Best Shrivel Poems
I shiver tears.
My joie de vivre;
summer esprit’s lemon zest,
lilac flirts and coral whispers
have escaped me ~
grievous gray
now flows through my veins.
I shiver melancholia,
entombed with my winter blues
in the dark dreamless hollow
of my frowning igloo.
Draped in decor of dispirited drear
I wear a wistful woebegone fog,
an overcoat of overcast moods.
I weep wall to wall
in the listless light-less nights
alone with my lonely longings—
my psyche withers
like a frost-stunned leaf;
I shrivel
a little more each dull day.
I shiver sadness.
My colorless tears
cry out loud for color!
I yearn for watermelon sunsets
pink sands and tiki cocktails swirled
with swizzle stick glee.
I wish for rainbows to color
my lackluster laughter
and crave for fireworks to celebrate
in my mirthless eyes—
restless for Sol’s warm hands
to tenderly undress and caress me
and lay bare my soul
straitjacketed by winter blues.
I See You...
Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.
Hocus and pocus no need for free thought,
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way.
Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped.
You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.
Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore.
07/12/15
in the fervour of my sweat
sheets drenched
i wake to the toxic bellow of my own voice
in the torment of my own thoughts
in the complexity of my simple life
i lay eyes swollen wide open
in the measure of hours set aside for sleep
overwhelmed by recent events
i struggle with the haunting of their potential outcome
in the exaggeration of my emotional outpour i bleed tears
dry to the air of the night
i shrivel like a plum under light
so this is what it is like
to be a prey to grief
an abhorrent internal pain
i forget its feel when it is gone
i remember its feed when it is here
bent
out of sorts
barely able to walk
i return to the inferno of my now
quiet
i keep my affliction private and unassuming
Feb 28 2016
armand
Sometimes on Discovery TV,
there's time-lapse to teach and dazzle us.
We might see that naked jay (before he's turned to blue)
in just mere moments transforming!
He masquerades in feathers and quickly grows.
Maybe we will witness the feeble endeavors
which finally propel him into flight;
as the camera follows him, he goes. . .
On some enchanted tropic isle
is the species of a tree
that some of us have never seen.
The camera's eye might focus
on a random bud among its glossy leaves.
Soon it blossoms pink petals
and if we watch some more,
perhaps we'll see the purple of its star apple emerging.
Then we'll see it grow,
and if left not plucked, shrivel up and go. . .
We are but mere ions
in the spectrum of a universe
we've entered through a magic door.
Miraculously born, we grow.
But at first it all seems so slow. . .
Then one day we try our wings.
Some of us may soar.
Others, like an apple never tried, will fall.
But all of us will look back before we go,
and we'll think how much it seemed a dream.
Time always goes. . . .
and then
we're
gone.
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
*Inspired by Nathan Leccese's Diamond in the Rough, contest. :)
When taking a bath in the tub
The first thing you'll notice, if you stay in too long,
Is how your fingertips shrivel.
Then, as you rub and scrub,
You might see bits of skin coming off your legs and arms
And you begin to grow little.
Some children pay no attention
To the warning signs I mention;
They stay in the bathtub all afternoon,
Until they start to dissolve.
They get smaller and smaller and smaller
Until they're far too small to holler;
They get wrinklier and wrinklier and pretty soon
They've shrunk so much there's nothing left
Except a ball of wrinkled skin
Where once a healthy kid had been.
This wrinkled skin is dyed blue
And sold in the store as a prune.
"How Prunes are Made" was in Nomo the Zine, November 1991, and was reprinted in The Ratty's Gazette 8, 1995. It is a poem in the ongoing series "Lucifera's Questionable Daycare Poems and Stories."
Kiss by the Passing Breeze of Awakening
Dust of divine whimsy
Flutters softly on unconscious cheeks
With ephemeral dawning
Fleeting like the flash of silver sandals
In moonlight - here then hidden -
Stepping out of the opaque
Soul stirring from oblivious daydreams
Stepping into moments of classical
Lavender-rose moments.
The leaven of breezes in stardust essence
Flares in lambent clarity
Caches of chimera, that drain the heartbeat,
Shrivel in bursts of cheeky shooting stars.
Aroused from the depths of sleepwalking,
Grace notes float on rose scents
Harvested in potpourris for strangled screams
Scrambling through midnight fogs,
Sentience revisits in soft swirls
Awareness, roused by reveille,
Stirs caressed codas in soft preludes,
Awakes in fresh mindful raptures
Nurtured by a passing angel kiss.
If my love were to be frozen in time
would its enamored glow forever remain
as poetry in a book, Sonnets written in rhyme?
If in flakes of snow, my heart was encased
would my affection wax and never wane?
It's said a heart without passion is frigid
and incapable of feeling torrid emotion,
but if winter frost glazed o'er me, a rose,
do you suppose my love would become rigid?
Nay! It would survive with endless devotion.
What of spring, when then I would thaw?
Would my tears mingle with melting ice?
Perish that thought for being profound,
for my love harbors no fault, foible, nor flaw.
The sting of cold is a meager sacrifice.
I will never be cloaked in withered petals
no wilting will be found in my tender bloom.
My ardor will not shrivel like dried nettles,
and no demise of my love will ever occur,
nor darkling days shrouded in sullen gloom.
No matter the harsh chill of Winter's season,
do not dither in despondent shadows,
for I will plead innocent, "Not guilty of treason!"
You've no need to fear woes of despair,
for nothing can weaken the bond we share.
Love avowed as truth, through eternity will last,
a promise etched across the breadth of my heart.
In realms of desire, I promise to linger with you,
and to this fervent pledge, I will hold steadfast
until the villain, mortality, wrests us apart.
February 6, 2023 / 2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' FINAL Placement Poetry Contest / Sponsor: Mark Toney
July 28, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 10
Sponsor ~ Mark Toney
Burnished bronze, tarnished teal,
flare warnings yield to winds of steel.
Their urge to jump, to flee and hide
cuts off the warmth for suicide.
They leap and land at such a cost,
far flung debris- refulgence lost.
They shrivel brown, dark fibers done,
decay beneath the wayward sun.
Their shredded shells in supine piles,
small hells ignite by human wiles.
Gray smoking wraiths slip out to sigh,
soar off to smear the flannel sky.
Green progeny will take their turn.
One chance to live is what they earn.
Forsake me not, for I would pine
and waste, like tendrils on the vine
that shrivel when the rains abscond
and nullify our special bond.
For eglantine shall flourish not
when kept in shade, stilled in the pod,
nor will our love, without the spark
of nature, and the love of God.
Remain here, nestled in my care,
and feel the measure of His power,
with nourishment for heart and soul,
as the elements sustain the flower.
In deep forest with rotten leaves and wood
Where the sun’s light finds it hard to reflect.
Where wind won't blow even if it could
below dense undergrowth, it’s deadwood wrecked.
There is much silence there; all sound in check.
Here’s where the webs of spiders hang and cling
few flowers bloom, but weeds and mosses grow.
Broken branches and twigs which the trees fling
shrivel mushrooms that smell like sour bread dough.
In there hides the things the wood fairy knows.
A secret of life the wood fairy knows.
His burrow dug deep in the undergrowth
as he hibernates under winter's snow
to sneak out come spring to run to and fro
to play tricks on man and animals both.
As he plays in the light between the trees
while hiding in shadows of moss clothed stones.
So very often heard but seldom seen
is his deadwood follies with fancy tones
like the shadows themselves the forest owns.
Here in the deepest woods man seldom finds
the burrows of fairies or nest of crows
for we only go where the bare trail winds
and we walk as if our eyes were closed.
We seldom find what the wood fairy knows.
I have pilfered in deep, dark woods in vain
probing for what the wood fairy owns.
I have concluded we are all the same.
It is in oneself where happiness grows.
This is the secret the wood fairy knows.
What is naked? Without clothes?
Sky clad nightmare feeling shame?
Or deepest secrets all exposed?
Wretched, woeful, just the same
Stripped and helpless to them all
Friends and foes just point and laugh
Curled up in a foetal ball
Fragile façade epitaph
So do I yield? Give up? Withdraw?
Cower from the searing light
Let my guilt just ache and gnaw
Shrivel up without a fight
Or do I stand both strong and proud
Exhibit all! Here's what I've got!
Cry out, berate, exclaim out loud
I'm starking naked! Well? So what?
I shrivel 'neath a scorching sun,
Devoid protection for my skin,
An aching grimace, I'll show none,
Worse burning pain suppurates within.
I wander naked through the rain,
Although my body fully clothed,
This broken love ne'er to regain,
Only in dreams we join betrothed.
I trace her footsteps in the snow,
And further on discover four,
A melting tear I can't forego,
The hurt bites sharp as glinting hoar.
I ramble lonely in the wind,
And taste her breath on every gust,
The rose that on her blouse I pinned,
Dead petals fell, and blew like dust.
I fall thwarted on lush ground,
So soft the breast of mother earth,
From looming hills my cries resound,
She comforts me for all she's worth.
Dim twilight dulled the failing day,
The robin shared her even' song,
And as we went our seperate way,
I blew a kiss !.....but she was gone !
It was a tiny thing
Just a little word
Made up of little letters
That you planted in my heart
You didn’t think much of it
You patted it down
And covered it with love
It wasn’t much
Just a little word
Little letters
Laced with encouragement
Dipped in love
Buried
In my heart
Watered by my tears
Warmed by the sunlight of your care
Growing
G r o w i n g
Strong and beautiful
A word tree
Bursting into bloom
Breathtakingly Beautiful Blossoms
Flowers that never shrivel
Or fall
Or get blighted by the frost of criticism
Eternally growing
In the garden of my heart
I weep tears of joy
Exuberant joy
You planted
A little word seed
Not knowing
My heart is fertile
My heart is rich
My tears plentiful
Not knowing
You’d left me
An eternal gift
Of wonder and beauty
“But," you say, “It just was a word!"
u s
j t
a
t y
i n
l
i
t
t
l
e
W O R D
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Oh the woe, for woe is me,
I said, "I do" to a teacher-to-be!
I tried to marry my best friend,
Now strapped to him, I stand condemned.
I support him with my soulless jobs,
Counting beans with business snobs.
He sacrificed much time, unpaid,
Which I picked up and played the maid.
I followed him to this world's other end
To help his job search better fend.
We put our future plans on hold,
Which shrivel up as I grow old.
Stress puts me in a place of dread
As I lay sleepless in my bed
While horrors dance inside my head:
Will he ever get full-time work?
Where will we be next fall?
Tomorrow, will he get the call?
Will I ever get to meet the children in my dreams?
Will we ever get off this one-bedroom floor?
If only he...
If only...
If only...
And just as I begin to cry,
I stop myself, and ponder why...
Why endure the torture?
Because I love that man of mine
More than my words would dare define.
And why not do the world a favor?
To be the change, we must be braver
Than most who seek the ladder climb
Who care not but for their own time.
Why not contribute to the needed suture?
Why not invest in childrens' future?
He could be someone's liberation
As an educator of a generation.