Best Slimed Poems
A slippery sloppery slipping snail
Slithered slimed and slid on the floor
Feeling hurried harried hungry and helpless
As starlings screeched spiraled and saw
That slippery sloppery slipping snail
Who slithered slimed and slid on the floor
A fluttering of feathers fell frighteningly fast
Meant that slippery sloppery slipping snail
Who slithered slimed and slid was no more.
© DAW
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
The Broccoli on the left picked up its Spear
And stabbed the Corn on the right, right in the Ear
The Avocado Artichoked the Zucchini
Before the Pepper rang the Bell on that meanie
The Onion went to Bed on the Lettuce and cried
Afraid that the Beets on the side were all Red cause they died
The Okra came in and slimed the whole affair
While the Yams slammed and Squashed the Cauliflower
The Peas ended up with Black Eyes
Next to the Potatoes that were mashed up and fried
The Cabbage brought it all to a head
Which Steamed the Asparagus with all that was said
There once was a fight on my plate
In front of my face while I ate
Urges ushered Est’bel out of her abode –
a cottage cobbled together from cobwebs and clapboard –
and she scuttled forth,
her nesty hair tousled
by a leaf-laced breeze
In her bony hands she clutched
dregs of a nightmeg broth
in a porcelain jar stoppered
by a coffinwood shard
Her bare feet stepped on thorny twigs
but she felt them not,
for her soles had been hardened
by countless treks across hot coals
washed up from stygian shoals
Leftward she turned,
meandering down the narrowing, twisting path,
where uprooted mandrake tendrils
clutched at her anorexic ankles,
while ravens pecked at her frayed follicles,
until she snatched a leaf
from a passing philodendron,
folding it into a tri-cornered hat
and plunking it atop her pate,
rakishly askew
Dewey sap from twisty-trunked trees
dripped onto the nape of her gnarly neck
and a raven on a nearby branch
cawed his amusement,
earning him her owlish scowl
She spied a row of rotting poppies
and plucked a bunch,
sticking them into a crevice of her hat,
then stepped onto a walkway of cracked shale slabs,
which shunned her footprints,
replacing them with snail streaks
to mark her passing
She made her way to a listing tombstone
atop a gnarled knoll encased in gelid moonbeams
and fringed by shushing sawgrass
She took a small vial of indigo glass
from beneath her shabby shawl
and pulled out a stopper made
from a finger bone of an unfaithful lover
whose pickled tongue hung from a
silver chain around her neck
She poured the contents of the vile vial
into the porcelain jar and
listened to the fizz.
It subsided into sloshes,
reminding her of the sounds
issuing from demented shells
snatched from the forlorn shores
of stygian shoals
She gaped at the sky
as an owl flew past the moon,
stirring the dark craters,
which broke up into swirling spirals,
sucking lunar beasts beneath the surface,
where they dissolved in the ceaselessly sliding sands
And Est’bel raised the jar to her lips
and drank a toast to the moon,
and awaited the enshadowed shades
drifting down the snail-slimed pathway,
propelled by a leaf-laced breeze
Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn
Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph
On show for all who take this path
To know Sir John is buried here
Beneath his coat of arms.
This baronet, the eigth in line,
Esteemed to serve his king or queen,
A gentleman of East India's refined
Who sojourned and often richly dined
At home in Berkley Square
Now companion to the chafer, the cadys,
And the countless creeping crawling things,
While passers by have come and gone
Without admiring glances
Since eighteen thirty one.
To line the row beside sir John
Writ great and good in Portland stone
The largest slabs bear names long gone:
A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth
And a James.
The births, the deaths and all the
Dear belovedness, now mossed
And mildewed, chafed by morning frost,
And slimed by creeping slugs across
Each cold grave table top.
But there by winter's Flowering Cherry
Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple
Beside the yew with scarlet berry,
Stands a smaller upright stone,
Beloved daughter to John and Mary.
Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age:
'Early bright and transient,
Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled,
Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven',
To the saviour that she knew.
Righteousness expressed in struggle’s ply,
comes shining in a single lifetimes chance;
From life’s shadows dim a gift will rise,
explicit in one solemn watcher’s glance;
Prosperity’s plex is so placed in hand,
but fortune’s bless those blind deny;
Bliss from one’s valid efforts blocked,
results in stress and tears from failure’s fry;
Delivered not is the finisher’s fee,
collected is butt, and not success’ pride;
Covertly served is an effort’s worthy try,
reward, is goodness, and a steady upheld bide;
Worth’s weight, the lowest hanging bough,
when weighed by the thinker that seeks to vide;
Value thus, when shared is given gratefully,
without the thoughts of a profiteering mind;
Presents to those of worldly wiles,
one dilemma, upon which the fool will find;
Clarity flexed removing one’s clouds of doubt,
what “gold” then mined, supplies a lifelong tithe;
Fulfillment is extract cast from nature’s whey,
nourishment enough for every creature’s clime;
Surely now greed can be wholly sacrificed,
and stress from the chase of cash be slimed;
Follows simple logic does this gist,
that once given a gift, the bearer of such will shy,
Away from snide and lowly self-intent,
and allow a higher thought to clear life’s cloudy skies;
From unknown facts, to time’s knowledge let,
each giver grants to all their generous boon;
Transgressions pushed aside are but truths to whet,
when honed by honesty, and in divinity hewn;
Hold these ‘truths’ expressed, prove mind’s suppress,
can be cleared for all, and not spent as garbage strewn.
Granger was in danger,
An alien landed in his yard,
So he slimed him with his slime-gun,
The alien running hard.
The alien jumped into his rocket ship
And pulled the portals down,
He blasted into space
With a great big alien frown.
Granger told his parents,
They just laughed and shook their heads,
That is until they saw the scorch marks,
Just near the old chook sheds.
FOR THE NEW TORCH BEARERS (REVISITED)
(APROPOS MLK: PART 2)
They voyaged over many tempestuous oceans and seas;
They were pursued in woods by vicious dogs—dogs
Salivating stale slave smells of strange fruits
In hanging trees.
They were hunted, trapped and penned like slimed
Wild hogs.
They waded rivers—buoyed by the bodies of their ancestors;
Footprints left in caked blood on river banks in the golden dawn.
Now here we are; standing in the mist of our debtors:
flaming spirits from the black phoenix’s spawn. We’re now
on the everlasting arm of which the ancestors leaned upon.
We are those of which the ancestors long ago spoke;
We are the dream that sustained them during their bloody ‘buke
and lashing scorn;
We are the moored vision and anchor that strengthen them
with audacious hope.
So come chosen children, everybody gather here around;
Let us sit together—talk and pray for just a little while.
Like papa, keep your eyes on the prize—not on the ground;
Walk well down the blood stained path of freedom’s aisle.
Listen children, the battle is not yet won; there’s still much work
left for us to get done.
Girdle yourselves with that ebony pilgrim’s pride—facing
the rising sun of a new day begun.
Rise up little children and give rebirth to the words
the ancestors said!
Rise up little children and cover yourself with the blood
they have shed!
Rise up little children and rip apart the new veiled shackles
and hidden yoke!
Rise up little children—raising your torches higher
than everlasting hope!
You are the new torch bearers of the dream;
You are today’s Martin Luther King.
Aye, Spanish Needles, far from native shore
We the Diaspora exult to meet
Though our station, not what we dreamt of yore
Is battered by grimy dust and slimed sleet
Aye, Spanish Needles, still unbowed you stand
A dazzling prince in a far foreign land.
Dreaming gold reposed on ivory stars
Where evening's chill draws near the weary night
Shining still despite dusty mannered cars
Aloof in their suburban hedge from blight
I see you huddled in mass fore my eyes
Aching through El Dorado's balmy sighs
Extreme doubt supposed in old poet's tale
Of woodland springs and love's certain patience
Your hardy forms admit a desert gale
Thrashing grim your tropic resilience,
Beside beaten edges, and brackish yards
Still hold time's beauty against fate's crude cards.
Aye, Spanish Needles, resident aliens
From another shore, what long age brought you
From the ocean's salt milk, and fresh grievance
To stake your claim to Conquistadors' clue
This Florida had breast to fountain new youth?
Will you now tell islands this empty truth?
Juan Ponce De Leon took back nothing too
Except the joy of the great river here
But I have seen gold softened by silk dew
On regal petals protesting time's wear
And I have kept better company than
Ribault, Jackson, or the old Cowford clan.
Aye, Spanish Needles, brother of the earth
With me, dare my heart now its hope to green
Like you from this rustic place telling mirth
In golden gold and whitest white yet seen
Something in your character is changed here
Something common is now a beauty rare.
It is the mettle of our birth for each pain
To mirth, and wear love's beauty like the stars
Singing redemption songs with tears for rain
And count for medals our battles bright scars
Aye, Spanish Needles, bright golden and white
My heart like a ship rejoice you hold the light.
Beside the beaten edge in full abandon
There prolific in your numbers, a car
Of rubbery resilience, in my
ADIOS MACHO IMAGE
It used to be-
How many times I’ve said those four words –
To put it bluntly a real man was hairy
If bald he grew a beard and moustache and
I mean a HUMDINGER!
Check out the old westerns
And hey! by the way Santa was macho
If a man be skin-clothed like an ape
Automatically he was tough!
Nowadays though
More and more the skin-head is in vogue
“The clean look”
Lean and mean?
Well not necessarily
The detestable wimp might fit the image
Though the wimp would probably just get a mocking
head-rub
Oh bring back those good old days
When the lady knew by kissing her man
what he had for lunch
When a skin-headed man usually covered it up
When the cigar smoke clung and slimed the moustache
You could smell a REAL man coming from half-a-block away
HIRSUTE MEN UNITE!
Down with the phallic image!
My entire history is not as it should be
I am always now a proximal potential
Twisted into whirlwinds by latent agony
And you the cause of fate's differential
Of mass and fortune, of virtue
Slimed by malice that you spew
What type of thing are you? What foul it
Pretentious so of a human inheritance?
Evil is the leather of your cankering spirit
That performs pious penance for penitence
With the salt gallows of tears
That hang disbelief on slivers that spears.
You lie with artful ease and so manipulate
The prayers that man sees, and all this
So you can control love and so dominate
The praise measures each dole of bliss
You pretend to give. I walk no stagnant path
Embraced your sterile wrath, malignant.
You may manipulate history, not my being
Not anything that God has imaged into me
For freedom to live is the only right I, willing,
Surrenders not, it is my only property
Claimed by love of God, and deed in blood
That defies my destiny as merely mud.
I appropriate it as a privilege to exist, to be
Willing to bring extinction to all threats
And for it justify my hatred of your iniquity.
So let me apart without the feign regrets
Knowing you is suffering more than mortal
Keeping me is tragedy more than fatal.
Nothing this woman does surprises me.
The tip of my tongue still alive
with her taste; with salt
from the reservoir gathered
in passion and pondered by three sheepish freckles
left blushing near the small of her back. My wife
is cooking breakfast for dinner this evening:
The quick crack of shell meeting skillet.
The slow after-sizzle of raw egg
having slimed down the ladder through smoky air
to bubbly bacon grease waiting below.
The smell of it all.
Coffee
begins
to
drip.
Soon one fried egg.
Two strips of bacon.
Toasted wheat bread with slightly melted butter
and always sticky strawberry jam
cut corner to corner -
two perfectly compatible right-triangles
in a blonde smattering of crumbs
on the plain white circle before me.
There is a tall glass of orange juice to the right of
my plate.
My wife
is the coffee-drinker in our house.
Our five-year old daughter is off
in another room playing house with stuffed iguanas
and a sticker book.
Outside
on the garden
a hushed evening rain.
Purple petunias long past their fade. Purple to dust.
Her daughter’s red tricycle rusts.
Reading the Sunday funnies, my wife silently sips her coffee.
The house has long been silent
where ghosts rinse their wares.
MUD LARKING
Since a kid having a habit of treasure hunt,
whenever got a chance to go on riverside
picking pebbles slimed with pale mud,
scavenging for precious something submerged in alluvial deposit
of holy majestic River Ganges flowing beside my hometown.
During my childhood I accompanied my Grand Mom off and on
when she went to bathe in the river.
Once Grand Mom took me to watch a mini flood.
The tide became violent whelming, perplexing me.
My heart was swollen observing aqua opulence thrashing on bank.
Long staircase of the bathing spot leading to river on gradual immersion.
Strong tide lasted for forty minutes or so.
High rise of water level diminished leaving the usual clay and sludge.
I rejoiced starting my venture of search.
Got startled to find a golden locket
though later it turned a trinket,
yet it was preserved as gem in my vault, a toffee-box.
Next year on vacation, went to Great Grand Mom’s place
Close by flowing a slender stream running giggling with little brittle ripples
I collected two stones: one regular octagonal shaped
sparkling shining glistening.
In frolic mood I showed that to all,
where Mom’s Cousin brother was present
He insisted Mom to give him the stone.
Mom took it away and gifted to her cousin.
An innocent helpless child was cheated.
Second one opaque irregular prismoid with a sharp pointed tip.
It could cut glass perfect precise, a typical property of diamond.
I preserved it for many years but later lost.
As per my medical declaration, remnants of my bone and ash
to be put on River Ganges to blend with clay.
May be on rebirth, me as child to go for mud larking
on edges of River Ganges.
04/06/20
The team was on the field and victory was at hand. Yes, everything seemed wonderful, then
David slimed the band. He did it with such style and grace you'd think that it was
planned. Not one musician got off clean, when David slimed the band. The flutes were
sprayed with sticky goo, Their players filled with scorn. the band leader got all slimed
when David blew his horn. The football players turned their heads in scorn and heard all
the band say " There is no doubt that were all grossed out as they all ran away. Next week
they'll all wear rain coats, and gloves upon their hands and blame it all on one trumpet
call, when David slimed the band.
Form:
Salutations!
Are we all just a figment of GOD's imagination?
Or just a simple angle of schematical equation.
Perhaps, we’re just a footnote in God’s mental thots?
He’s gotta BIG BANG Universe to run, does He not?
Are we all flashing back on one of God's holy hallucinations?
Walking on water, EGGSHELLS! Raise Cain! Raising you know what and who!
Are we all just a spark in God’s expecting spectacular speculations?
Or a One-time ticking timebomb from nuclear annihilation.
Are we all just a coat God puts on His “quotations”?
Keeping us in order with anti-inflammation.
Rambling hypocrisies, babbling Biblical prophecies.
Or are we all just simply subjects of our own bad inventions?
Subjected to the whims of fanatical sabbatical radical intentions.
Getting lost in a crowd, getting lost at Sea, Dead to the world.
What’s to become of me? I’m only one but I’m not alone.
I’m only one... one amongst millions and millions of Billions!
Who all call Earth HOME! Don't we all call Her home?
Billions who just aren’t me! Yet sorta look like me. But do they think like me?
Do they love life? Do they seek out the truth, new life and Lady Liberty?
Peoples who wanna share, peoples who wanna care, peoples who wanna dare
To have a positively positive outlook on life!
Wanna little betta Light to Sunshine on, you, see?
Wanna betta lifeboat just to stay afloat, indubitably?
Are they capable. Of being civilly chivalrous, acting responsibly?
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be freee!
Free from the scrutinizing eyes of oppression and tyranny
Free from the sympathetic lies of social suicidal tendencies.
Are we all just a sing-along of one of Gods’ songs unsung?
Justa tryin to figure out whatta hell is going on.
Or are we all just a song in a Godsong sing-along?
Just tryin to figure out what da hell is going on.
What if ...
We’re NOT all just figments of God’s imagination
But possibly, there's no other possible rationally obtained explanation
For all the misconceptions and misinformation ordained!
Are we all really looking forward for this final absolution?
Over population, crime, world domination, slimed, improper pollution
Best to jest to keep on singing songs
And just keep on blindly playing along
With God fearing reindeer games.
Oh my, time flies ...
The Dreamer never dies!
Nature's anvil your hearth did score
Fodder pared from such balmy core
Residual chaff bartered to marine store
Parceled for distant, steamy shore
Billowy waves, your shallow mast is born
No banner, gilded sails your trite estate to adorn
Rudderless barge, with drifting currents your hull borne
Tossed to and fro, of steadying anchor shorn
Your rough-hewn cover slimed corroding each side
Your bark-lined deck withering, leached hide
Resinous fibers bleached by each, briny tide
Sturdy bough eroded along the jostling ride
O'er time brokered to some distant land
Beached on a coarse, lifeless strand
Each callous band scrolled with the swells you have spanned
Depleted contraband seeking a mending hand