Best Rumple Poems
Tumble, crumble cornmeal, salted flour
Stream olive oil
Feed water and toasty yeast with sugar
Crinkle, rumple, crease, and fold
Smooth a silky, doughy globe.
Cover, leave the orb to grow
Keep baby warm
Wrap with snug and swaddling towel
Linger, loiter, wait and proof
Sing a sunny, happy tune.
Overturn the ball on flour
Dust a wooden pin
Feed heart and conscience with honey
Rotate, flatten, compress, admire
Make a downy, level sphere.
Bridge the stretchy bread to pan
Curl edges like leaves
Swirl and ladle a coat of tomato
Thick, chunky, bright, and red
Sway to kitchen melody.
Peppers, onions, olives, chokes
Sausage for some
Rain down the mozzarella and Swiss
Turn and toss, precipitate
Drizzle a snowy blend.
Push the pie into a hot cathedral
Pray for happiness
Think about joy and contentment
Pause, watch, patience, serenity
This journey bakes the future.
Copyright © 2016 Tess Harvester
Categories:
rumple, food, meaningful, metaphor, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
He stands against the old barn door
relaxed not a confrontational bone,
thin as a pitchfork's tine.
Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter,
the lens flatters him.
A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse
halo to his lantern-jaw.
Loose fitting pants rumple
just right atop his kick ass boots.
He stands against an old barn door
who held up who the real question—
a bit of James Dean in pocket pressed hands,
Paul Newman in his eyes.
Flannel hugs him. (When the woman aren’t.)
Capped by a bent brimmed hat,
he's rolled to perfection.
I’m sure the name tag on his shirt
didn’t do him justice—
Categories:
rumple, farm, men,
Form:
Free verse
The protests are written from the busy pen
of the one whose thoughts are quite driven
yet she cries "foul" like a rumple feathered hen
when the thoughts of another are simply given
Her name-calling ploy is such a childish game
for each one of us has the right to our opinion
without castigation and a finger pointing blame
I'm not a vengeful person, nor a poet's minion
I don't seek attention as a clown or a witch
I've not slandered anyone with my remarks
My fastballs are always thrown as a legal pitch
I'm vaccinated so I don't fear mad dog barks
Social equality is as much mine as it is yours
I've the right to write or speak what I feel
without giving a wedgie to someone's drawers
I'm not vicious like you called me in your spiel
You want to dwell in sorrow for the human race
but I have hope for mankind and will not brood
Our differences will never allow for an embrace
but only one of us illustrates the right attitude
Categories:
rumple, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme
Five after four in the morning. Night-sweats
rumple silk bed sheets. Vague cusp ‘tween night and day
blurs chiseled contours of sanity’s sharpness.
Dreams half-way loosed into consciousness waylay
snuggling comforts. Wee hours’ vague demons lurk
tucked beneath pillowcased hopes, threatening melee.
Coffee at four twenty, brewed under knee-jerk
rituals uncritically gleaned in tender years,
won’t clear the spider webs. Thinking is hard work.
Terrible, really, yet recently shed tears
obscure simple joy’s sole right to imminence,
caking like blood drawn by yesterday’s spears.
‘Til mercy’s sunbeams despite grief’s vehemence
melt bitter frostbite of long lost innocence.
Categories:
rumple, angst, hope, introspection, sad,
Form:
Terza Rima
Frenetically I rest in her guest room.
I think of her quiet hospital room.
I’ve laid my head on this pillow before.
I toss, turn, and pray, in this cozy room.
The lamp that’s lit sees the quiver of lips.
The cool sheets rumple my soul in this room.
The morning will bring no kitchen nesting.
Silence of pantry doors - feastless, this room.
Cars leave the driveway while mom’s still alive.
The staff is preparing her hospice room.
The transport holds my heart; mom’s head is bare.
Tender care, support, comfort in the room.
I shared a scintilla of who mom is.
Caregiver softly stroked mom’s brow, in room.
After she passed, saw a tear on her cheek.
Her bones turning to stone in this room.
This daughter remembers the softest hands.
In dream, mom squeezes mine, from heav’n’s room
Categories:
rumple, death, grief,
Form:
Ghazal
Dear trafficker,I am on the run
With face emitting fear
Worn in clothe surged into rag
By the scissors of rape
linen scars
With the screech from angry nails;
narrow escape.
Do not ask why I run
Like a prey dodging the hunters’ gun
from thick darkness I run, in search of sun
I am but a derelict
Worn in tattered smock
As the whirlwind stirs frustration
and my hopes remain forlorn
I would relish the scary street
Here is better than your hell
No more shall your contractor waylay my ardent strife
Fruitless life
Sweat in shambles
Still I boast of no life
I wouldn’t come,
Without the credence from your tongue
You said the pastures are green
and life is but a melodious song
Meanwhile you had it planned all along
To make laborers from our clan
The poorer we are, the richer you become
I am only sixteen,
Devoured by manly mantle
For sordid pleasures
My pride will they rumple
and vowed that I shan’t see the morrow’s dawn
If I dare relinquish the place of a pawn
As heeds the rivers’ wave and tide, the coxswain
So do I heed commands that deepens my pain
I am stocked
Can’t move forward, nor to the back return
I am disheartened
With no hope of a glorious turn
In the street corners I shall lay
Where wanton mosquitoes fly
I lay in the spring of tears
Till heaven hears my cry
Trafficker as I lay with earthly stings
I know you are somewhere
Feeding on chicken wings
I run for a place to lay my head
If it means to bunk on grass in exchange for bed
I would anything, than stay in my mistress’ den
Where I am a meal to many men
Daemon! You orchestrated my fall
You took my harvest and careless if I perish
You said papa will be fine when I work
This is all for papa and you know
Why then is my story so
Tell the kids in Togo's loitering street
and all the troubled ones in Africa
When a man like this beacons
Please resist his soothing tongue
For he is darkness in array of light
As he would cajole, to cast on you a lasting plight
He is a coward,
whose fortune depends on our sweat
and in greed, would he have some souls to-let
Trafficker, don’t from your evil schemes relent
Till justice come, and then you’ll have no chance to repent.
Categories:
rumple, angst,
Form:
Lyric
Pitter-patter, thump, thump
goes the beat of my heart.
Rumple, rumble, churning,
innards feel torn apart.
Shhhh, shhhh lips quiver,
silencing my tawdry pleas.
Blink, blank, tears forming,
descending downward endlessly.
Waaah, waaah, wailing cries,
disappearing within the night.
Tsssk, tsssk, you were wrong,
just like every other fight.
Snap, smack, crackling woes,
all in the name of haste.
Tick, tock, the clock stops,
future years we do now waste.
Bang, boom, pow, of the heart,
that never stopped clinging.
Thump, thump, thump – silence,
a heart no longer singing.
**An Onomatopoeia Poetry Form
Categories:
rumple, depression, girlfriend-boyfriend, husband, life,
Form:
Rhyme
My silent serene soul softly craves your candles of crystalline calm.
Your gallant greens of golden glow gently beam with bumbles, bashing blissful thoughts in a thundering whisper.
Our chemistry and connection is madly enchanted in ethereal crimson certainty of nectar's new dawn.
I want to own the oceans and you like I hold my butterflies and beliefs.
Rumple my radiant lips on silhouette sheets of your secret shoulder yard, leaving amaranth art of kisses on your lavender chest.
Letting your spikes of spices chase me into a search of serenity.
You are my wind in the wild storm.
The whisperer, wanderer in my mystical melodies.
You are the tempting thoughts in my tempestuous tides, thrilling the turbulent twilight of my heavenly heart.
The mesmerizing midnight memories in the infinite brain of my independent heart.
I'm nightfall without your luminous laughter.
I'm dateless without your conducive calendar of pink promises.
I'm the death of a wasteful war and torn tears from the endless screams.
Be the pondering puzzles of my relentless reasoning.
The savoury solitude in my sour soul.
The hibiscus honey and roasted peanuts in my poetic pantry.
My rustling reckless reflection in muttered excuses.
And I'll be your rainbow, your Rosa Juliet.
Your chocolate cosmos. Your scout for love in the jungle of jasmine spring.
I have fondly found fleeting fragrances of happiness from the ryhming rheum in your eyes. It is daring densely, hallucinating hazardously, making me stare still till I blindly bleed in haphazard hues.
Till eternity my love, your secret silence is the riff in every song. It is the splash of every sound. The hair on my stirred skin. The pulchritudinous phases of pain in astrological agony.
Stand, stand my sublime king so thou shalt see the height of my love for thee.
Listen, listen my charming prince so you shall hear my painting in every voice.
So you can feel the breathless bath of the present and the tickle in the tapestry of our voiceless vows, viciously channeled through the thighs of our bond and the sync of your seductive grasp.
So I can smell the wind of your hands slowly stroking my sensitive skin and the attention of my hairs saluting your stemless grasps.
My soul critically craves you my workshop and I your tools.
Categories:
rumple, angel, beautiful, beauty, deep,
Form:
Alliteration
A real man never cries but endures!
When pains of the world rain upon him he endures!
When the sky is dark and horrific moments come, he endures!
Even on the edges of the deep dark deadly death, he endures!
Not even the reckless trembling rifles of the wars shall make him cry!
Nor the big bad blood sucking bats shall frighten him to cry.
He is the saviour of his of his own territory and
No other man shall rule his land on his presence, never!
He is a god of his temple and a King in his royalty.
Tell me not about the weak pathetic man,
Who cries to death when impediments comes,
Whose knees quiver and rumple when the worst come
Who sold their manhood cheap with a piece of cake!
Man is no man that cries without enduring,
For endurance is what differentiates boys from man
And boys shall not stay in the same territory with man.
Categories:
rumple, family, dark, dark, endurance,
Form:
ABC
What I like is to be held, loved and cuddled,
Awaken in the morning, my head all muddled
Coffee, black and strong, just how you make it
Even though it’s not how you take it
But you know me better than I know myself
You know what’s good for me and for my health
Breakfast of toast, two slices, buttered with jam
Always warm no matter how late I am
You straighten my tie and flatten my hair
Pick fluff of my jacket I didn’t know was there
Then a hug and kiss as I walk out the door
Hanging on to you for a few moments more
The smile on my face during morning commute
As I try not to rumple my best three piece suit
I move through the day like an automaton
Fervently wishing my work hours were gone
So that I can return home to you, to my secret life:
My beautiful, sexy bigamous wife.
Categories:
rumple, humorous, relationship, satire,
Form:
Couplet
I remember my candles in the night
My eyes heavy but weightless like light
The thought of being a corper my right
A pound on my head boom boom
The thud of boots and whistle boomerang
Shrill cries like a community gone agog
Soldiers and man o wars on the work
Kaaki and boots stroll under the wilderness
As I drench myself in the reflection of morning parade
Then I wake up to the reality of being a soldier, even though my tired feet struggle for survival in the hands of code 1 and code 2
Like a wrestler contesting the royal rumble
I have been stressed, squeezed like a rug left on the floor to rumple
My enduring and persevering heart whispers
The sweet chants of one day we will go
Yes indeed we will go, not as we were but as gallant soldiers of the NYSC
I swim in the pool of events
Tiring as it is, I must make it
This is the reality, I have always wanted
Lectures were made on white and black
Skills were taught on the block
Food and love shared on the clock
Uncertainty looms in the horizon
When the bugle of farewell blows on the 26th of March to another hurdle
On which side of Cross River will I march
Calabar,Ikom,Ogoja,
Good soldier that I am
I must go
Kopas we we we
Kopas wa wa wa
What faith befalls you on Tuesday
Take it with wa wa wa
This is the reality we have always wanted
Our dream and long desired expectation
Have finally unfolded into its oblivion of extinction
Let us awaken ourselves to the reality of serving our fatherland
Author: Ginikachi Nnadozie Obah
Categories:
rumple, anxiety, art, beautiful, blessing,
Form:
Ballad
It's very late: the moon lies on its back in drowsiness.
But still, we sit drinking cold beers. Maybe to give
us time to save ourselves...from empty promises
we know by heart. We sit waiting for the kitchen
to warm us, you in your chair, me in mine,
as we have hundreds of times before. Our faces
could be drawn from memory. It was late:
too late to talk, too late to patch our love again.
Too late to ease the pain in my heart, the
yearning for you I already feel. Maybe
all love is like this: maybe all good things
do finally end. Can't we save us one more
time, and then another and another? I know
it's too late. But our bed will be a cold refuge
without your warm body next to mine.
Whose hair will I rumple as you tweak
my ears good morning? Who will share my day
when I come home to emptiness? Who will rub
my back, squeeze my hand, draw me into forgiving
arms and tell me it will be OK? Who will kiss these tears
when love has gone?
Categories:
rumple, break up, devotion, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
I have always loved to write
real…romantic rhymes
but now I have to feel free to
form a fantastic freeverse
with my creative caps on and my
pleasant pen and pad
I am doing this, drawing words
from the well of wild words.
To flow in this fabulous fountain,
all I need are tender tools;
Witty words, rare rhymes and
some lovely lyrics,
adding the flavour
of impressive
imageries, just to cruise
in the cart of creativity.
Playing with words and using
originality as my errand boy,
I dare to ramble and fumble but
never rumple my art's artillery
keeping each line lovely, lively,
meaningful and readable.
I patronize punctuations
just to paint
a perfect poem with the pen of
passion.
Poetry is all about what you have
to write and how you write it;
where and when you write it
does not really matter… at all
So I just felt free to
write a fantastic free verse in the
fountain filled with fragrant
flowers.
Categories:
rumple, artwords, write, write,
Form:
Free verse
As Rumple in blankets,
I vegetate in unfilled torpor,
Blind enervation adrift among
Extinguished stars, among dark
Torpid galaxies where I am a stranger.
I find only dead planets, windswept and barren,
Where molecules of a distant living past
Are vaguely recalled,
And where conceptions,
Convictions all collapse.
Exhaustion is an avalanche
Making no distinction between
vacuity and repletness.
Sleep believes nothing,
Not even the animated chatter of
My dreams.
Categories:
rumple, death, deep, dream, planet,
Form:
Free verse
tactic theories tamed
by moaning brain
callous crescendoes' bait
airy acumen craved
felon feasts fostered
hoity twin triggered
rusty rules reeled
raging rumple reek
punctured politics' spree
dark dances dribbled
saucy syllables scribbled
did curves cripple
lanky lust birthed
vying veil's verge.
'20:03:21:11:01
Note: Dedicated to Plato.
Categories:
rumple, hero,
Form:
Sonnet