Best Scrunched Poems
Ten Thousand White Butterflies
Soft walls undulate like liquid steel
Metamorphic pulsations
Iridescent glow
Spiritual guides
Ushering departed souls
Rippling contractions
From cocoon-like womb
Bringing forth new breath
Replenishing blown out candles
Eyes scrunched
Painful cry
Drowned out by the rustling
One thousand butterflies taking flight
Soaring
Luminescent
Snowflake-like beings
Spreading their light
Within the night
Eternity is born
A baby raises his tiny fists
Mother's tears turn to joy
Floating heavenward on delicate wings
Announcing
Beating
Singing
A child is born
Written with Monterey Sirak.
Thankyou for letting me join you in flight!
EIGHT
A deliberate surprise
A shove from the back
while creating artwork
in my second-grade class
Perhaps an ocean scene
A distant angry memory
of my eight-year-old
consciousness
The broken waxy blue crayon
in my right hand
Before me the ripped orange
construction paper and
a scattered image
Girl bully momentarily
reigned behind me
her face encircled with
frantic spirals….
a golden mane
My neck flashed heat
and then a cold sweat
I challenged her to a fight
In the girl’s bathroom
that day
Pale turquoise tiled walls
screamed at me
as I entered the ring
Staring up I saw a field of wilting flowers….
wads of scrunched up soapy paper towels
hurled up at the ceiling where they clung and
appeared as corpses threatening to fall down
on me at any moment
The pungent thick air of girl
bodies surrounded me….
A hungry lion appeared with
open mouth ready to strike
Tightly wrapped around each other
A blur
A blow to my right side
A second to my stomach
Descending to my knees
catching my breath
Rising up I landed an efforted
blow on her left cheek
An explosion within her wild
starving eyes filled with
superpower magnetism
The pounce
The strike
My body collapsed…
the blue tiles hugging me
Sounds of silence
Distant voices of teacher adults
dispersing the crowd
Inside the small stall
crumpled body crying
on the toilet seat
head on my knees
salty tears cascading
Tasting them now
With armor and shield
bleeding …dented and broken
my heart and soul
rejoiced
Murder at the Prom
Frankie Lyman shrilled his falsetto.
Gwendolyn Gould danced in stilettos.
So callously smothered,
they never recovered.
Poor little piggies, scrunched little toes.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
March 11, 2012
"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go . . . )"
By_ E.E. Cummings(1894-1962)
I love the nonconformist approach of E.E. Cummings
his style has such freedom
the intentional grammar mistakes ... delightful
his structure inspiring
I love the lack of capitalization and punctuation
his made up silly words
and erratic spacing and scrunched up words
he threw away rules
I love how E.E. could write silly and also romantic
he always wanted to write
his early notebooks includes prayers of inspiration
E. E. I do that too
I love many of the same things that E.E. loved
like art, and Paris, France
he experienced a lot of heartbreak and grief
E.E. I have too
I love how he never gave up on finding true love
and I am happy he found it
he wrote every single day ... I do too
wish I met him
I love how he had the courage to self publish his work
his poetry, plays and books
this is a poet that I have admired very much
E.E. Cummings ...
"-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms ... "
_______________________
January 15, 2023
Poetry/Free Verse/EE, I Love You
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1517-941-15
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Beloved Poets
sponsor, Regina McIntosh, Judged 01/19/2023
Second Place
Submitted to the Standard, Your Choice Again
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/21/2023
First Place
Perfumed Scented Letters.
.
Perfumed scented letters
Written in ink with such depth of emotion
And intense devotion
Flowing from the fountain of the heart
With so much gratitude warmth and affection
And forever love yet so far apart
A sweetheart bares her heart and soul
Like welcomed sunlight upon a winters day
But with heavy heart
For her love so far away
.
Tears fall like raindrops
And blur the elegant written lines
Another scrunched up discarded letter
Written at least ten times
.
Illuminated by candle light
She tries to write throughout the night
Trying to write with a more happier refrain
And hold back the tears
With her heart in so much pain
.
Eventually the letter is written
Enclosed a photo of herself for her love
To put in his pocket next to his heart
And a pressed flower picked
From a summer bejewelled lush meadow
They’re secret meeting place
Where their love did start
.
She seals the letter with a loving kiss
And breaths out a sigh
Why did he have to go away
With little time
To say goodbye
.
A moment alone with a pause of the rage of hell
Her love love clings on to those precocious memories
Through his sweethearts words
And the scent of her loves sweet perfume
He loved and knew so well
.
Many miles and waves between them
Keeping the apart
But never ever forgotten
Always in prayers thought
And heart.
.
Peter Dome©2021.
THE BOY STARES AT YOU
He is raggedly scrunched up
Against a wall of sweating bricks,
Staring at you with as much pride
As life has thrown at him.
You see he has no desire to make
Conversation with a stranger
To his stale, rank impoverishment
But he smiles anyway with false bravado.
His eyes question your unwanted presence,
Loitering for a possible answer
Which may be forthcoming
And include conditional expectations.
He won't break his kingdom of silence,
Where he reigns supreme
Among poverty's sprawling plague.
He waits for you to speak but knows
You have nothing to say he'll understand
Nor care about. Besides your speech is
Foreign to him, so you can stutter on
Without the slightest effect.
The vultures circle above, letting out
Their dolorous cries in search of the dead.
He and you live but do not engage
Because you cannot relate;
You do not exist to each other.
Among the scattered stones of the houses,
You have found a hidden graveyard
Of dreams where there is no afterlife.
I heard them talking in low voices.
“I will watch her today,” one hissed.
“It is my turn,” argued the other one, in an even lower tone.
I scrunched my eyes tightly, pretending to remain asleep.
“Shh! She’s awake!” a loud whisper.
“How do you know?”
“Look at her.”
I scrunched my eyes a bit tighter, but tried to relax my forehead.
Fooling neither. Silence came.
So I sat up and began blinking around the room.
The dog was snoring loudly.
Both the clock radio and Alexa were silent.
Had I dreamed these voices?
I felt a small petite whinny.
A psychic clue.
But what horse is in here?
My eyes traveled over the top of the dresser.
There are fireflies, butterflies, raccoons, and angels represented.
But horse? No.
Snicker. A small psychic one.
Two horses. I glance sharply to my right,
and look into the face of a purple unicorn I have painted.
Suddenly knowing, my face throws herself to the left.
Where the pink polka dot unicorn is silently snickering.
It helps to have a sixth sense sometimes.
I call neither out,
glad for their protection.
Allison scrunched up her nose and oinked like a pig.
Joey stuck out his tongue and opened his eyes so big.
The other children in the classroom laughed out loud
when silly little Willie made his funny face then bowed.
Erin rubbed her little cheeks red with lots of finger paint.
Jack patted his face with chalk dust and pretended to faint.
Rachel pulled her eyebrows up and her chin way down
while Brent spiked his hair and wore a bad boy frown.
Each kid had a turn to try to win the honor and prize.
The shyest child of all was the winner. What a surprise!
It was the quiet little girl who was funniest of them all.
Jenna pursed her lips and cried, "Mama," like a real doll.
Then the teacher said, "It's time to return to your places,
but I promise we'll have another day of making funny faces."
April 21st, 2016
I woke this morn a chilling sweat alarmed
No recollection of the night before
The sheets were drenched and mixed in beading blood
That's when I heard the knocking at the door
I sauntered to the front glint through the drapes
Am startled by a beauty, don't recall
“Not leaving” she says, “open, let me in”
Last night I shared with her what would befall
Some memories coming back I turn the knob
She plants one on my lips, then many more
On sofa out she blurts “Well, is it done ?”
Don't answer her til I remember things
She smiles and says “you did it” views my cuts
The blood that's on my body source unknown
Still no reply from me until I'm clear
She voices “bye, I love you” her bemoan
It's coming back to me “was I set up ?”
Descends compendium of my cars trunk
She must have drugged the brain between my legs
Garage-my car-I'll search I could be sunk
I turn the key to open up the lid
A large dead man is scrunched up in a ball
The sirens getting louder “I've been framed”
I shake my head, about to take the fall
I watched her
dropping the phone,
in nano movements
My heart stomped
out, the harshness
of a dial tone
And from endless
holes, these little eyes
scrunched with sadness
I suppose, I didn't know
what it meant to die
or why the tears
stuck to me
Sickle celled with
every memory,
around the lobes
of my being
Where I could
still hear you laugh,
the breaths of air
Grew arms
-- and comforted me.
Eyes
intent
small face scrunched
in concentration
little fingers working hard
"Look Mommy, I've tied my shoes all by myself!"
Inspired by Nigel Fawcetts PRIME-ary School contest
If I Were a Plastic Bag…
I would help shoppers carry their stuff.
Anything: groceries, toys or powder puffs.
I could help thrice, because I am tough.
I like to; it is fun to see their stuff!
Sometimes I wait for weeks in the dark, scrunched.
Kept there unused for months crowded and hunched…
I am not alone; we plastic bags are bunched.
Waiting in the dark while the humans munch.
I dream that one-day, soon I will fly up high.
I will escape on the day that the wind blows by.
A breath of fresh air will lift me into the sky.
I will see the city's grandeur; then, I shall sigh.
It seems like forever the days go slow.
Up in a treetop it would not be so.
I could just hang around beneath sun's glow.
Watching travelers drive about on streets below.
Freedom's dream, flying high, has not come to fruition.
The life I lead in cabinets has become a mission.
Somehow, now, based upon the economic condition.
I just lay back in the dark and wait in submission.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 18, 2009
Above a cloudy jar of brine
That floated greenish hard boiled eggs,
Beside a Schlitz beer waterfall
That told bar time (ten minutes fast),
A taxidermied Jack-A-Lope
With rabbit ears and tiny rack
Stared marble eyed into the dark.
“We don’t have many Jack-A-Lopes
Back home in any city bars,”
I told a man who served us drinks.
“At prices there, that’s no surprise.”
The barman said without a smile
And told us of the Jack-A-Lope:
Time was you looked, you’d find his kind,
But rarely in these mountain slopes.
They only bred in wintertime
And only in electric storms.
It’s rumored round that milk that came
From mother Jack-A-Lopes could cure
Whatever walks on twos or fours
So rare it was most called it myth
As much as Sasquatch ever was.
Until one day a dowser came
Divining where to dig a well.
And gripping his good witching stick
Could swear he saw the front branch twitch.
He scrunched his eyes and looked again.
“No, something’s in that undergrowth.”
Up popped the branchy antlers of
This fearsome critter, Jack-A-Lope.
Now as it was this dowser had
A more than common whiskey thirst.
And had to live his life downwind
From ordinary decent folk.
Like pictures of Napoleon,
He stuck his hand inside his coat,
Produced a flask of sour mash,
And threw it at this portmanteau.
Some say it hopped away afraid,
But those that know have winked and said,
“That animal attacked the flask;
Without their bourbon Jack-A-Lopes
Will fade away until they’re gone.”
Outsiders paid some license fees
For hunting season, dates of which
Cannot be found on calendars.
The most were poached as trophies for
Hotels, saloons and brothels where
The mounted heads amazed their guests.
No hunter had had an interest in
An animal that can’t be killed
Because it never ever was.
But now so heavy was the hunt
The Jack-A-Lope was soon extinct,
So every one of them was killed
To prove one time they did exist.
The bar grew quiet just as if
Some meaning might be understood.
I pointed at my empty glass
And asked the barman pouring drinks,
“What’s on that plaque below the head?”
“Some Latin words, a kind of crest.
A family motto more or less.”
Grampa?
It’s a question usually posed with an inquisitive frown
On an angelic face with large, limpid eyes
And whatever I’m doing, I stop and put down
Peer sagely over bifocals and look grandfatherly wise
“Can you fix this grampa,” shy tentative pleas
Red plastic toy held out in soft delicate fingers
Tear tracks on pink cheeks, scraped, dirt darkened knees
Touches deep to my heart, on child’s face my gaze lingers
Sad, liquid eyes under brows scrunched and worried
Timid, flowerlike smile slowly blossoms on small face
My broken toy examination, slow and unhurried
Parts and pieces put back together with exaggerated grace
Rose bud lower lip, bitten by tiny white teeth
With young brow furrowed with intense concentration
A wondrous thing, this childhood belief
Mouth morphs to O shape in amazed celebration
Grampa’s done it again, that ingenious ‘ol geezer
By fixing the toy has come through in the clutch
I’m arthritic, and smell funny and I’m a puffer and a wheezer
A pushover when she whispers, “gramps I love you so much”
A huge happy hug and a loud sloppy kiss
On grey bearded, prickly cheek
These things I’ll treasure and will too soon miss
When no longer ‘ol grampa they seek
I'm shuffling trays of food
and placing them up front.
I'm spilling on the way
in stains I'll later hunt.
I'm ever pinching napkins
and wiping spots of sauce.
Forever wiping up them
so later I can toss.
I've piled the garbage higher
with sweet and sour rags.
Left scrunched into a bow
to finish them of drags.
I'll order in more napkins
to later fill the rack.
But first I'll make some more sauce.
A dish from Sally Trac.