained by space,
untethered from fear,
avoiding a fall off the planet
to limited mobility
For sometimes life's march
doesn't start on time
Poem revised: April 19, 2021