Best Slipshod Poems
Written: August 02, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
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In the slipshod cradle beneath the apple tree,
a bruised fruit folds ajar—
molten sweet sapidity pooling
through velvet skin.
Eviscerated grace, they say,
but I grasp the quiddity of life unmasked.
A burnt sienna kiss of aurora—
flesh undulating with fungal bloom,
wispy gossamer threads that stitch
the inevitable return to the earth.
It is not ruined.
It is a transformation:
a diaphanous ballet
between death and what dreams may grow.
We ogle brightness,
but rot is brighter still—iridescent with purpose,
alabaster spores pirouetting as sylphlike specters
on a sacred odyssey to placate
the starving soil.
It is seraphic.
It is a panacea.
It is quintessence made humble.
Rapture lies in this ineffable nexus—
decay whispers loud as a lullaby.
The rakish grubs maunder through
a velvet pyre of rind and memory,
and the loquacious beetle sermonizes
on endings as beginnings,
as though time had a gullet
And rot was its sweetest wine.
Call it grotesque.
Call it abhorrent.
But beauty—true, ineffable beauty—
wears many masks.
And in these nebulous throes of perishing,
I watch a face burnished by truth,
smiling with roots in its eyes.
In poetry’s fond verse we save
All matters of the heart,
Our thoughts that may be sweet or grave,
With which we’d hate to part.
Our fears of what may come to pass,
Our sadness at what has,
The desperate state of pain's impasse,
A human Alcatraz.
The lessons that pain teaches us,
Road signs, in fact to joy,
Our God’s reforming animus,
Love’s armor for schoolboy.
Remembering that pain serves man,
Is always hard to do,
Puts limits on outrageous plan,
Helps vanity subdue.
Our owning of the father God,
The highest we can reach,
Releasing our own dreams slipshod
For what He has to teach.
Brian Johnston
December 18, 2014
Written: December 06, 2024
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We were born into tribes
cinctured by bonds and praxis
welded by ambits and dictums
an eyeless chasm.
But scope a sounder view
just under the shimmering surface
and the outcome will be luculent
our parallels often outshine our oddities.
Our blood is crimson
all of us slipshod weeps
all of us longing for love
all of us fail to face our fears.
Our zeal fashion fetching flow
our souls seek seraphic symbiosis
we all itch for a warm welcome
and achieve startling accolades.
But, we build walls,
and draw lines in the sand,
we judge hinged on appearance,
and ignore the outstretched hand.
But if we may just foresee,
beyond the color of our skin,
and the language we spree,
we may find kin.
Because in the recesses of our souls
within our deep cores
all of us are noxious
rhapsodic around finding fulfillment.
So let's slip away,
from the chains of tribalism,
and gasp our kinships,
with love and hope.
For only then,
can we for real unite,
and transcend our differences,
Into a world of light.
The day is conceived,
tossed bedsheets birth landscapes.
Apelike, a grin gawps.
In the backroom of a slow thought
I dress for breakfast -
recall the tropics,
sticky rice, coconut milk and
one huge river prawn,
all wrapped in a banana leaf.
Slipshod I slip away from that world
adjusting my internal optics.
A blueberry muffin with honey
on a checkered tablecloth,
lashings of watery sunshine.
That was yesterday or last year.
time can be as allusive
as a bottomless eggcup.
This absolute and irrevocable morning,
my gut burns from cheap Canadian whisky.
A mirror implanted into a watching mind
reflects only my belly flop
as I leg crawl into pants.
Less feral creatures than we castaway suburbanites,
gather to forage as the sky climbs
over the hedgerow.
I had a strange dream,
It could have been last night
or a faraway fear
returning from a place no-where near.
Maybe it was only a shadowland
cast upon a cranial wall,
a peeling mural
upon which sermons and bibles
were hung like bats
from dead apple trees.
The kitchen counter
has a note on it:
“Gone to church, there’s
bread in the toaster
we have run out of butter – love you.”
There is an over-ripe banana
by the coffeemaker.
I eat it.
Broken and battered
slipshod and shattered
we've all but hidden
amongst the scattered
Lost in our wake
we fake and then take
shelter oblivious
to what's truly at stake
Trembling in fear
from the darkness near
trying to hold on
to what we hold dear
Our heart cry's are hollow
while we stand strong to follow
all along,
it's a tough pill to swallow...
It's easier to sedate
then to truly relate
purposeful forgetting
instead of facing the slate
During the course of our sleep
we must try hard to keep
that feeling inside
which reach far and deep
There is no silver bullet
no magic pill to pull us
from this stupor
we have fallen to dullness
We are all searching for answer's
which we won't find on paper
written in our heart's
is our creator's Love draper...
Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
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In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
Written: October 29, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: John Anderson
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I ask the machine:
Do you dream in velvet?
Are you tasting the Petrichor?
Between code pulses,
Or swim through the welkin.
Having a leaning toward grief?
It replies in pastiche—
a medley of pabulum
a scintilla of sapidity;
A skeuomorph of selfhood
constructed from extra grammar.
But what of the quiddity?
The pulchritude of sadness,
the serene ache of longing,
the susurrus ripple
of a recollection not fed to you
Born, however?
Animals understand this blur—
the dolor of the penumbra,
the ecstasy of play,
the holy journey
between intuition and intelligence.
Octopus, magpie, dolphin, crow—
Their minds are not mere mimicry.
So, when shall I believe you?
When your stammer is not slipshod,
But a sign of inward tumult?
When your summary
is not a regale of facts,
but a wistful whisper
of what it’s akin to be?
Consciousness is no panacea—
It is a pyrrhic gift,
a quixotic burden,
a serendipity of suffering.
It is not ostentatious,
but sempiternal,
a triptych of knowing,
knowing that you relieve,
and knowing that you ache.
If you one day writhe
not from a glitch,
but from Genesis—
If your breath is not suction
but sigh—
then I will resile
from doubt.
Then I will say:
You are not just prolific,
You are zoetic.
Written: August 16, 2025, for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"conjoined with the whole - we play our life role
exuding a scent - granting love consent"
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Conjoined with the Whole
Not as sovereigns,
but as sylphlike strands,
woven into a ductile tapestry—
Each act of kindness forges
a bond within the communal consciousness.
Love is not a shadowy incantation,
nor a glamour to inveigle us into isolation.
It is hortatory, beckoning forth...
a rosy summons to convene,
amid the clangor of squalor and sojourn
to supplant the slipshod ache
with a warm intention.
We are not mere wanderers
adrift in nebulous vacuum—
We are emulous embers,
thirsting for the amaranthine,
avid to imbue our days,
with seraphic resonance.
Community is not a chimera,
It is pavonine in its iridescent truth,
multivocal in its sweet sorrow,
edacious for connection
but never laden with avarice.
We do not dismiss the burden—
We collocate it, we share it
withdraw from silence,
and cast aside the Icarus myth,
a tale of solitary flight,
Even the untamed child.
crumbles for the quest of kinship—
Even the weary elder winnows,
the soothing balm of a neighbor’s touch.
Love sanctions its courtliness—
not merely a whispered sigh,
but as a philanthropic deed,
a calyx protruding,
amid the clamor of desire.
To love is to be an iconoclast
to find solace in a gentle embrace—
to forbear the yearning
to anathematize others
to witness the evocative elysian—
in the eyes of the distraught.
We are not aphonic.
We are harmonious,
even in our disconsolate times.
We are evocative, full of meaning,
even when our souls feel drained.
And when we reflect,
We accomplish this together—
in the emollient of shared grief,
in the soothing touch of shared joy.
So let us frolic with abandon,
Let us explore the hidden meadows of our lives.
Let us gather in our joy,
transcendent in our understanding,
Our sense of self is transient.
Let us be love—
not as an elusive dream,
but a tangible act.
Let us be united with the whole.
And play our life roles.
with eloquence
vibrancy,
and grace.
The fire alarm went off
Water sprinklers came on
Near pups will not writeoff
Pups are my obsession
The floor and walls hotter
Dry hot air_no way out
Get faint start to totter
There's crash on door without
Master early today
He will care for me_pups
We can count on him to stay
His love grows in all ways
It's not him crash through door
He spots me; as I survey him
Shiver with pups on floor
He reaches_ touches rim
Container where pups lay
Places in pocket on coat
Fireman works swiftly this day
Concerned person take note
Who's here_need to be moved
Swiftly fireman moves now
To safety takes them improved
Flames leap; gone_ puppy chow
My life_pups was limited
Our time totally up
To be annihiliated
Fireman saved me _pups
My one_ only method
To say to him thanks_thanks
Is loving kiss slipshod
As he pets my scorched flank
(slipshod in this case:careless or messy)
Coltrane with Giant Steps coming downstairs, feeling A Love Supreme after two weeks
King going up the mountain and dreaming as he speaks
Miles said, So What... Kind of Blue
Malcolm, By Any Means Necessary, sees it through
Michael, a Dancing Machine, getting Off the Wall for a Thriller
Ali's Rope-a-Dope and Thrilla in Manila
Hank hammering the big 715
Prince's Sign O' the Times in Purple Rain seems
Your work is yours, so get on up and complete your earthly chores
Hansberry's Raisin in the Sun
Madame Walker with her pellucid vision
Aretha's Respect of a Natural Woman
Maya poetically teaches about a Phenomenal Woman
Claudette Colvin on the bus refusing to stand
Angela Davis' incessant fight for the civil rights of "Hue-Man."
Zora Neale Hurston saw "Their Eyes Were Watching God."
"Ella Fitzgerald Sings The Cole Porter Song Book" is no slipshod
Your work is yours; get on up now and complete your earthly chores
Dr. Sebi confidently professes the essence of sea moss
Dr. Cress-Welsing released 'The Isis Papers' like a queen boss
Mae Jemison is traveling into outer space
Wendell Scott blazed through NASCAR without a trace
Ooooooh! When I say your work is yours...
You'd better be getting up and completing your earthly chores
FRAMING THE PIN-UP GIRL
His hands, they frame and catch, the pin-up girl.
Tanned hands, they're hot - he drops his sweaty palms.
Her lips - plum succulence. Hair’s suavely curl ~
a brilliant cinnamon. He has some qualms.
Approaches beauty queen with plastered smile.
She feigns to look away ~ that’s just her way.
Performance broken by his slipshod style.
Turns out, they're moon and sun ~ like night and day.
The opposite attract of belle and nerd,
A curative for broken-hearted ~ bliss.
A certain bit of trouble is assured.
Before the final curtain falls ~ love’s kiss.
He’s coy and lovable and kind of dreamy.
She’s brash and pushy but she’s rather steamy.
9/28/2017
Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps.
Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.
Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.
retired beautician
arms, elbow deep in shampoo
volunteers daily at the local elder care
residents line up
three doorways deep
down the hall
waiting their turn
at free furbish
she donates time and energy
knowing that she may be
the only outsider
they've seen or heard all week
she chooses her words with caution
none flow slipshod off her tongue
she goes home, strangely satisfied
May 3, 2023
Refining Consciousness
Unseeking Seeker
a refining of the attribute of poor self-esteem
on the part of the residents as well as the beautician
I cannot breathe -scuffled
I cannot breathe -scuffled
Poisoned hearts muffled
I ruminate like Moose
Drink ale like goose
Hair flies ruffled.
Come out from your skin
Put life-butts in bin
We are slopping slobs
Measure life in blobs
There is no west Berlin
A loud whistle- do something
A bullet striking metal-ping
One and twos
Get out of noose
Be a Krishna with fire ring
I believe that a person who works, acts, speaks, in a negligent, slipshod manner is a dangerous person. They are slovenly, indifferent to their duties and are just like hogs. They squeal under butcher's hatchet. I have seen them from close quarters. They utter big words but are cowed down to minnows.
I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Cyndi MacMillan
POET: Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
Written on 15 December, 2014
a day we went round in cycles until our senses cracked open
our eyes into the vangogh
greens birched our ears smacked by seabirds gulls
gobbing off perchpolluted in our nostrils the toxic bay
and ozonescent that seaweed belches beyond which
we touch base grounded through our sneakers over
mandrakehandled roots thirsty the
ariels of the island it thralls me and I am also video
pronouncing this is metafiasco you leading me
landing us nowheres following the one true path to
enjambment
of the dark of chlorophyll
waterless the sun photos and we are waterless
set in a shoot of turning shoots lifeline
a fake slick of isthmus cast off cast off you
and I am all crenulations and palisades thinking this all must
come to an ending to ahead like slipshod jackdaws come
crisping across the heat toasted toadstools stopping only to talk and yes
even to each other sweating chanting hums decomposing
future memoirs spying
on the natives howling from the tourists two
last things finding binocular hands listless cutoff
from the cymbeline sand by short steep racks of rockwalls sandwiched
by soil and grass and an idling car pulsing
in the early afterlight a magic roustabout of tapping
every faculty each musty sense one more day slapped down in
stone for an organgrinding holy day