Best Shriveled Poems
"Black Ice"
Sorrow flows from the first sunrise
Eyes deeper than winter and rainfall
A painful combination never felt before
At core death awaits
- laughing while she begs for clemency!
In her eyes, fault is found in every sunset
- after coming down from cloud nine.
Impossible to move --- her body stiffen
That very moment, a precious Waltz - Expires!
Coldplay and winter mist set in
Ruins of love clinch an endless echo
- taunting the very merry memory.
The auditory sensation of broken trust
- stride across the way.
Icing every thought in a sullen, cold rink.
She fell - She crumbled
- In a world where hope once existed
Today, she will sway alone without a lullaby
In a room with no warmth
One time a sweet symphony, now a sour moon
At last, a different tune begins to fiddle
As she grooms the icicles in her room.
On every mid-moon, she stares and stares
towards the old shriveled lipstick on his pillow
Unseen coldness, unsatisfied, incomplete tears
She can feel the complete braille of hate
--- cascade around the emptiness
Throughout her poise frostbite travels in
Midnight Summer dreams are near an end
Autumn bones covered by winter sleet
A deadly force condemns all because of one
Lost years crumbled like an avalanche
Way deep down inside.......
She paints the rain like no other heartache
Leaving winter residue behind every step
"Black Ice" sits close to the cold canvas on her pale
If you seek closely, she is there
Immobilized in a waltz, in a waltz, in a waltz
Never to linger or trust
The "HE" that spoke of love, then melted away
~*~
**"And his name was Jack"**
No one perceives what abides above the clouds.
A giant, a harp, maybe golden eggs.
I demand to see and feel before I believe.
A castle, a dream…. I want the magic beans!!!
~~~
I'm the daughter of a farmer.
I have a donkey to ride, a story to tell.
“Jack and the Beanstalk” my favorite tale.
Once upon a morbid dawn.
I inhale a tiny simple yawn
Like the morning sun levitating over the farm,
I rise towards the village square to sell my ass
Along the open path, my ass and I desired a drink.
Near the rustic river,
I'd seen an old Englishman, sitting on a log.
It looked as if time was approaching his brink.
In his hand, he had a sack.
A bag, a bag, embroil of ivory and black.
His eyes were not from this ground.
His body fragile - it uttered a moaning sound.
He was of dirt.
I was pure.
He pledged his life to me.
I debated .... with many thoughts,
Although his eyes...
My eyes... Will never meet again.
"I want what's in the bag!"
In a gasp, he whispers,
"I'll give you anything for that ass.
my legs and bones can’t hold up on their own!”
I knelt down to where he sat
Smelling his essence of rot
I reached forward and grabbed his baggage
He griped, "This bag is all I got!"
I answered, "And this sir is a fine ASS!"
He replied, "I have no cash."
Scowling at him, “NO I want your demon seeds!"
My blood grew thin...
Inhaling and exhaling - his sin
The old man all shriveled and timeworn,
Proposed the birthright of the seeds.
"Yes, plant them! Plant them!"
I cried excitedly!
He pats the field.
Said "there I am done,
now clock as it expands"
To breed this story short...
He dispenses his seeds.
AND, I GAVE HIM MY ASS.
BY;PD
Her smiles of valor encase her agony--
her fiery scars pound against her sanity
struggling in twisted ropes of silent screams.
A wounded Athena, she is a woman in chains
staring at her shattered reflections.
Her shades of red, they haven't seen--
tender shrieks buried under forced arms,
blurred visions of screaming tyranny.
A trampled magnolia, she is a woman in chains
rotting in her Carmen of morose ember.
Oh woman! You embrace scars with dignity,
ethereal flow of progeny in your hands,
your banished desires in shriveled ages
survive in spiral cobwebs of festered veins.
Her miserable existence in labyrinths--
she simmers courage in dried paranoia,
a streak of red blood, no longer she'd fear.
A goddess flickering amber lamps of hope
her essence flows through mankind.
Oh woman! Feel the celestial powers
preserved in your gracious bosom,
your afflicted pain nurtures patience
strong enough to bend heavenly tides.
A wounded Athena, a trampled magnolia
A rotting Carmen, a goddess she is..
The woman in chains pours forgiveness
filling oceans from azure exuberance,
her selfless heart of mellowed love
permeates Satan's abode with virtue.
The woman in chains wears sacrifice,
her gossamer veil embraces men's follies,
she carries the elixir of compassion,
ripples of hopes for scarred souls.
Oh woman! They oppress you in madness,
to your sanctity they bow in agitation,
the woman they know, the goddess they don't,
until you dust your timeless wings to fly again.
Arousing opulence of ancient ballrooms
She creates her own make-believe world
Waltzing coyly in terpsichorean rhythms
Upon glittering stage where they sell love
Each time she caresses arms of a stranger,
Pretending to levitate in sultan’s harem
In glitzy appeal of polygamous mansions
Where she reiterates to sighs of ambivalence--
This used to be once the venue of glamour.
But her allegory of ardor quickly fades
As her disillusioned ego yearns for solace
When invisible bruises begin to ache
Having surrendered esteem to ruthless nights
Trading dead-feelings in lavish marbled halls
Where stench of alcohol, perfumes, and cigars
Traps perturbed anguish inside prison walls
From which, she knows, there’s no escape.
Initiation period for her was the hardest
When beauty and youth at height of apex
Squandered her magical Cinderella zeal
Abandoning fabled-castle her childhood built
Crying into that gutless, gruesome night
For lacking the force of fortitude to leave
Before she condemned her soul into abyss.
She’s worthless to the heartless crowd now—
A shriveled rose desolate in parched garden,
A discarded bottle of expensive scotch;
So, voicing contempt, like a caged bird she sings
About the wedding night she always fancied
Reciting lyrics, crooning spent feelings,
Whispering the names she picked for her kids.
Look closely at her, she has no chains now,
She can abscond easily whenever she wants
But, alas, no longer has she the desire to fly;
For her mutilated spirits relentlessly bleed
Ever since her own hands clipped her wings.
August 29, 2020
Placed 1st: Woman in chains poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Inspired by Woman in Chains song by Tears for Fears
The ship in the habor on silvery seas
Lay vacant outspread 'neath the glassy moon
Drifting in cold whispers of the night
Like a drunk man shriveled on clasping knees
In the loud echoes of the crawling winds
The brave ship nods its old head
Restless on the empty stage of the bay
When lonely stars bleed their light
On what was once earthly sublimity
Now silence and haunt lingers there
A graveyard of bones and sadness
Beside the desolate harbor
Rustling in the cold distance
Laboring with a haunting melody
That invades me in shivers of night.
Sadness defeats
The happy spaces of my mind
Then your sweet kiss would descend
Oh... your sweet kiss would descend
As a fragrant memory
Thawing the pain
In the frost of my heart.
My soul beckons your presence
But silence became my loyal friend
And Emptiness -
The sorrowing of my hours
That slithers through the night
As the brave ship nods its old head
Crackling and desolate
In silvered breaking waters
'Neath moon's limpid eyes
My hands descend
With crimson buds of April's flowers
To rest upon your tomb
Of eternal silence.
''Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.''
Thirsting, thirsting. . . shriveled earth
suffocates in summer’s dearth,
yearns for rain clouds’ forthwith bursting:
Shriveled earth. . . thirsting, thirsting.
Browning, browning in their beds,
flowers parched hang low their heads.
Daffodils once bright are frowning
in their beds, browning, browning.
Dying, dying – every field,
withering, to fate must yield.
All the world is sadly crying,
every field – dying, dying.
.
Whirling, whirling, comes a wind
arid and undisciplined.
Stagnant heat, pent-up – unfurling,
comes a wind, whirling, whirling.
Whipping, whipping through each plain
(while ignored are prayers for rain),
final blows come swiftly ripping
through each plain, whipping, whipping.
Burning, burning. . . August’s lust
leaves us nothing but the dust.
To dust we soon may be returning:
August’s lust – burning. . . . burning.
An oldie poem of mine that fits my feelings on how the earth
is responding to mankind's disobedience. I hope the world
awakens to the evil around us in time to negate this fate.
For Unseeking Seeker's 'Soul Betrayal ' Contest
An ancient twilight tree now stands alone
with weakened cries of olden creak and groan;
winter’s rattling winds do rise and shake it -
in stark silhouette shriveled and reaching
wizened limbs thirst for Mercy beseeching;
prides the deep roots he laid down that did knit -
Nature bemoans as old oak's overblown.
Susan Ashley
November 29, 2018
~ Second Place ~
Contest: The Last
Sponsor: Silent One
*Overblown: to blow over, away, or across. Late 15c., blown over, passed away. For the purpose of this poem, ‘overblown’ means to fall over by force of the wind.. ‘overblown’ can also be defined as ‘passed away’, which in the context of this poem means ‘the death of’
*Rhyme scheme: AA B CC B A*
Awake through afternoons and ageless nights,
the poet waits for a muse to sneak.
His brumous mind reminisces,
frantically exploring a galaxy of words.
He looks for a lofty mountain hiding in the fog.
He looks for a crimson fireball hiding in the ember.
Wriggles out of the cocoon,
in swirls of slow steps,
tiptoeing in twirls,
shriveled and fragile, the butterfly beau.
He looks at it in passion...with lover's eyes....
Oh!, the poem is still in a grey stupor state.
He sews embroidered thoughts...
Stroked in color, the canvas now veiled,
scrambled cryptic, his emotions corralled.
The enslaved bird in his heart, was now a fugitive,
singing a pellucid song of sweet somber notes.
A virgin music now played in the air,
Thrumming hearts rhyming in bewitched rhythm.
Invisible wind nestled the hair,
he could see the poem smiling.
Silent wind rustled the tree,
he could hear the poem whispering.
Like a blind man enlightened in a dark room,
he could feel the poem coming alive.
He could touch the words in Braille,
the cradle of blind love, caressed the poet's tale.
Resubmited on April 1st 2019/
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement /
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Written on 9th January 2019
Placed 8th in Chantelle Anne Cookes Favorite Free Verse Contest
Placed 6th in Mark Toney2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 Contesy
Lingering within
It sits upon my widow sill,
after all of this time,
the Magnolia bloom you sent
Wilted and shriveled,
once the purest white -
now browned with age
Yet what it is,
is just as beautiful
as what it was
We all age, change
collecting wrinkles and new colors
staring in the mirror
wondering, where did we go
how could this happen
it was just yesterday we were – young, beautiful
Though as I tenderly hold, lift
this flower I know
it still retains
a hint of fragrance,
that sweet aroma of love,
the essence of that day
and its loveliness remains
as if time has no meaning
We need not look any further
than this alluring scent
to know that a bloom
will forever be as beautiful
as every yesterday
it was shared
You are beautiful -
we are all beautiful
regardless of how time
has wilted us -
Open your eyes,
find the fragrance
lingering within
yourself
12/26/16
Written for the Beauty in Disguise Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
I'm choking and shriveled
with this monster in my mind
Were we really free,
Alexander Graham Bell ?
Technical development
Always on duty
How could I forget
It's just the fact of life
The inner voice whispers
... take a look at your mobile
to check if something has happened
... the last 5 minutes
Are we really free?
How much free time is there in the future
that gets blown away in the past ?
13/08/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
18.08.2019 - Poem Of The Week
Her dreams entangled in twisted ropes
perturbed fate of banished desires
innocence shriveled in raging fires
they haven't known her bubbling hopes.
Her existence exhausted in spiral cobwebs
blazing her world in exploding scars
yet wounded faith reaches soothing stars
in her festering pain from tides to ebbs.
Her harmless thoughts chained in fears
seemingly offensive to societal norms
will find an abiding shore through storms
history screams the truth over her tears.
She immerses herself in fearful showers
hurtful memories drowning her rugged mind
beneath oceans of paranoia she will find
enclaves of scarlet heavenly augmented powers.
Her frozen blood begins bubbling her cries
simmered courage sprinkled in layered hues
crushed valor floats in mellows of ashes to fuse
beyond afflicted pain in freedom she will rise.
Divinity reflects through her crystal eyes
splashing colors of flaming crimson tune
perfumed kindness drenching sapphire dune
she dusts her wings, like a Phoenix she will rise.
July 31, 2020
Be Inspired Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
~Premiere Contest Winner: 2nd Place
With bending stem and shriveled leaf
another day of scorching sun
becomes an ache without relief-
a day where growth has been undone.
As baking earth converts to tomb
with thirsting roots, no fruit, no bloom
the end, its arid course has run.
But gathered clouds reveal a sign
of hope that death may not today
lay claim upon this life divine.
A trembled reach, a feeble sway
while droplets small and shy at first
then dazzle down in drenching burst-
delightful flood renews life's play.
Saraband Sonnet~
I enter
the third season of my life
approaching my Autumn years
I marvel
at the shriveled withered leaves
as they silently swirl in the wind
I see
russet, brown and golden ones fall
their decay will soon rejuvenate the soil
I bend
to examine a fallen wrinkled leaf
its veins a reminder of aged wizened hands
I know
my final wish will be granted
when I'm scattered like leaves upon the ground
16/4/18
Written: January 1st, 2023
Rumi's verse, "The desert beckons us as if it were the oasis,"
____________________________________________
An endless, lifeless moor—arid and fright.
A withering sun whips souls—toils to ignite.
Sans shelter or relief, ghost winds stand.
Dry air as shriveled wits seek relief sight.
Spurs appeared as ripples on the sand.
Hidden amid the tall grass of the land.
Quench your thirst at the watery oasis.
Our ravenous thirst for water will expand.
Amid a kaleidoscope of queries rapacious.
Life shrinks to grain of sand on daily basis.
Amid a dust of labor, a haven of serenity.
I was scared upon grasping the base hits.
We're like sand amid an arid sea of dexterity.
Southern blaze stores a feverish posterity.
As a tunic for our ethereal souls improve
Soar twice through the oasis of temerity.
Sky is drawn by daffodil and drifting groove.
Crisp air, soft breeze, and azure feet prove.
Bees buzz over heather, as marigolds rise.
Eagles trim their fierce feathers—rabbits move
Staring into gloom may uncover a prize.
For a dwarf area, glimpse an oasis of apprise.
This domain, this desert, endures best as gold.
It is highly precious than quartz grains size.
Scatterings of color that are scarce and bold.
Covered in a mixture of brown and green folds.
Such a proximity, yet so distant, yet so distinct.
We were transported back to the prior era, told.
A spring that flows with pure water hint
A lush green zone in the arid land succinct
An atmosphere devoid of noise and disarray
Away from adjacent noise or motion instinct.