Best Scarcely Poems
I lounge lazily on my deck chair
Up high in the spacious loggia
Loafing the time away, patient, waiting.....
The ocean ebbs into the small bay
As the sun sets far away over the horizon.
From below electric lights flash on
One by one and guitars are strummed.
The enticing aroma of paella wafts up
But I sit on, unmoved, immobile, waiting.
In the summer heat, I wait,
For the night to bring her near,
With a dance so sweet, she'll appear,
The summer heat is scarcely relieved
By the faint ocean breeze
The murmur of people reaches me.
She has arrived and the guitars sing.
So does my heart as I behold my wife.
Slowly she pirouettes on her dainty toes,
Her skirt resembling a veronica,
Like a cape that baits the bull
In a Spanish bloody arena.
But I sit on, unmoved, immobile, waiting.
I cannot see her red, red lips
That taste like lavender in height of summer,
I can just barely make out her silhouette,
Her sexual curves, her lithe footing,
Her inviting mien, her head held high,
a proud senora dancing just for love.
In the summer heat, I wait,
For the night to bring her near,
With a dance so sweet, she'll appear,
Soon the dance will end and I...
Why I just wait till she'll come to me,
In the dark cover of the night.
With a tequila and a night of love.
Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares down the darkened hall.
A solitary line of pink light sneaks through a crack in the door.
Fighting tears hanging loosely in my eyes, I listen.
“Please tell daddy that I love him and miss him.”
It has been two months since he died. Long, hard months.
“Keep him safe.”
His smell still lingers on his clothes in the closet.
“and bless mommy to be happy…”
How can I be happy, or even smile, when all I want is to be numb?
The tears burn in my eyes, but I can’t cry, or I might never stop.
“so that she will play with me like she used to”
I can scarcely recall the last time I was able to focus; to give her all my attention.
“help her to forgive me,”
Oh sweet baby, it’s I who needs your forgiveness.
“help her to love me again, even though sometimes I’m bad”
Oh God, is that what she thinks!?
“and please help me to find dolly so she won’t be scared tonight”
Ok, focus…just breathe.
“in Jesus name I pray, Amen.”
Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares into the room lit by a solitary pink lamp.
I sneak through the door, with tears rolling down my cheeks,
and enter with a promise, that all her prayers will get answered.
05/31/15
Submission for Prayertime Memories
Hosted by Isaiah Zerbst
Baxter was born in a meadow
under a rotting plank
with hundreds of brothers and sisters
in a home both darkly and dank.
His momma was a June Bug
and he was a June Bug too,
schooled in all the sorts of things
that June Bugs love to do.
He grew up fast, it was time to fly
and leave his happy home,
his momma went to the book case
and pulled out a well worn tome.
She read from a chapter called "Hazards"
to each of her children dear,
“Stay clear of birds when you’re flying
or you won't last out the year."
"And one more thing that you should know,
and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
So he left his home behind him,
went flying all around,
he saw some birds in the tree tops
and headed right for the ground.
After landing in the tall grass
he met a stink bug named Dwight
who told him wonderful stories
of an light so purple and bright.
"Forget now what your mother said,
I'm here to set you straight,
the orb is just a doorway,
you know, it's like a gate."
"When you enter into its brightness
you're magically swept away
to a lovely world of happiness
where forever you can stay."
So Baxter started searching,
he looked both high and low
and if he found the purple orb
straight to it he would go.
But the light was very clever,
it kept its secret well,
but Baxter kept on looking
as if he was under a spell.
Finally on an August eve
just as darkness was appearing
he spotted a distant purple glow
across a meadow's clearing.
"It must be the orb,” he said to himself,
so he flew with all his might
across the meadow with all due speed
toward that beautiful purple light.
Soon he hovered before it
and bathed in its eerie glow,
what wonders lay in store for him
his mind could scarcely know.
Gathering up his courage
into the purple light he sped,
crackle and zap was all he heard
as he fell to the ground near dead.
He lay in a growing pile
of other bugs who'd seen
a purple orb up in the sky,
but it wasn't what it seemed.
So if you meet a stink bug
who goes by the name is Dwight
don't believe the tales he tells
of a beautiful purple light.
Remember what Baxter's momma said,
"and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
A shadow walks
beside me
in the sun—
faithful companion,
mimicking my every move.
Through the
decades of my life,
I scarcely noticed
little changes
in his form.
He seems just
a bit shorter now
and stooped slightly
at the waist—moving
slower than before.
Now I find he is
also not so near
and one hand mimicks
the shake of my own hand.
Where does that come from?
Hardly see him anymore,
as I sit here in my room.
But friends and dear ones
gather round.
I seldom feel alone.
I tug now at my shadow,
for he shuffles more than walks,
as I spend more time outside,
walking in the sun, finding
purpose in my days.
Still my shadow struggles but
works hard as any friend—
never giving up.
Someday, I suppose,
I'll finally get a new one.
Where was I
when repo men invaded,
possessed,
boxed me up within his cool heart
fragrant in its distaste of warmer climates?
You know,
climates governed by love.
(Daydreaming of knights, that's where.)
Now I have only so much patience remaining
for this slapstick brain-
a nasty reminder, the heckler of my heart,
what spews sensibility
when I simply yearn to err.
And I scarcely have time to mourn
his devil's smile
leaving southward in moving vans
transporting my pieces
(all the valid ones)
with him
as I sit numbed,
next to climbing ivy poisoned by my disbelief,
broken
unpaid for.
Form:
Searing flames within hissing steam burns
letting the dragons out in frozen time
cold stone winds blow into the desert sands of illusions etched
Dark and feral holding immeasurable promises
held captive under those that are never completely met right
freedom and forgiveness denied cries from an impenetrable heart
Hatred is the twisted short sided vulture of the virtues
incomplete confidence expressed in a waning moon
Tears of ivory silk burning salted spiced
Cries forever inside chambers weeping wall’s
taken far away into discoveries path
were limitations and love never coexist
Endless beginnings take centrefold in a staged arena
otherworldly visions of a life re-imagined scarcely believed
in a sealing ritual sacrifice, sacred temple of another is played outcast
Vibrant scalding primal evil colors paint the blood truth
boldly endurance can no longer be silence issued
through the sun’s warm radiance Illuminati exposed
Co written by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
unrhymed tercets
Hummingbird, hummingbird
what's your hurry?
Darting quickly through the air
I can scarcely
see you coming
In an instant you are there
Of God's creatures
on the wing
in the day or dark of night
None so perfectly
maneuver
You are matchless in your flight
Through time and space
as if by magic
how abruptly you arrive
I try to keep my eyes
upon you
as you soar and quickly dive
With the butterfly and moth
and other insects
great and small
Among the flowers
do you hover
drawn by scent of nectar's call
How I love to
sit and watch you
as you travel to and fro
You have struck
a chord within me
and I dearly love you so
Hummingbird, hummingbird
I await you
as the first light signals dawn
I can scarcely
see you coming
In an instant you are gone
Growing older is a garden of graces . . .
disgraces, wild goose chases, closed in places.
It is an imperceptible tottering of time on a
conveyer belt, where at the end time drops
into the slipstream and becomes the mobius .
Growing older is wanting to be older when
you are young and younger when you are old.
You wish away the days, never dreaming that
you would give a king’s ransom to have them
back once again, treasured, appreciated.
In our youth, we squander time, kick it to the curb.
In our older years, we try to tie it to ourselves.
Age sneaks around when we aren’t looking, spreads
its poison pollen and is gone without our seeing.
The business of living distracts us from noticing
until it is too late, when we look into a mirror,
only to behold the ruthless signs smothering us.
It is realizing men no longer turn and whistle.
You have become invisible, crayoned out until
some young man says, “Grandma, the time?”
Growing older is smelling of Icy Hot instead of
Beautiful by Estee Lauder, seeing people sniff.
It is keeping L`Oreal in business long past the time
you want to stop, but can’t bear those gray hairs
that are the mute testimony to the inexorable decay
Growing older is breaking the shackles of propriety
Wearing that purple, and at least four sweaters.
It is joyously realizing you don’t care a fig what
people think or say about you or anything else.
You can laugh at the absurdity of fashion, style.
It is the delicious capability to say anything
you want, vent your opinions, disagree.
You say the most outrageous things freely,
and are forgiven, because you are getting
more than a little fey and just a little dotty.
And, oh, growing old is the sweetest blessing,
for you no longer are frozen in fear at death
and it's coming soon, for your years have
worn you out and everything changes so much
there is scarcely anything left of your world
What does it matter what god you worshipped
This earth has been hell enough for an eternity
and if there be heaven, it is icing on the cake
I walk in darkness many times,
not knowing to turn left or right;
there is a light, a glowing ember,
toward the light I have greater sight...
I seek and I search for all its meaning,
why it follows, why it sometimes goes;
I seek it scarcely in times of strength
and cry for its presence in times of woes...
I am aware that it can always live,
inside of me, flowing ever bright;
all I need is an open heart
and a forgiving soul to power its might...
My walk in darkness need never be,
if I remember to always shine like He;
for loving and forgiving are above all else,
in the ever-present glow between Him and me.
"She wanted something to happen- something, anything: she did not know what."
--Kate Chopin
Yes, I wanted something to happen
I wanted him to love me,
to even notice me,
but he sped through Life
as if I was a dead girl walking.
To him, I was nothing.
To me, he was everything.
To me, he was Life and Breath
He was Water and Nourishment
He was Spirit and Soul
He was my all,
though I scarcely knew him.
I knew him not,
But I knew I loved him.
I knew Love well enough to know it came to me continuously
Like a cat in need of attention.
But he knew not Love,
For he shunned me.
He shunned me like the moon shuns the sun.
We met no more,
Nor did I see him anywhere.
Nor did it matter anymore.
He left me
I wanted something to happen...
anything to happen...
But nothing ever did.
How many winters,springs,and summers have I been yours? How many days:My Love have you've been mine?Time itself like a winged wind when it bends the flowers,and the trees,and the bushes,and a man or a woman,has not left any mark behind,to count the many days,weeks,months,years,hours,and mellinums!Some weight of thought though hated by husband or wife he or she leaves: There are some lines of care around both of them that perhaps they have weaved in real secret love that they never let the other know. This secret lets love between them flow,like mother,father and child! Some fears,and a soft regret for joys scarcely they have known:They remember the love that has grown from the unknown! They decide that sweet looks we will remember,and never will forget: All else is flown: OH with what thankful "HEARTS" "WE" "MOURN" with "PLEASURE" ,PLEASURE",and "SING"!!!!!We look and see where our children start,and feel the sudden "PLEASURE OF SPRING TIME" in our bodies and in our hearts! We feel the joy and happiness that they can bring!!! We Sing! We sing with our hearts as we speak and feel the "Real Spirit of Love" that God can give ! We realize with our hearts,tongues,and speaking of good things,sweet and low,like a pleasant rhyme,it tells us how much we "OWE" to one another,and to GOD 's gift of our "LOVING TIME" we have enjoyed together as "HUSBAND AND WIFE"!!! THE LORD IS THE GIVER AND TAKER OF LIFE! THE LORD IS GOD AND CREATOR OF ALL LIFE TO INCLUDE "HUSBANDS AND THE WIFE!! MOTHER NATURE AND FATHER TIME IS A FRIEND OF MINE!!!
Lost Love
In that long dark sadness of your leaving
Neither star nor moon will give light to me
And no sunlit dawn will ease my grieving,
Neither time nor distance enlighten me.
But return with love as your alibi
And your excuses for departing done.
Then does the bright dawn light the darkened sky
And hope reborn with the arisen sun.
Should your stay be shorter than a Winter’s day
When the scarcely lit hours cold comfort give,
Then leave and let me with sharp sorrow stay
And in darkening dusk’s dying hours live.
Your name is joy and joyful your return,
But not to return; dawn to dusk will turn.
07/21/18
I stared deeply into his dreamy deep blue eyes
So full of passionate love, they could not disguise
He’d call me his dove, I scarcely believed he was mine
Safely wrapped in his loving arms, we’d gently entwine
I’d succumb to his charms and be simply floating on air
When our ruby lips met, green-eyed girls would stare
Forever his girl - I mustn’t forget, but it was not true
When I met his mother, all my dreams fell through
Told me there was another, this made me oh so sad
His true love lay with the sea, as it did his late dad
He never truly loved me, now we are both set free
01~30~15
Contest Interlocking Rhyme – Isaiah Zerbst
~awarded 2nd place~
The glamour of their squalor is found
in specular highlights of crisp brown eyes
peering through mud-matted hair, crying.
Weeks of eating an abundance of whatever,
which consisted of scarcely more than bugs
fished from non-potable cesspools.
A decade seems a long time, until singularly
it accounts for one’s whole life…and yet
we won’t home them, because they are a plague.
Self-righteousness cannot bear the reminder
that “refugees” might be people…children even;
running from nightmares that persist in daylight.
Ignorance is bliss, after all…
and who chooses to come down from a high?
We have full tables, full inns, and empty hearts.
Opportunistic politicians see a platform,
borne on the backs of the starving and desperate,
they manifest feigned outrage and farcical hand-wringing.
Droves follow droves out from the gloomy dread
greeted by cool apathy or worse; outright derision…
what more is to be expected of humanity?
The squalor of our glamour is found
in hopeless disconnection to what matters, or
to the reality that we could have been them.
11/18/15
(the sequel to A Christmas Story Told By The Dog)
Twas the night before Christmas just one year ago,
When we had that commotion outside in the snow,
With reindeer a-runnin' this way and that,
And a strange obese man in a red suit and hat;
Who'd snuck down the chimney of all the strange places.
Guess he thought that way he'd leave fewer traces.
The folks were at church, they were gone for the evening.
The house was empty, at least it was seeming;
But I and the cat had been left on guard,
And when he entered we brought him down hard.
I fastened my teeth 'round his ankle and then,
The cat screamed and scratched him from eyebrows to chin.
He screamed and he scrambled back whence he came.
As I grabbed his bahunkus he called me a name.
He made it to roof and jumped in his sleigh,
And the reindeer took off in a fast get away.
They hit some old lady out in the street,
Swooping low for momentum for a speedy retreat.
The house was a shambles, the front yard a mess,
And I'm sure that old lady felt less than blessed.
I sit here remembering one year ago,
And all that commotion outside in the snow.
All of a sudden I heard a sound,
And the cat hit the window in one mighty bound.
He let out a screech that sent chills up my back.
I can scarcely believe it but that sucker's back.
This time he skipped us and went next door.
Just wait till he meets their black labrador;
For he still remembers that terrible night,
And you can be certain he'll put up a fight.
Merry Christmas, Y'all