Best Slatted Poems
Thank you
“And if the sun refused to shine”
Music finds my sleep and calls
from a bedside table,
slits of light through the slatted blinds
create mini horizons on the wall
Time has caught me once again
as Led Zeppelin reminds me
“I would still be loving you”
For the morning throws me back to reality,
the longing in my heart which faded
beneath the moon has returned
to view this bed of only one figure,
reaching out for what was
“When mountains crumble to the sea”
Finding the rocky coastline depicts the feeling
in my heart, as I stumble
Tear filled eyes a constant,
empty arms waving freely in the air
to the haunting rhythm
of a plastic clock radio
“There will still be you and me”
If only music were truth, and truth was a melody,
easily sung regardless of tempo or flow
Key changes finding a bridge
of lonely footprints that take me to your memory,
remembering the good, remembering the days,
and forcing a smile, for each day I whisper
“Thank you”
The italicized lines are from the Led Zeppelin song “Thank You” which inspired this piece
11/14/16
For “The Poet’s Ear” poetry contest
Sponsored by: Greg Barden
POEM
Title: Broken
I was wrong,
So wrong that it hurts,
So wrong that it burns,
And the reason is difficult to discern,
We mathematically solved to get love in return
But lost is what we earned.
I'm Broken inside,
Is it something to abide?
Let put it aside,
Our misunderstanding,
Our conflicts,
Our arguments,
Your fear plus my fear,
Equivalent to my tears,
While I'm sad,
Feeling bad,
Can we knit a happy end?
You love me but you push me away,
You want me but you never stay,
You always leave and do the same with the key,
And it appalls me,
Let's put a halt to this,
Because it's completely at the deadlock.
I don't know what to think anymore,
This feeling is something I abhor,
Intensionally pushing my heart below the floor,
The clock is telling me to raise my white flag,
I think it's time for myself to admit...
I'm tired.
15 fights a night,
Broken glasses, shattered windows,
Slatted doors,
Broken locks, smashed phones,
Scattered home, different tones,
Me pretending to be ok again,
You pretending to love me again,
It's not the way we want it,
Now it's better we stop it,
I'm cracking,
I'm already broken,
I don't want those pieces of me to be broken,
Love was something strong we bestowed,
But has now turned into ashes and desert like the Amazon forest,
Just let me go on,
Before I burn too.
__________________________________________
Writer/Artist
© Artistic Poet????
Esther Shugg
1833 – 1908
A woman’s heart forever resides
In the glowing hearth of her humble home.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
I invite you to my warm and cozy house.
There, on the southwest corner
Of Mar Vista and Pickering Streets.
Venture, if you will, to the little white house
With the lace curtains in the front dormer windows.
Peer, if you will, through those simple curtains
And you will find happiness and priceless joy
Embedded on the paneled papered walls there.
Peek, if you will, through those transparent glass windows
And you will find sadness and hopeless despair
Enmeshed on the slatted wooden floors there.
I married James Shugg in 1855, and
Found rapture on my third finger.
I lost James Shugg in 1882, and
Found heartbreak in his bloodied handkerchief.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
Come to my little cottage on Pickering Street.
Look to the old open window there, and
You will see James and me, mere ghosts now,
Waving from within,
Waving with friendly testimony,
To a life of steadfast love
And melancholy loss.
World shifts, the air thins
In a coastal town...
slatted blinds, every hue from
Warm reds to harsher blues
Hardwired to heaven
Homing instinct with
Different wavelengths
Sunlight scatters
They're more elusive
Ubiquitous in nature
Occasionally frightening
Peaceful yet troubled
Superficial beauty
Bewildering imperfections
Sunlight fades to darkness
What mischief, what gentle
Assistance they can give
In legend, lore
Contest by Charlotte Puddlefoot, " Something Completely Different: Cut-Up Poems
On the anvil that’s the dorp
The noon-day sun beats down.
So between twelve and two
Life in the place is suspended.
Doors to the stores are ‘toe’
And in their dusty windows cheap
Mannequins sleep with open eyes.
The air is still and heavy.
So in the sparse foliage
Of small pepper trees
Feathered creatures perch,
With beaks agape,
And wings spread wide,
Trying to beat the heat.
At the door to the bar
Of the ‘Royal’ Hotel,
In a sliver of shade,
A mastiff lies panting.
Inside the trade is slow.
Manne on barstools
Nurse brandy-and-coke.
House windows are closed.
In the darkened interiors,
Hidden from sight by
Slatted wooden shutters,
People flop on chairs,
Avoid all movement, in
Attempts to beat the heat.
At two a slight sputter of life.
It is ‘government’ employees
Returning to work.
The magistrate and two clerks
Dawdle back to the court.
The post-master and staff
Re-enter the GPO.
It’s still quiet at the ‘Royal’ Hotel.
With no shoppers the doors
Of the stores remain closed.
Under the shade of pepper trees,
Outside the shuttered Co-op,
And alongside the ‘Prokureur’s,
A bakkie and tractor are parked.
The ‘garage’ is deserted
Save for its two Caltex pumps.
From all sun-baked surfaces.
Hot, dry, and dusty air rises.
So every now and then
The wind-pump in my yard
Creaks as it turns a little.
In school classrooms
Pupils slump on desks.
Teachers no longer teach;
“Lees jul voorgeskrewe boek.”
Two-thirty! At last!
The school-day’s over
And also the worst of the heat.
Now en masse
Pupils scurry out,
Head for home, then
After something to eat
It’s back for athletics
On a grass-free track, or
Tennis on concrete courts.
Eventually the glowering sun
Sends streaks of colour
Across the western sky
As it slowly dips out of sight.
Then when twilight is over
The moon is bright and bathes
The town in silvery hues.
By nine o’clock
It’s cool and still
Save for the flutter of moths
Around the outside lights.
And I lie on a bed
Outside on the stoep
With my dog at my feet.
I must sleep
I must sleep
I must sleep
Midnight comes and the night is still
Seconds tick by like water through a mill
I breathe in deeply and focus on the chasm
Wishing for slumber with increasing enthusiasm
Darkness close and warm, with tantalizing draw
Pulling me to sleep just to snatch me from its maw
I must sleep
I must sleep
I must sleep
2am comes; my eyes are dry and sore
I listen to the darkness speak in whispers that implore
That plead, and tease, and ask me to fall
Deep into the blackness that continues to call
I count the seconds like sheep passing over
My exhausted mind wishing that sleep would take over
I must sleep
I must sleep
I must sleep
Half past three, I'll have to wake soon
My thoughts won't rest, swirling like a typhoon
I think of tomorrow, knowing that surely
If I don't sleep now I'll do very poorly
I stare at the ceiling, mocking and heartless
As it stares back at me, scorning sleeps progress
I must sleep
I must sleep
I must sleep
It's five in the morning and dawn creeps in,
Through the thin slatted blinds, light patterns my skin
I wait for the morning to herald its arrival
Knowing that it brings weariness, not revival
Only thirty more minutes 'til the alarm clock hums
I feel myself drift, as sleep finally comes
Pale sleep awakens.
Another light scorns the earth
as crooked fingers lash down,
their jagged streaks slashed by
nagging pall puffs, shattered
by lofty white swirls.
Breath drawn in- then out,
burying itself in rusted, fallowed
dreams and nettled streams of
daylight bleeding through
slatted blinds.
Humming drones of life
whine along bustling streets.
Sphinxian machinery grinds
stone to dust, settling somewhere,
lost in a terra incognita- finding homes
in pink blushed skies, and seaports where
the smell of fish and oil hover over wharfs.
Market flowers wag brilliant heads,
seeking homes. Songbirds scold,
haggling over baptism in shallow basins.
Dead leaves rattle on pavement,
scratching destinies, left to southern winds.
The sun tips its hat to the moon,
and slides to an end...to begin again.
The Last Spike
Helios orb peers cautiously
with guarded optimism
through cracker-slatted clouds
as Thor's divine implement
shatters the morning stillness with the clap of a sonic boom
Mere mortals assigned Herculean tasks
trill a gospel cadence,
their labors heralded as glistening ribbons stretch yon and hither,
a tribute to their genius
and their genesis
Now, as the celestial cotillion materializes
in the ebony overhang
the spinning Mother bids 'Adieu'
as the last rough-hewn iron phallus
penetrates the porus creosote-drenched flesh
with a tempered satisfaction
known only to Gods.........
And those men who will be.
("Hell On Wheels" final episode)
A wind rolled away down a lonely street
Like silent thunder wrenching, reaping dread,
While an ancient man drew the covers up
To thaw old bones reclined on slatted bed.
Phlegmy eyes coughed into wakefulness and
Slid slowly in their sockets to his chest
And Oh! to hear that moan of sheer defeat
When the flagon echoed his emptiness.
His stingy warmth - printed, numbered; scattered
Like yesterday's news and flew with dire mirth
To dance a cloven jubilee of death,
As old boots, so weary, kissed their mother earth.
The wind rolled away down an empty street -
A whispering dirge borne on leaf-soaked cloud
And an ancient man resting, still as night,
Lies waiting, waiting, waiting for his shroud.
Ring damn it!!!
-
Dust collects on the closed slatted blinds
as carpet stains scream each time I walk through
leaving trails of bread crumbs and ashes,
though without you I always find my way back
to those corners in the dark
where cobwebs celebrate solitude
awaiting a face to capture
and laughing as they surf the web
A broken down couch of green fabric,
worn and tattered from unending naps,
groans of feet propped up on its arms
(Blood flow to the brain…yeah whatever)
Beer bottle rings create a drunken mosaic
on a helpless coffee table
between scattered junk mail, wayward Doritos
and a cell phone with an almost dead battery
The one I stare at, waiting for it to chime,
beep, ding, play the Game of Thrones theme song,
whatever the hell it is supposed to do
when you call…when you call
as I am reminded how much I hate commercials,
all of these happy people running around
driving new cars, going out to dinner,
finding name brand shoes at discount prices
Why can’t I forget, lose those memories
File them away somewhere, like a drawer
in the kitchen I never use, it’s no use,
you are there, always on my mind
That smile, those eyes, the times I felt truly loved
and I still laugh…me, loved? Maybe that was the problem,
maybe that was my problem,
maybe I was the problem…ring damn it!!!!
On the seventeenth floor
I spend too many days
Staring into my hands as though
They might reveal something…
As though looking
Will cause all the things
That were once there
To reveal themselves once more
My feet sketch the cracks in
My slatted floor length windows
As though they will, once again
Be covered with a glossy heel
As though they will be walking up the steps
Of a familiar dwelling
As though my toes will curl up
In the same soft sheets that
They knew last spring
My eyes continue to blink
Hoping that once, they will open to
A different reality
That might see a familiar face
One that used to love me
That held me down softly
That stretched me out
That opened my starving lungs
That knew and filled my heart
So well.
But no…
my hands stay empty
And my feet stay cold
My eyes remain open
And this place swallows me whole
I’m missing you like yesterday
Homer Brunett
1879-1912
You didn’t think it would be easy? Did you?
Life squirms incessantly,
As with the molting snake,
Turning and squeezing into mortal convolutions,
With myriad forgotten episodes
Of human triumph and tragedy,
Of endless drama in the slatted houses;
Life is constantly lurching and lunging, ever forward,
Under those silent indifferent clouds, up there!
But time is the ultimate mind master,
He knows where the switches to the stop gates are.
He knows when to open the field sluices awash!
We foolish human beings inevitably
Get taken by the rushing flood waters,
Get completely swept away by the undertow,
Helpless against the madding confluence,
Ending up as tears on the faces of the bereaved.
This is my final testament and statement!
That of an intelligent dead man!
Fibreglass fibre optics frame fielding farmers. Fielding farmers are not playing rounders today. They are pushing little feet into wellington boots then chasing a lone sheep whilst riding on a two ton heifer who wears a saddle and a harness with pride. Oh dutiful tulip your lips of hues are chewing the dews. Like a wheel arch covers in rain spat up from puddled ground. Puzzling puzzles protrude profusely. And passions are pausing players in a table whirl of dingbats' cafe. Number eleven is a fine wine of a diplomat but diplomats are neither delivery drivers notes nor are they noted diplomatic demonstrators demonstrating delivered deletions. Combat no cereal cake in a square cup of milk. For shaking around and around is akin to lying down on a bed of spiked cactus. Z Categorical cat cushions Z Meteorological Z at forty nine baked buns to seven bundles of bacon beaks. X
The meeting point. Where candle smoke, mixed with incense, meanders through the air. A latent image developing, like a polaroid of prayer, into microscopic particles of silver, weaving into an undulating bridge reaching to heaven. This writhing wreath of smoke, twisting in the sun’s rays, that probe with bright fingers, through slatted windows high above. Here, in this place, the fears, the worries, the kaleidoscope of chaos we call life, melts and dissipates, like the drifting, venerable vapours. I am emptied but enriched. In the presence of a love that bids me return, that reassures me, gives me courage, fulfilment and peace. The spirit surges, firing up within me like the old boiler in our hallway, roaring with love, re-igniting the flame planted within in me long, long ago.
Renewed, forgiven.
Reconciled. I understand.
I am not alone.
Buttocks push; breasts boast
through non-existent crowds.
A choreographed squall
above the whir and clunk
of loaded appliances.
Hispanic girls acting out
in a Laundromat.
Hips gesture, hands stab
and tussle with unwashed issues.
I’m distracted by the overheated hum,
can’t read the print
of my paperback. Words run
naked over yellow pages
The girls are angry
but not with each other.
Skimpy shorts and gang-inks.
The porous waft of feral hormones
seethes over some slight,
branded onto a Facebook page.
They flop onto the slatted bench
produce a smart phone,
scroll through pictures,
moue and glower softening
as baby shots are thumbed.
Melting smiles, then
they hold up the cell for me to see.
we coo and smile together.
The they return to their world
and I to mine.
When they get up
the backs of their thighs
are marked by the wooden seat.
Washing spins on.