Best Shakily Poems
Rising from the desert sand
was a shimmering mirage
of a thousand shouts
Heated winds of fanaticism,
intense and blowing violently loud
Shrill calls to blood prayer seethe,
breathing fiery invocations
of a perverted philosophy
Screaming death to the infidels —
a scarlet smeared mirror reflecting
black cloth covered savagery
Crimson prayers are the daubed untempered mortar
which cements the foundation of this shakily rising kingdom
Whet the glittering scimitar swung grisly:
Beheadings are the blade’s
propaganda recruitment shock TV
Desert crisis ... dreaded carrion claws of ISIS,
oasis mirage bathe the sociopaths in bloody bliss
Mutilated bodies floating upon the desert sea,
a raised dark flag boasts of a fleeting victory
Prideful utterances of unspeakable barbarity
Contemned caliphate mercurial rising ...
now descending quickly below the horizon
Crumbling desert kingdom,
butchery sow the seeds of your ruin
The sand castle rise to power was ever so brief,
a pirated religion kingdom soon to end suddenly
Taking hostage your own faith,
now the proselyte guards are
fleeing from the palace carnage
Crumbling desert kingdom,
butchery sow the seeds of your ruin
Innocent blood spilled in the sand
will be your caliphate’s undoing
Crumbling desert kingdom,
blood reap the harvest of your ruin
Let your prophets of terror and rage
shout a false sanctum call to prayer
Intoning not this one truth: God will surely repay!
Crusty old oaks
wave brittle arms angrily
overhead, threatening
to drop dead
crushingly
heavy limbs
Down
Taller trees
having achieved
the highest heights
pine away, lonely
jealously pouring their
sharp needles
Down
Towering above
terrifyingly insecure
in their position
they shakily
throw their shade
blocking sun and rain-
trying to keep me
Down
What did I do
to deserve such spite
but struggle to survive
with limited might
a dogwood sapling
that could never possibly
grow to over-shadow
them?
Still the Worst Job Ever
How do I hold thee, let me count the ways.
I hold thee trembling, beneath kitchen sinks
crouched in the darkness of the brightest days
guiding thy beam as his patience shrinks.
I hold thee dulled by lightning’s fearsome flash
shakily awaiting unseen anger
tortured by the inevitable crash
intrigued by the neediness of danger.
I hold thee wide eyed in dirt-floored cellar
your flame slow flickering on edge of sight
dimming through the range of yellowed color
draining the darkness from a darkened night.
I hold thee, for my brothers all have fled
I hold thee, not knowing what they dread.
11/13/2014
Submitted for - Sara Kendrick - Jobs – Poetry Contest
The black river mills are seen in the distance
The red skies show spiraling, gray clouds
The earth is man’s canvas
And the mills slowly mix the paint
We have seen the devastation
We have felt the desperation
Some of us wallow in our watercolor
And leave the canvas blank
The mills crush their bones to the bottom
Mixing them nicely into the paint
People are pushed in without thought
Others go in willingly
The river mills are closer to my view
And my brush is stiff and unused
Women and children walk alongside the rivers
The elderly follow and sometimes shake their heads
On a cliff, I watch them all
My brushstroke stiff and worthless
Shakily I climb down the precarious cliff
Brush in hand
Canvas in view
Watching people suffer in the paint of their mistakes
People wanting to be part of the picture
I never desired this. . .
I wanted to create a masterpiece
The women and children are gone
—except one
I see a little black boy standing alone
He is watching me curiously
Tears in his eyes
He is a watcher
He was born to suffer
He never desired this either
“I’m sorry.”
The boy smiles sadly and takes my hand
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I shed digital tears
And program some control
It is quiet, save for the sound of the river mills
It has mixed well
The colors are astounding
“Are you sure you want to stay?”
The boy nods.
“No one wants me mixed with them.”
He is a creator
He is a watcher
I dip my brush into the churning waters
I then hand it to the little black boy
“The world is your canvas now. . .” I whisper.
It was NEVER mine to meddle with. . .
And we are set apart for a reason
But together we are incomparable
In one ghost whisper of a town,
the mourning sunset had bloodshot eyes
A tombstone place that was
long shadow
past it’s boomtown prime
Withering eureka hope fills the short cups
of the abandoned mine folk
Whiskey tears takes a canary desperado gulp
Purgatory waiting ~ Gut rot
has all the suicidal time in the world
to stomach more wasted dreams
On this dying twilight night,
a bad moon is darkly rising ...
as the half-empty
saloon
doors
swing
During visitation of a short desert weep,
a 6-foot four
twin emerald glow mysteriously
steps out of the downpour
A black-cloaked man,
with twelve lead fingernails,
was tapping a cold metal dirge melody
as he walked in
Taking up space for two,
the raven-haired man said to no one in particular,
Death was his sidearm friend
After ordering the strongest bottle
from a shakily, weak-handed bartend ...
the tall, dark-clothed man
saw gambling courage slowly returning
in the pale faces of the paying patrons
Green hue greed shone in the mirror reflection —
his baleful, beryl stare saw that avarice look before
Plenty of bottom card dealt undertaker action
was coming ... coffin photos taken of a bloody floor
Midnight was always the best time
for quick draw ire killings
When drunken surfeit hearts had a belly full
of wanton violence feelings
Losing was the spark
that lit the firewater spillings
Scarlet darkness overshadowed
the cemetery sob kneelings
Cloaked in the mantle of a soul reaper,
the blackness of a red bullet hole
was a grim reminder
to those witnessing the terrifying departure
of slow hand ...
cheating, widow purse keepers —
That a dozen toasts for the living
always were closing-of-the-eye cheaper
For my sins and everything I ever did or sought to be,
Contempt and dying to be clever in unfathomed pools of sadness,
I plumbed each depth and splashed the ether, oscillated shakily,
Strapped to dark beliefs and definitions, all I gleaned of me was badness.
In my heart I hoarded secrets, guarded, gloated jealously,
Something touched quiescent feelings, split the stone upon the grave;
Resurrected dead ambitions with a Lazarus decree
And in doing so, in side-effect, unearthed a soul to save.
You did nothing of importance, so you reckoned pensively,
But if not for you, at close of play, I would have stayed the same;
Doing penance, going nowhere, shooting blanks haphazardly
In a thermos of reflection with nowhere to lay the blame.
In the dusky tones of evensong a plaintive melody
Croons through mazes in my image and exalts together days;
So perhaps, by your sweet process, you brought out the best in me,
And therein must lie the truth, that what we had has worked both ways.
Written: August 05, 2025, for contest Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest / Sponsor- Mark Toney
***************
As it rises shakily, the aurora radiates,
Shore gets battered by periwinkle waves.
Scarce alabaster turns to an ebonized sheen.
A sacred, somber, and katabatic sorrow.
A mild ache dances around joyfully,
As kindred souls merge in a forlorn embrace.
And halcyon as paradisal opiate utopia
It is as vast as the unclaimed love.
Your skim was both ethereal and brief,
It hinders my span of lethargic wandering.
Chest pain at every peak: a fipple passion,
Gossamer scenes that wish to last forever.
We gamboled beneath auric heavens,
Effusive murmurs in dulcet hush.
Stringent crave twirled in tricky loops,
A mental usufructuary, weak and eternal.
The limb caresses a vulnerable, airy speck,
An ambrosian ache in a weary world—
Meticulous truths submerged in the deluge,
A shredded hope, a shriveled flame.
Love is a chimera—a ripple on a palimpsest.
Crestfallen spume claws the coast calyx.
Then resiles, bedraggled, into amorphous dusk.
Amort embrace, undone, beshrewed by time.
Now, balmily, you are my nepenthe,
A calix once held—an ambivalent ache.
And I, a desperate-looking romantic,
Forever ephemeral, forever asunder.
Well, is this poem doing it for you?
Should I dress it up in black lace and garters
and shakily strut my stuff in haughty heels
for your emotional ********?
Just what I thought,
a pathetic poetry pervert,
another silent stalker
eavesdropping in the thick midnight,
snooping through shameful shadows
(hold on while I reapply the crimson lipstain)
Oh, you like it like that?
I’ll do whatever you need to get you to
feed and suck
on this saccharine heroin
Here, let’s get it over with
Slide the drapes closed will you?
Under darkness, over muffled traffic
come crawling wet mouth sounds . . .
That’s right
I just caught you gawking in shock
at the silhouette moaning my depravity
What, are you done?
Then roll back over
and let me shake in your vacant silence.
Goldie, my peculiar but beloved cat,
has certain affectations --
she prefers, most times, her own society
and shuns her housemates.
But, sometimes, she cuddles
or will join the others
to laze around -- in the living room,
the dining room, a hallway, or
in the kitchen.
An inside cat who, early on,
suffered the indignity of
"the operation,"
she asserts her independence
by darting into the front yard
when a door is opened --
and she pointedly ignores
any calls or pleas to come inside.
But when the door shuts
and no one is around, she is fearful,
immediately climbing up into the ash tree.
And there she stays
until I come to coax her down.
She may climb high up
and, finally, shakily manage
a descent to allow me to pick her up
and carry her back inside.
She never leaves the yard
but does enjoy ignoring me
when I am in a hurry.
She will dart about and run
from one side of the yard to the other.
For her, it's only an infrequent game.
And, as my treasured pet,
she certainly deserves to play
while testing the limit
of my affectionate, chagrined
commitment.
I’m aroused, to take you
on my long ride.
An urgency to have you
explore my stealth –
prodding, poking, pleasuring.
Standing solid strong.
Massive head, elevated
above the rest, ready too!
impale your abyss
impale your deepest sanctuary.
I touch; Yes there
where your sensitive parts wait.
I stimulate your every read gently
massaging your pleasure until
all of you wants more of me! More
of this tantalising caressing.
Until your thoughts start to moan.
Until your desire burns for my pen;
Tilling my thick tuned throng tacitly
into you into life with the gravity
of overfull oscillating orchids.
Thrust after glorious thrust.
You feel me driving deeper.
Loving every word whispered
in your ear; your here; your soul.
Feeling the warmth of my lust
you open ever wider, blissfully
eager to welcome more of
my lyric, my labour, my love.
You start to quiver deep inside
enjoying this rampant rocking of
my full load ready to explode.
I can’t hold back…been dying to be
deep inside of you I come
with the tremors of trillion trumpets.
Shouting shakily as I spill into you
hot spurts of my long longing
to be right here, inside you. To be
part of that which consumes you.
To be part of your yearning, for
every time you see me, Come!
taste this teaching of my truth
Admire mine deliberately
begging me to enter you again
and again and again every time
you see me, come. Yes do!
come back for more of this
Savvy Suave Substantial Sword.
With tears streaming down her face
A mother sits staring at a framed picture
Of a young man who answered the call
Wondering… Why my son? ...Why my son?
A young boy wearing a U.S. Army cap
Valiantly tries to fend off a storm of emotion.
Overtaken by grief he succumbs to the pain.
A down pour of tears flood his once innocent face
As he wrestles with the heart wrenching reality
Of his mom never returning home.
A tiny little girl pulls on the dress
Of a trembling teary eyed lady dressed in black
Standing next to a flag draped coffin
Asking… Where’s daddy mommy? …Where’s daddy?
A proud Vietnam War veteran
With tears steadily filling his eyes
And a crippling wound to his heart
Shakily stands up on one prosthetic limb
To offer one final salute to his fallen son
With a hand above his brow he utters the words:
A price to high Semper Fi.
a bar door is ajar, only fading voices
echo into the void, from nowhere...and afar!
Here n there, trash drifts
ghosts in flickering neon.
Broken, floating, bloated
dead down eons halls
a last of white.
Crimson taillights roar along
an empty blacktop...
Ruins of ages-lost buildings hang together
like frozen corpses looking
into desolation‘s aftermath.
This boulevard is desolate n oblique
as enigmatic engines park n die
on this macadam late at night.
Carriages lurch, coughs, wheeze
electric spark, circuits churn
something burns.
...unmoored from the known.
Something in death throes
as hollow oblong boxes
glide shakily to a halt.
A vehicle, an unknown thing,
a machine of divine madness
silhouetted against the falling ash of sky.
The smell of burning rubber
a stench of ozone, the cry of the void.
Drift along a wind-swept boulevard
as streetlights wink on
while headlights die
in empty skull sockets, lie...
A white filigreed smoke drifts
as it stalls and hums
sputters and dies.
A drifting murmur of voices drift
whispers of lives lived out swift...
Eyes reflect and dance in the darkness
over a vacant steering wheel!
Light flickers briefly under the hood
deep deathly hums fade.
Only the tick of a cooling engine
echos into the frosty air.
As shadows puddle in endless despair
something stands at the end...
...of desolations boulevard!
I asked a scientist to make an olive's leaf,
So green with its juices,
Smelling spring and sweat from gatherers hands.
He answered that he couldn't.
I asked him to make the light of the sun,
Reflecting its warmth in morning's appearance.
To make a sun enslavor of the sea,
Of breathing trees and eyes,
The eyes of those who stare its dream.
He answered that he couldn't.
And when I asked to form the air of dawn,
So heroic, sympathy air on faces of those
Seeking the dew,
On mainsails following the wind,
He answered that he couldn't.
How could ever human hands, so shakily and small
Give birth to miracles, when their lines
Consist of a hidden mystery delved from ages unsure?
Where human says 'I can't',
Nature raises and rules among Glory and Triamph.
If people think that they live with power and safety,
In houses they built with tractors and iron muscles,
How could they live when road will be their only home?
When they will be forced to run to mountains
And lie down on stones and windfalls
How oh how could they live?
If people think that they eat because they cook
Aseptic food in their high-teck kitchens,
How could they eat when a slice of bread will be
All they have?
If people think that they can adjust their warmth
By pressing a single button,
How could they feel warm and enlighted
If the Sun won't raise, if darkness fills the air?
When people think that there is nothing they can't do,
Replete with egoism, relying on their hands and their brightness,
A huge laugh is coming from the sky.
Because they forget that when all is gone,
Floated down the stream,
Only God can stay still, unbreakable and wise,
Smiling at their ignorance that they own life.
And if they can't be satisfied with theirselves,
How could they embrace others
When time force them to be united?
Creatures excesses with passions and ambition
They want to change their roles and become
Gods in the place of the One.
Yet, their hands are so weak to carry world's weight
And their minds so human to judge fairly and amiably
The sins of us all.
-I love the simplicity of the old one. But this extended version is special, I think...-
Caskets unmade
Naked bodies sprawled in waste
Yellow, white and pale brown skins all in one
Emaciated fear lingering in the pale eyes
Spines tingle at the crunch of excessive skeletons
Grimy boots unmercifully stomp
Nostrils used to the stench
Ready or not, embracing the ash
Afraid to express
Afraid to breathe
Unable to stop the grief
Colder eyes than the dead themselves look on
They are bored, it seems
Untainted by the sound of groans
Unmoved by the crack of weak spines
Spineless themselves, these guards even smile
Frozen, blue eyes iced with a sneer
Black, demonic pupils steadied overtime
The corpses reflected in their transparent gloss
Teeth grind
A young boy picks up a dried hip bone
Small, calloused fingers clutch the last of his father
The eternal frowned mouth is caked with drool, tears and muck
Hair whitened as if ghosts have stolen his youth
This bone is jagged and worn
Once used by force as a bowl for his insect-infested meal
Shakily given to Her—the last She would eat
Before the officials watched Her slowly starve
Today the bone will be used as a shovel—his final labor
Last effort for closure
The boy knows they are all looking
Both the enemy and the oppressed unified
All experiencing, all watching
He simply knows that overtime,
Tears of hope will decompose the hardest of hearts
And the boy drives his shovel into the hard ground
Pounding away at the chilled, blood-stained soil
Drowning out the groans with his own cries
Flooding the dryness with his sorrows
Breaking up the surface to bury Sleeping Kate
Sleeping Kate showed the officers
The skeleton she built out of bone fragments
Sleeping Kate told them we were all the same inside
With this truth, she died
With their guilt, they continued life
They tried. . .
The officers tried to bury Sleeping Kate
But Sleeping Kate is always alive,
Building skeletons in their minds. . .
by Glenn Sentes
And it held the firecracker like a runner with a torch
But never did it light it like scaredy-cat, stalked.
Month afresh year afresh
It held its breath, uncertain
Hullaballoo zodiacking but still remained perturbed!
They say it took the name of god of gates and doors
Deity of openings and new beginnings, horrors!
Hurrah it stands aloof and never will it soar!
This month shakily peeped through the hole, damned!
And watched the Romans gloriously slaughter their lambs.
For Nette Onclaud's Personification of January Contest