Best Sandwiched Poems
A dark angel writes in the air,
“There will be no tomorrow for you.”
Then puffs of shiny cloud ebb,
Ebony night surrounds me.
I tremble in fear.
I hover between now and never,
as if I'm traversing a rough river
on one bank: life, on the other: death.
I feel an ebbing of nothingness,
like gulping down bad breath,
or gasping in asphyxia,
between a being and non-being,
sandwiched between heaven and hell.
Which way must I go?
Lord make the right choice for me,
for I tremble in fear.
How oft had I been told,
hell is an illusion, don't believe!
Now it seems like reality and I fear.
I see my past, its rights and wrongs,
a sort of blind imbalance,
not a hair is lost.
Where is the illusion now?
Or worse is it delusion and regret,
that I could have achieved much more?
Thus I tremble in fear.
Spirals of fog surround me,
whirls of fatal mists envelop me,
a long dark tunnel with a faint light ahead.
But what lies at the end?
An ephemeral awakening or an eternal damnation?
What weapons are left for such a fight?
I can only give my soul up and pray:
O Lord, I trust in Thee.
I fear no more.
The dark brown color engrossed much,
Soft beautiful skin melts when I touch
When I unwrap the cover,my lips cannot wait to taste
when I munch it,I am transported into a fantasy place
and nuts sandwiched between chocolate bars backhaul my sensories
Caramel inside the bar,revitalize the beautiful childhood memories
It recalls the fights for chocolates and the crocodile tears
Now,when I lick the chocolate off my fingers,I feel young
and I love to savor the taste of the chocolate tang
NOW AND ALWAYS
High on remote cliffs,
wildflowers huddle
between
wind scalped boulders,
heads kept down,
their roots weaved
into crevices
where a little soil has been
won from rain wash
and wear. They grow
surrounded by a constant
howl, just above
the clawing fingers
and thrown up fury
of waves.
Deep
in their creviced home,
they snatch only
a brief, upward glimpse
of a passing sun,
life confined more
to a damp sliver of shade
sandwiched between stone.
No broad vistas
but a claustrophobic crush,
a cramped space
from where they gasp
for freedom.
For centuries
they have lived like this.
Generations have come
and gone, the living
nourished by the flesh
of the dead.
Countless human wars
have been fought, lost
and won. Year after year
they bloom, yearning
to be noticed, fed
on the merest ration
of light shed
by a merciless sun.
Thank you, they cry,
Thank you.
Here we are at the end of our marriage
remembering the tender words of love
that we uttered in our horse and carriage
tucked together like the wings on a dove
as the world stands far remote we keep bay
inside this velvet room of flower and sage
counting the blessings of a morning ray
sandwiched like two birds in a guilded cage
folded inside the sheets of time we thrive
accordianed like two insturments of old
humming the songs that once made us live
encloaked the dark, we never grew cold
true love is the diamond of old lovers and friends,
I believe that I will love you, until the very end.
Jan. 31, 2020
I see the eye of an albino deer,
facing east, as I face north
It is almost silent
The sky is an empty granite gray
His eyes match
the mimosa flowers
that feather down in a fluffy rain
around us, unevenly
He looks at my hazel eyes,
probably not seeing the color
I hope he considers me
as I consider him
It is 5:15 on the road.
We are sandwiched in by woods
in the fatigued heat
of a drawn-out Sunday in June
when even the cardinals are tired of singing
The buttercups
are a dusty shade of mustard,
too dry to stand up straight
The male albino drops his head,
after figuring me out,
nibbles the hot grass
and flicks his ears
His tail swishes away a fly
A hungry mosquito
mocks this moment
and won’t leave my ears alone
The oaks and pines stop swaying
as if holding their breath
There is heavy honeysuckle
in the air, and smoke
Someone must be burning leaves
I am close enough to see
the velvet blush of his antlers
He is a four pointer
I count the seconds
and try to find meaning
in this
A red-shouldered hawk
announces itself
and the porcelain king
scampers off
into the thicket
“Cambodia is
Cambodia but not really
Cambodia.”
That’s what some say
As the years roll on
Forty years or so since Pol Pot and his pals posted
‘Year 0”,
Sent the whole thing to the wash,
And it came out
Red.
So now I recline on
Sun built beaches
Night into Day
Sandwiched between gaggles of
I-pod armed youth
Just escaped from a
Lifelong sentence,
At least for a summer,
Dazzling at spectacle like
Fire girls twirling Prometheus though
Black holes in moonlit nights
Starless
Sipping
50 cent beer
While the unmistakable drift of
Marijuana
And Xanadu
Sifts my senses into
Now.
While on the hill
There lies a Frenchman,
Freshly stabbed,
Epee-like
By a speed crazed barmaid
On a pockmarked lane where
Money meets desire
In the still born heat
Of an Asian night
Falling.
.
Which makes me reconnoiter
Deadwood and Dodge
Earp and James
When law went desperate
Beneath a hangman’s noose
And the certain pall
Of afternoon death lay
Reeling
In the century or so since
The requiem.
But can this be their
Cote d’Azur as
Newly dubbed Khmer warriors like
Sable Palms
Surge skywards beside the
Sensual rhythm of
Casuarina trees
Purging the past to conjure
Bygone glory a
Millennium or so ago
At a place just up the road named
Angkor Wat
Soon to be renamed
Disneyland Cambodia?
Jeff Troyer (2009)
"You say you want a revolution" screamed the four,
John, Paul, George and Ringo beat down the door.
Melody and harmony and Brit sex appeal gone anti-war
Nine times round the turn table with Yoko, hardcore.
Fab stereo artists with composite collages for musical scores,
they kicked, whined, smoked and dined in venues top-drawer.
Number 9 was the cut most radical by lore
chaos, poetry, and prose composed with sound effects galore,
a sandwiched montage of "what are you looking for?"
Sun Shines On The Righteous
93,000,000 miles from the earth, the sun heats our planet in varying degrees.
If the sun were not appropriately set in place by God, life could not exist, because we would certainly freeze.
Though it be true that the sun shines on the righteous;
it is equally true that the sun also shines on the unrighteous.
I cannot imagine a world of sunshine only upon the righteous,
because the righteous are comparatively so few.
Our prosperous planet would appear as one with beautiful and pleasant strips of light and comfort; but so much of the earth would be in a sad state of neglect and unused potential. There would be breathtaking views of high snow capped mountains and grassy valleys, sandwiched between blue skies, clear waters, and greenish landscapes.
Nevertheless, such beauty would, in turn, be painfully segmented by massive strips of the pure ugliness of cold, darkness, and death.
It is so incredibly descriptive of a benevolent and magnanimous creator, that he would design and engineer a “sun” which dares to
express, like him, a love so far reaching and unconditional.
04112016 PS Contest, Sun Shines On The Righteous, by
Seren Roberts
Start from the East where all things start,
Delight a feast as shrewd mind arts.
Once in a while, mahjong game styles
Rapport and smiles in crafty piles.
The hurl of dice to start the game,
Brings fond surprise to joust the same.
Mind shifts fond plot in cards and tiles,
Movements now slot what feelings while.
Watch strategy work random moves,
View chemistry in mental grooves.
Each player feeds a certain stance,
Good fortune needs a crafty dance.
Shrewd moves align both path and gaze,
Listen to signs to trek this maze.
Follow the heart as feelings tell
Just how game art can work the spell.
Power cards spring with awesome feel,
Dragons now fling to spread fond thrills.
Pick and choose well the tiles you pile,
Each player dwells as feelings style.
Watch for the break to join each slot,
Each tile helps make the winning lot.
Round after round from eastern shores,
The four poles ground fortune galore.
Each player knows just how to store,
Luck seeds the flow for strokes and more.
Time for bonding in evening air,
Square table rings of piles of flair.
Brief glimpses here of thoughts that come,
Mood swings of cheer and small talk sum.
Happy knows best such easy times,
A poignant rest in sandwiched chimes.
Too soon, too swift, the end game tile,
A cheery drift where fancy styles.
Win, lose or draw but not in vain,
Luck shapes the straws in pleasure's gain.
Leon Enriquez
22 February 2016
Singapore
You seduced and teased my yearning, with your succulent lure
A floral fragrance sumptuous and bizarrely pure,
You impaled and intoxicated my mind, with your corporeal charms
My impassioned heart, raced to your ominously parted arms!
You clasped me like an octopus, locked me in your iron embrace
Then I saw the restrained venom, glistening on your shifting face!
Irrevocably entrapped! Sandwiched between your gluttonous claws
Acquainted to your enormous hunger, peering from your slack jaws!
Couldn’t you heed the dilapidated struggle of my impotent gasp?
You unfeelingly asphyxiated me with your murderous grasp!
I was blinded by the appeal of your suicidal, sensual strokes
Now on your magnetic cuddle my body whole, shudders and chokes!
No longer are you suave, aromatic and flirtatiously tender
Virulently tamed, I rue my battered woeful surrender,
Like an insatiable leech you suckle me, siphon my naked despair!
A monster transformed, lacking traces of compassion or care
My labored breaths grow scrawny and senile,
While you gleefully devour me, with a ragged, complacent smile!
I writhe, you chew and grind and gnaw!
Like a vulture, ravenously consuming my remains raw!
I wane in vain, haplessly I tolerate
Aware, another victim will share my fate!
© Maverick Nyambu
The Magic Spell
Sandwiched tween the satin sheets,
My head at rest upon your breast,
Snuggled up to warm our hearts,
Lavender scents the air its breath.
A starlight flash adorns the room,
Alas ! a fairy queen has come,
to cast a magic spell of love,
A sensual movement of your hips,
informs our lips to seal a wish
The dampness on your brow it says,
that cosmic fluid has to flow,
to burst the bubble that has grown,
and melt the moment that has shown.
Amidst the fine feetle of veggies in the garden of truth
Stands a monstrous scarecrow.
Of a fungoid parched face and a half baked gaze.
Of shrunken smoked sockets and drunken knocked eyeballs.
Bulged cheekbones force the halloween smile
While the amateurish wrought neck holds the somewhat ogrish skull.
A thin narrowing stream of a sparrow's yellowing cream
Tinges it's elvan nose to the apex.
Pepper red vitriol burns in the dunes of the coarse skin
And four daggerlike claws clinch at the gliding inches of the sisal woven arms.
Crickets and roaches cohabit in the meshes of the morbid hobbit charvet shirt.
The eroded black ribbons travelling along the sleets of the pirate jacket
Compliment the dotted woolen twines of hair flowing down the bald scalp
Then...
Beyond the spread of the evenly scaped acres of the khaki greens
Lives a dearth among apes
That's strips down their velvet raiment of fur
And pulls to skin their horrid skeleton.
Dry bones litter the vale and life faces the wink of hell.
Yet the flora of truth remains unturned, untouched, unchanged
A death from a dearth seems painless
Than the drilling wreath of the scarecrow's claws to the turbine of breath
Sandwiched in the succulent greens of the garden of truth
Stands a scarecrow ladened with less ruth, wrath full
A fabricated beast called STEREOTYPE
the Babylon of bubbles,where plastic shamans blow illusions of loveto a mixed people of iridescent colorssandwiched between a soapy film of confusionMan’s disillusion of building a rainbowed utopiaas they dance and sing in the high places hiding behind a green treeForgetting man shot the first arrow at heaven,as the pot of gold, at the end of the rainbow,calls the kettle black accepting everything,without central rule is the babbling freedom of anarchySlaves to their own sins promising liberty God is a God of order and not the author of confusion There is only one Way and He does not need the help of manWhat is highly esteemed among men is an abomination to GodMan’s attempts to build a utopia will always, become a bubbling dystopiabursting, into endless lulu tearsof a seared consensus, suddenly a rainbow policemen awakes,somewhere off the grid in Kansas,with a headache and an empty bottle of snake oil
Sand of wisdom, I seek for your counsel
since you're prudent in warning against building on sinking sand...
Oh, your choice to interview me is commendable...
well, take these ABCs sands for character-building:
Always take a firm stand whether you're on rocky or sandy ground
Blossom beyond sandy soil if that's the only one available
Carve creations circumspectly using sand in your design...
Dare to do the impossible through God Who made sand everywhere
Explore* more, to learn about the greatness of the sand...
Wow! I am now getting your sandy point...
Are there some more?
Free yourself from getting sandwiched through faith's fortitude flight
Gear toward gracious glow while basking along sandy shore
Heartily share hope as you collect sand for your hour-glass gifts
Instruct about healthy benefits of walking along the sand on barefoot
Jubilantly pursue your dream of painting sunset brightening white sand...
Yes, yes... I will surely publish your advice
May I have your parting words, please?
Keep on appreciating life as gift, bearing in mind sand's vitality
Live along leading of the Lord, leaping high, leaving footprints in the sand!
Thanks so much!
*Daniel 11:32 … The people that do know their God shall be strong, and do exploits.
November 28, 2022
Edited on March 30, 2024
12th place, "The Interview (2)" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco; judged on 4/28/2024
Villanelle: For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death
for Greg Paul
For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death
For each mistake a new life blooms on the Tree of Life
Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath
If the original course of the first life makes a bee-line to death
Then each mistaken life takes off at an angle in equal strife
For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death
Now each individual’s life line criss-crosses the other’s birth
Who’s watching whom in Prentententoonstellung alive
Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath
Spinning shafts of light fissioning out of revolving depth
Dense nuclear porcupine quills jutting out on the axis of hive
For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death
Pairs of eyes stare at image in revolving mirrors out of breath
Sandwiched between endless mirrors broken lives connive
Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath
Till the day the one life that never a mistake made myth
Will never his image in the mirrors reflected be alone alive
For one life lived through mistakes how many defy death
Sibling souls come together to meet the first on last breath
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014