Best Sanded Poems
Santa Barbara, Summer 2017
Monday
I walked on the bluffs above the sea.
Orange poppies bloom in the dunes.
I discovered
the labyrinth:
smooth stones spell the path.
Peaceful pilgrimage.
Tuesday
Walked on the beach and smelled:
Tar from the oil seeps,
fennel,
coastal sage,
eucalyptus.
And, of course, the sea.
Wednesday
Hiked in the foothills.
The grass is brittle and yellow;
the land sizzles.
Spiky shrubs, spiny scrub oak.
The chaparral is ready
to burst into flames.
Thursday
The eucalyptus trees
on Ellwood Mesa
are dying
from the drought.
Where will the butterfly sleep?
Friday
The sandpipers
hurry to the surf, neck forward,
to peck with long bills.
They scurry inland before the next wave
as if they are afraid
to get their feet wet.
Snowy plovers skitter
like cotton balls on wheels.
Saturday
The infinite ocean
under an infinite sky.
A white S among the reeds,
the egret can teach me
poise and patience.
Sunday
Found a piece of seaglass.
Translucent blue,
The edges smooth
Worn by water,
Sanded down.
Beauty from adversity.
I think I will write a poem about it.
November 1, 2017
For contest: From my Diary
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Child , stand up
Clothes deemed unfashionable
by followers with no individuality
Kinky locks not straight enough
according to those with no self realization
The stiffness in your tongue bearing testament
to your mother tongue, to which they laugh at, why?
You're Mahogany, sanded and buffed
well crafted and glossed to a high sheen
Vulnerable yet resilience is you
Intelligent yet humility is you
Poor yet generosity is you
Yes, you are all that and more
because you have captured and nurtured
a knowledge and pride in self
Your smile glows from within
as it brightens your surrounds
Don't be shackled with self doubt
for your strength feeds multitudes.
Your gentleness comforting many.
As you wear your head gear to dance,
dance till you turn up the dust
each muscle sinew in perfect coordination,
sweat weaving in between the seamless strings
of those beads crafted and carried with pride.
Roar with song!
Share your history through lore
Ululate till the sound carries to the heavens,
breaking the skies open with torrents of nourishing rains falling,
falling.
This ,Africa, is what you are...
As rust falls from the anchor
Where do sandcastles go
when the tide engulfs the view and
lonely shorelines crest in tear drops
beneath white capped dream chasers,
foam laced erasers combing sanded wishes,
taking towers in the water's rage
as moats become minor indentations
on a beach bathed in the moon light,
moving gleams in metronome tickling
as our hearts wash out to sea
drowning in the depths of forbidden love
and with my final breath,
salt water drenched I profess
that forbidden or not, I love you
and the lighthouse shines its orbiting light
as I go under for the last time
happy in my declaration
as rust falls from the anchor
and I wait until we meet again,
on the island of meant to be
You've sanded down the edges of my broken heart.
No longer do they pierce me.
You've stopped me from falling apart.
Like shattered glass I was a cracked reflection
Of past loves that only could do wrong.
You've entered my life just in time to save me from the past.
An angel with a healing wing you have caressed me
And carried me into a better place.
Your strong arms wrapped around me.
The passion in your kiss
Oh to be kissing an angel...
I surrender myself to you heaven.
Drenched of hell’s insanities
Sending chills this tortured spine,
as aches precede the worded fiction
Sorted truth does rest sublime
beneath the light of benediction
Broken dreams of compass flair,
directions cast a blinded waning
Trusted roots abridge the square
of all that’s lost and is remaining
Washed along this fertile beach
of sanded hope and history
Tasting o’ thy patterned speech
as common phrases come to me
Desolate my cornered mind
of images I pray be true
Dangling the lost to find
retaliation in my view
Pray, oh be, as life does rattle
chains of only mist to turn
Laughter like some long fought battle,
in amongst we tend to learn
When the calling comes so random,
names are lost on open seas
One by one in columned tandem,
drenched of hell’s insanities
Take me of thy deepest suture,
so that I may feel the end
Black as night o’ bleakest future,
paint your shadows once again
Razored claw and broken arrows,
filled with such, the violence
Playing through the endless narrows,
falling to my own expense
This, a life that's not worth living,
not this day, not anymore
Breaths so tethered in their giving,
pull the drapes and close the door
Take a seat your exits' waiting,
frozen hinges squeak in time
Find the map for navigating,
somehow through this wicked rhyme
Follow me, I know the heading,
down this staircase, up the hall
End those futile tears you're shedding,
she's not waiting for your call
Through this doorway stenciled broken,
toss your heart there on the floor
It is but a useless token,
you'll not need it anymore
You’re now privy to the meaning,
whether you do understand
Motioned light, this night is leaning,
let it take you by the hand
Now of time and missing portal,
through the lens of sights unknown
Nothing whispers you’re immortal,
for this day you have been shown
It’s Halloween my souper friends.
Posting a few dark ones today. : )
O breezy Spring leaves,
Show-offs of stupendous beauty.
Your breathtaking heights
and swooning low brights,
Puffy delights
As you bud and sway.
You delightfully chill me
Goosebumps on arms
and brace.
Fingertips are nearly blue,
brazenly so on this Spring-a-ling day.
An open space,
front door unhinged,
ready to be sanded and stained.
I’ll swing a jacket
about my shoulders
and sock up my feet.
Sock it to me, Spring!
I will spring into action
that is if
I can retract my wiggly fingers
back from the letters
leaping onto white space.
Reminds me of the swoosh of beach -
its tremendous peaks.
Not a damaging Spring
but quite mischievous!
Perry's Disinclination for Mushrooms
A mushroom is not something new
Inside some pasta or a stew.
But, when it comes to feeding Perry,
A mushroom is extraordinary!
John's Surgery
An eyeball must be a perfect sphere.
If an imperfection should appear,
A handy doctor, not ham-handed,
Will use his head and have it sanded.
The Galilean sun smiled down
upon the dusty little town
and lingered o'er one humble spot,
a peasant's home and modest shop.
Long shafts of light fell 'cross the door
to lay bright carpets on the floor
where children played in perfect peace
about the shop. Their joy increased
each time they caught a glimpse of Him,
the carpenter who worked within.
His face was gentle, eyes were kind;
and as He worked, He did not mind
their ceaseless chatter, endless play
nor did He find them in His way.
Their laughter rippled round the room;
they scattered sawdust with a broom.
the wood chips falling at His feet
became for them a fishing fleet
or beds and chairs for little dolls,
a manger or a cattle stall.
Surrounded by the commonplace;
and yet, uncommon was the grace
with which He faced each daily task
as if all Heaven lay in His grasp.
A carpenter He was by trade;
the wood responded, unafraid.
beneath His hands each piece was formed
into an object to perform
some deed of usefulness or skill,
the needs of men to fitly fill.
Precise He was in all His craft
from oxen yoke to shepherd's staff
to couches for a nobleman;
he was a careful artisan.
Each part was polished, sanded, ground;
no painful splinters could be found
to pierce the flesh of those who bought
the items fashioned in His ship.
There wood was sacrificed for man
beneath its own Creator's hands.
Does it seem strange that He would die,
suspended between earth and sky,
upon two rugged beams of wood,
this carpenter whose work was good?
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
I roam through cactus and moonlight,
never knowing how old marrow can be fleshed
from pores sewn in blank lines of endings ~
and here I am among rows of a year’s diary;
these hands sanded by memorials
of famine and feast ; sometimes wrinkled
by the laundry of evenings’ regret.
At times, like a torn gypsy rose burned in coal,
I remember the faces of my family smelling
of tar and mint , knitting arms flamed
though midnight’s love, then doused
by autumn’s muddy rain ~ gone just like that.
12/28/2015
For the Contest Deep and Dark
Sponsor; Broken Wings
Sun-soaked sanded seeds
Sit by silver seas.
Serenely sewn seams
Seal edges of sunny dreams
Soft sails sing silken songs
Sincerity sweetly sings along.
The whispers of Serenity.
It might sound corny...but it is still a hug from
the heart to you, Sharon Weimer
O ther misconceptions of my
H ome of birth and where I spent some of my
Y outh is that
E veryone lives in mud huts and wears grass
S kirts as tourists are greeted at the airport.
B ermuda is a place of
E xceptions in that as of course the world economy is changing, that for a small island
it is still one of the
R ichest nations on the Earth!
M any of the people you might see on the street, if any, are not poor; but, because of the
U nbelievably high cost of living has to
D eal with finding a roof over their head hard.
A lso, while some things might have come to the
I sland a little later than the states, we are not a barefoot, backwoods people
T hat don't know anything and are in constant awe of the
S treams of people who visit us.
Y ou tourists are graced with an island and a people
O f beauty, Godly fear, and an
U nbelievable strength that has fought off one natural disaster
A fter another.
N o other island is graced with our beautiful pink-sanded beaches.
D iversity is reached with people from South America, Europe, the Azores, North America, as
well as
M any other islands and nations.
E ach and every house, as well as it people are "cemented in colour and everlasting pride"!
(The acrostic spells out a song that I used to sing constantly when I was little.)
I am a Savonarola chair
carved from discarded
remnants of cedar and birch that
littered our backyard -
waiting to be burned
or broken by a trespasser’s hands,
or tended to by the warm touch
of a gardener’s natural instinct;
an individual
who values growth
and prosperity.
I am an object
forged from splinters and sweat.
My four legs become six when your
spoiled bones and blackened hearts
grow weary.
Stilted fractures wax like leprosy
within your fumbled thoughts -
seeking respite as you recount
negligent actions upon broken fingers.
Father was a saw
and cut out his tongue.
Mother was an awl
boring through his visibility.
Ignorance sanded his face.
Blind eyes rendered him mute and
useless, like a comb without teeth
or a song-less linnet bird.
I am a piece of furniture.
A curio cabinet
curiously displaying your mistrust.
An end table advertising no family portraits.
An ottoman whose cushions knead
the detestation clinging like muck upon
the backsides of chafed ankles.
I am:
Father's severed chainsaw.
Mother's twisted liquor cap.
Sister's crumpled gum wrapper.
Brother's fleshtone punching bag.
I am a chair.
I serve a purpose - but not for you.
A chair can be slip-covered, polished,
straddled and veneered.
A child cannot.
I am most content when six legs
morph back into four.
Exuberant,
I then know my
private existence can breathe -
and the hardened antecedents
who took advantage
of my open arms and inviting lap
have grievingly walked away.
A ringing bell in the near-distance makes her delicate body tremble, as she sat on the corner of the opaquely purple stained living room sofa. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. She grew in despair of how that pattern of sound had aroused the tiny hairs on her crinkling hands. She exhales repulsively the last draft of the cigarette she just turned off. A glance at the silver-rimmed ashtray, which rests an arm’s reach away, powerfully depicts that it was one of those nights again.
She was content not too long ago. Pampered by his tender words. He was the father of the children they never had. She would name her first born Alexander. Defender of Man. They would live a joyful life, far away from the city’s lights. Far away from it all.
That day he did not pick up his gun and secure it in his holster from the smoothly sanded wooden table near the bed they shared as he went to work. That day he did not kiss her forehead, a gesture of safety, which she was so used to every morning. The silent kiss reassured her, everything will be okay and that he will be back sooner than later. That day he did not wake her up from her sleep. Not intentionally at least. That day she woke up to the sound of a bang in the near-distance of their home. That day she was surrounded with thick red. That day she understood how selfish human beings can be.
She began to shiver uncontrollably, tightly grabbing her left elbow with her right hand. She picks up a container of sky blue ovals which lay on the table in front of her next to her near-empty pack of cigarettes. She recalls what the doctor had said, “One every time you get an attack, ONE ONLY.” One never did the job, neither did five. That day she took ten. That day she slept well.
May the sunshine
Caress the harmony
Of your soul
To harness
The similar traits displayed
Placing bets squarely
Upon the eye-shine
Lost into costly greyness
But loving shadows
Living from the clouds
The depressive but striking
Long desired passion
Of days in the sun
Producing the clouds to cast
A darkness over-
Piercing the eyes
Lashing into oblivion
But loving timeless
Feel of shadow
Love glowing towards me
Leaping, lapping, grinding
Never sad – crushed
Like diamond dust
Sparkles, indestructible
But still sanded down
Towards the shards
Of her tenderness lost
Within my soul
I now harbor
The sunshine days of clouds
Shadows define me
Russell Sivey
Damp winter cold pervades
The emptiness
White painted walls
Clean sanded floors
All signs of occupation
Gone -