Best Roughened Poems
A coloratura rises
from the suede-edged shape
as the gnarled grande dame
comes to light.. a vision
draped in sweeping evergreen
and a pale cape of kidskin haze -
a beguiling soprano in soft-
focus fools the guileless sunrise
with a diva’s deception --
for in the vaporous golden hour
she can still be breathtaking
the age of change
is beclouded - softened
in gray’s cashmere atmosphere
where blending and bending of
over-ripened perceptions
are smoothed with a dewy smudge..
roughened boughs
and litter-fall is obscured --
unless, you get up close
harsh lines become artfully coy
in the bosom of the pearl mist;
a bedimmed dreamy blur of
Impressionism masks her reality
with the sleight of hand and a mockingbird’s aria
Susan Ashley
March 8, 2020
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand Contest No 1183
Sponsor: Brian Strand
N/A
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 6
Sponsor: Mark Toney
*coloratura: runs, trills, and other florid decorations in vocal music.
A lyric soprano of high range who specializes in such music*
*aria: an elaborate melody sung solo*
My love is like a worker's gloves grown old.
His hands are leather, roughened now with age
and years of work in weather hot and cold,
yet through the many years, he has grown sage. . .
My love is like a builder's pair of boots.
He's dusty and fatigued and still he walks
while trailing mud, but now his attributes
shine through despite life's many stumbling blocks.
My love is like a pair of jeans much worn,
a pair of socks with holes that have stayed warm.
Though time and all the trials he has borne
have left him frayed, he wishes no one harm.
To write a beaming sonnet would not do,
but threadbare love (in some ways) bests the new.
...inspired by 'The Salamander' by C.S. Lewis
The sun bore down with blinding rays,
the oceans boiled and came to nought,
it was withal the end of days
with every living creature caught,
when from the rocks, agile, adept,
a tiny lizard meekly crept.
With roughened skin and beady eye
he reconnoitered through the haze,
no stranger to a blazing sky
it lay in shade, at last to laze,
it raised his head, albeit weak,
and rallied, then began to speak.
"The Future of Mankind is sealed,
the devil's bell has tolled and won,
no recompense, no last appeal,
eclipsed before you have begun
to fight disease and lawlessness,
the hallmarks of your wickedness.
No light will break from yonder stars
to help you in your hour of need,
your destiny these blighted scars
that seal your folly and your greed,
alone with your predicament,
God's only live experiment.
To mess with Nature to your shame,
to disregard His Holy Name,
to vilify the Golden Rule
will label you the Biggest Fool,
death comes quick as you will see,
the bell has tolled, and tolled for thee."
You look at me and see a northeast highway after winter
Cracked, worn, roughened by conditions not meant to be endured.
I was once the most beautiful cobblestone pathway through a garden of ripe, unpicked fruit.
I was the apple whose sweet center no man could resist tasting
But you see affliction where held addiction.
You think my mind feeble, that thoughts slip through my brain
Like water through a child's fingers in a sudsy, post-playtime bath.
But I was once the network that ran every station in the steel-girded high rise
And ran the split level in the suburbs. I never needed to reboot.
A victim of time, still in her prime.
I look in the mirror and don't understand who that old woman is who gapes back.
I have long blonde tresses and eyes that rival Liz Taylor on her best day.
This, this is a shadow -- a black and white picture version of a colorful scene.
Inside I am 25, still as vibrant as the peacock whose feathers once graced my favorite hat.
I'm a tomb . . . of an ancient bloom.
February 14,2016.
Along the harbor shores at Gammel Strand
where other costumed fishwives ply their trade,
I trudge along the cobbled Danish dock
and barter with the catch to earn my pay.
My voice is harsh and roughened by the chore,
when once my petticoat was pink and lace,
yet now it reeks of fish and nothing more
while wind and sun is drawn upon my face.
But here, within, I'm still a princess bride,
whose dreams anew float on the evening tide,
yet start awake and washed with mornings ebb -
another day to wear a calloused pride...
Her chapped palms smell of
-ungrateful jasmine-
roughened by shrewd plays of world.
And in the creases of
- youthful forehead-
sleeps an orphaned childhood, old.
Among distasteful leering,
ineffectual rags of
-modesty cries-
unfortunate beauty trapped among
-lechers-
pawn broker and hawker alike.
-Nobody’s Child -
gazes high UP , at the
S
K
Y
S
C
R
A
P
E
R
S ,
elegant unreachable stairs
winding beyond clouds yonder.
S L O W L Y sighing,
At the dreams hidden, on the dark side of
half bitten moon.
Huge hands extracted heavy red clay lumps
gleaned from Edgefield's argil soil,
placing it
upon the whirling wheel.
Fingers roughened,
he formed, shaped, with master skill
vessels fit --
massive stoneware pieces, usable, rare.
Sinuous liquid clay upon black hands
like tortured blood from harsh slave-beating wounds,
dripping down dark skin,
branded,
cursed,
damned.
Unique old man, Dave,
a slave, literate --
in times dangerous for his kind to read,
he proudly displayed more than maker's mark.
In poems, quaint,
with shapely script, his creed
was carved upon the pots' serene shoulders,
then boldly signed with his own name.
Yes, "Dave" was inscribed
for the eyes of all beholders.
Forty years he worked for his white owners,
longing, like all enslaved, for freedom, dear.
He lived to see emancipation's dream --
perhaps never knew an accolade sincere.
Six foot under, unmarked,
no one knows where old Dave the slave
lies buried.
Sure enough,
his perfect pots are still discovered:
both he and they
were diamonds in the rough.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 14, 2014
Dave the slave lived near Edgefield, South Carolina, and crafted
some of the largest pottery pieces known. He was literate and signed
many of his pieces with his own name and also included on some his own
short poems. His pieces when sold command very high prices.
Swept by waves of nostalgia
Afloat on longing tides
I assessed this oyster compound
where my heart could not abide.
Aphrodisiac pulls of Neptune
were as lava cooled to stone
What use were pearls of luster
when one had no collarbone?
Heralded by sea trumpets
kelp banners flying high
Sentinels of sea urchins
with pink coral by their sides
Calamity, with determined madness
shoved sponges from his path
Provoked by clam injustice
Spurred by mollusk wrath.
I searched for an escape exit
from that cruel, moronic clam
This myriad ideology,
naught but an oyster sham.
When a seahorse bobbing aimlessly
moved closer to my side
I unhinged my oyster carapace
and grasped its roughened hide.
I was jolted and I was jostled
as I settled on its back
Calamity watched in amazement
standing frozen in his track
When an agitated octopus
released an ink black kite,
a galaxy of starfish
sank into the brackish night.
I focused my attention
on my lost and nervous steed
We were climbing ever upward
at a most alarming speed
Breaking through the surface
I swallowed back a scream
Afraid of finding Calamity
I found it all had been...a dream.
OLD BEANS
Differences make strang bedfellows ewe listen to the mee old bean old bean
rhymes with caviar behind the bar the windows closed the lights are low no one
is bandying about the place just mee and ewe and no disgrace in love and
kisses sweeter two of them are mine one of them for ewe so sweetly planted by
the ewe on hands so roughened by the tasks of mee and used just to survive for
ewe the one eye have for ewe is Christmas wine so sweetly given and will last a
Christmas missing as eye rhyme a thought for ewe
OLD BEANS
Green Bean Old Bean Old Man
Lima Bean Young Bean Old Woman
Can beans Gone Beans Young Love
Love Beans Kiss Beans We Beans
Heart Beans Heart Beans Love
This is Christmas Poem for my Flower done.
OLD BEANS
A flamed anguish gathers in a bleak cellar
of gray nights pounding on my veins,
steaming through a roughened flesh;
that in my days I have lost passion’s luster
and solitude is the only elixir I rub for now.
Yet in reflection, the breaths find out how
this darkness can shed a glow upon excretion
of angst: the allowing of heart’s root begins
to sprout in dewy, fertile mornings.
I roam along cafes where flavored kisses
once bloomed in July: your turn now
to beg for a second chance, oh much too soon.
For I have reaped moments of lush joy,
of christened peace ,as new blossoms ripened
from discoveries and friends to feast;
till goblets of life sparkled like oozing champagne
while your face turned old from stubbles of time.
6/18/2015
Olive Eloisa Guillermo’s Sweats and Sweets
The bus station is empty,
three hours to wait.
The girl behind the counter,
long black hair hanging in ringlets,
stares lazily as we approach.
"May I help you?"
The homeless man wanders in slowly,
takes a seat on the opposite
side of the room, facing the wall-
escapes through sleep.
Hours pass; would be travelers trickle in.
An addicted people-watcher,
I observe, intrigued.
A young couple; hands joined,
hug, touch, smile. The girl
constantly moves, poses,
her curves displayed
by form-fitting fashion.
A tall man; work roughened hands,
weathered cowboy boots, one tote bag,
and a look of determined purpose.
A tiny black woman holds herself erect,
steps briskly. Hand-knitted hat
covers gray hair. Spike heels
augment her height and full-length red coat.
A young white man;
two silver rings in his eyebrow,
wearing a black leather jacket,
faded [slightly dirty]jeans and flip-flops
asks, Who won? and laments
that he is too young to vote.
A woman of indeterminate age;
orange bleached hair,
clothes bedecked with glitter,
talks in a loud, rough voice.
Does her manner mask
a vulnerable heart?
As departure time approaches;
the ticket line grows long,
the empty metal benches fill,
groups stand near the door-
luggage piled at their feet.
I watch, knowing that I will not
pass this way again, and muse:
There's a life story for each one,
a book which may never be written.
Strong white riders saddled atop tempestuous verdant freckles,
roil like flecks of spittle across a horses hard ridden muzzle.
The charging equine manes of the waves thrash the tormented sea livid,
towards the perfect storm
Vicious white caps wait for foolhardy prey to cross their path.
An obliging soul stands upon the quay, eyes anchored upon
the maelstrom.
Breath synchronised,
to the seething ebb and flow of earth's pulsing feud with its moon.
A rush,
to join the dance of scourging testament to roughened waters
brings panicked breathing at the bottom of light-starved troughs.
Where the crashing sounds of retribution meets the ears
and a vengeful smothering of mouth stills the breath.
A pointless struggle where none exists, and the triumphant sea
has its victim.
The victim? A solution
Oh ocean of that long-gone embryo
Careening stormy erratic, to pacific
Ever sculpting in navy-wavy trance
Atop your peaks diamond ambrosia
Never-never dreams, you've grown ~
Troughs, they stripped fear’s heart
Rendering a wanderer, now braver
Enameling away sea-shine opaline
as Nautili curling their striped sola
Soak me up to float down in blues
undulating in the sunk, spilled sou
roughened in a barnacle-concealer
Estuary-rich, unfurl the flowing life ~
(11/13/2020)
A tempest of brute force whips the coastline
Where boats and seafarers howl for dire plea;
Unshaken, I guard with strength to disarm
The lash of tide’s wrath… my tower, a marquee.
Though brazen crests dart like slithering mesh
As Night Keeper, rays glint to face storm’s dare
Protecting tender lives, their hopes on edge
Upon roughened waves, my lights flash, “Beware!”
Infusing more ardor till an onrush calms
Heaven’s stars glitter while ships haul the net;
Where from the ridge, my safe harbor appears
On easel of bright air, a task well met!
..................
Contest: Eve Roper’s Sentinel Quatrain
4/14/2016
There passed amid the crowded fair a lady
All clad in stately gown of em'rald green
With golden trim and diamonds all a-sparkle
It was, I say in truth, a comely scene
Her hair was walnut brown and deftly braided
Her eyes the bluest June I e'er ha' seen
Her face was white as ever summer daisy
As she walked amid the fair in em'rald green
I wended to the lady through the milling
And sought if I might carry of her gage
She chained me with ther fiery diamond necklace
And sought a worthy foe upon the stage
Her eyes passed o'er the sport with sharp disdaining
Said she, These roughened fellows all are mean
I seek a fitted match against my diamonds
To win a crown of honour for the green
At length, she spied the master of the quarter
The stoutest wight of Herefordshire, I ween
And though I had no hope against this venture
I'd do it for the woman clad in green
His quarterstaff was sure and fairly whistled
His arms were strong, as well his eyes were keen
Yet still I kept my feet upon the platform
And prayed them still remain for fair Athene
This lusty fight went on for half the hour
A goodly crowd collected for the see'n'
Then stepped the pretty damsel to the staff-ring
And saith, You fairly won the lass in green