Best Slithered Poems
The ignorant ones claim,
I'm full of petty problems,
a slave to the darkness,
but if only they had seen
how I've slaughtered
malicious demonic sea creatures
that slithered along my spine,
undisturbed nor provoked.
You are the singing sunrise
to my sultry sunset,
weaving silver sonnets
from beige ballads
seducing my spirit
into sweet slumber—
igniting nocturnal
Novembers with
crimson showers
upon sepia stems,
because It's no longer
the climatic chaos I fear,
it's the calm you've crafted,
continuing to be
my constant comfort.
Your devotion adds
color and clarity in my once
monochrome existence,
as you've polished
the dimmed stars in my eyes,
they now glitter like
shimmering fireflies,
a reincarnation
of the strength
from Freyja's tears,
after you kissed them
with your silken soft sagas.
When the days begin
to dawn upon dreary dusks
you've aromatized my
universe with summer scents.
Thor's thunder could
not demolish our
kind of spring as
our celestial spirits
float around the nine realms.
A part of you will
forever rhyme as
clusters of couplets
fated to be,
the rest of you flow
like simple stanzas
of empathic free verse.
As my story will make
Odin ashamed, and
Fenrir cry, so when all
the beauty of butterflies
congest my throat,
preventing me from
pouring dreams of
stardusts upon
your selfless quill…
always remember us
for the times we swayed
and enclasped into
our own silhouette,
running from the
stormy disarray of society’s
serpentines,
swimming in Satanic
sapphire seas.
Whilst the debt I owe
for your generosity will drown
me in endless poetry,
floating on metaphors
without blueprints,
keeping the vampires
from Beelzebub's door,
releasing me from the
chains of uncertainty …forevermore.
A BUSH FIRE
One scorching afternoon,
A sudden splintering sound was heard,
The nearest was the buffalo herd,
They smelt the smoke and felt the heat,
And began to charge, they had to beat,
The, scorching red hot fire.
The monkeys who swing and never tire,
Screeched loudly in tongues,
Whilst smoke, stole oxygen out of their lungs.
A mighty midget the porcupine,
Warned chancers that his quills so fine,
Would incur great pain
Not only a red blood stain,
For he dreaded to be turned belly up,
And had no intention, of being anyone’s sup!
The birds began to fly very high,
Away from the smoke, in the sky.
The unfortunate tortoise lost his way,
And sadly, with his life, had to pay.
The giraffe with tall spindly legs
Ran wildly destroying nests and eggs,
His wildness came from his wrath,
And, the chaos along his path.
The animals ran faster away from the fire,
Whilst the flames leapt higher and higher.
A mamba slithered forward next,
Whilst a frightened cub looked on perplexed,
A Zebra, tripped and broke his back,
Causing more confusion in this race track.
The springbok and hyena together ran,
They were now close to the water pan,
The pan was next to a river,
Would they make it,
Each animal began to quiver,
Could the springbok be tomorrow’s lunch,
A tree falls with a thud and crunch,
Distracting the hyena from his would be munch!
The fox cunningly glances from side to side,
Nimbly a burning log jumps wide.
The lions mouth their cubs gently but tight,
As they run from this horrendous plight.
But water is in sight!
Everyone is close to the finish line,
This race has become competitively fine,
The crocodiles are savagely waiting to dine!
They have spotted their first meal,
The frightened perplexed cub hurriedly steal.
Only a quarter,
Can get into the water.
A stampede starts, animals clamber over each other,
The young ones protected by their mother.
Unfortunately only the strongest will survive,
To tell future generations of their strive,
Of what it’s like, living a bush veld life.
T' was a shallow creeping envy,
Of a deviant design;
It slithered In quietly undetected,
To prey upon unsuspecting minds.
It built up false images and verses,
A phoney talent in every way;
Taking slander to its highest levels,
And breeding hate his favorite play.
He blinded his band of followers,
To carry out his dirty deeds;
They became his demonic harem,
Planting his evil silent seeds.
But he couldnt break the true believers,
Those called to be sages of pen and page;
They stood together to expose his lies,
Using truth in this war they waged.
There is a higher calling of this gift,
Only those who are called know to play;
The haters and phoney's may do their worst,
But in time will truly pass away.
Into slithered path of forest green
my imprints mark a search for peace,
as bushes hide like shades unseen
where vines’ fragrance holds its release.
Drained, I see life through a flower
struggling to curl among meshed weeds,
these limbs falling on ash of hours
like old willows bound to concede.
Enduring climbs upon a hilltop
the blaze of night in gold appears;
so far the wrens, too near I drop
till leaf of hope breaks, as morn nears.
Dusk now closes its drowsy eyes,
as forest still grants what is mine
breathless from new mist, I arise.
while soles run here in thoughts divine
Mau 2018 Standard Contest of Brian Strand
This poem gives a slightly different viewpoint of the meadow in 'Two Painters,' written by Arthur Vaso. His poem can be read by visiting his site at: http://arthurvaso.weebly.com/current-poems.html
From a hill overlooking the meadow green
I watched two painters with canvas and brush
Eyes focused on each other and nature's scene
I saw when her face took on a faint tint of blush
A basket lunch was laid beneath an apple tree
Skies grew dark when the serpent slithered in
Forbidden fruit not bitten, I watched them flee
Turning away from the evil temptation of sin
The meadow is again lush with morning mist
I removed the evil one with strokes of my brush
Two painters fell in love with their first kiss
I stand at my easel listening to songs of a thrush
I created the meadow and the man with my hand
It's you, evil creature, who will feel my reprimand
" Amid the jagged shadows of mossy leafless boughs"
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Gold tinged paints dripped from the air,
under the clear opalescent autumn sky,
jade foliage turned to full-bloom flower,
I flew my heart like a bird over the canopy.
The canopy of your allure so beguiling
took me to the enticing heights of ecstasy.
The nest we built in the cleft of boughs
glistened in love-laced moonshine night.
Night of strife surged a wrecking storm,
the nest crumbled to debris of despair.
You flew away to the sunny sky obscure,
left me to suffer in the spasm of winter.
Winter frost slithered with the north wind
to desolateness of the defoliated boughs.
I felt my love freeze in the congealed heart
amid the jagged shadow of broken wings.
" Without love, we are birds with broken wings"
- Mitch Albom
November 28, 2019
For Brian Strand's Contest A Brian Strand July 12
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
A DINNER INVESTMENT (for Eve)
My husband Chris Adams loves to wine and dine my needs
In the most expensive places, one can eat.
Arriving in LIMO style
A humble waiter greets
After I viewed the menu I replied,
"Hun I am ready to order."
A T-bone steak -- fully cook the meat.
At our table, walked a gorgeous snake-eyed women
She leaned over my husband's seat
Approaching Chris with a big wet kiss
I stomped on my husband's foot
I gave him the look, of all looks
She slithered with her tongue in Adams ear
She whispers
"Go to that hotel and relax, I need some cash"
With one stare I yelled, "Chris how dare you cheat!"
"I had enough, I want a divorce MR. ADAMS!"
I reach over to slap him,
He replies, "She is my mistress Bath-Sheba my dear EVE!"
"I do not love her."
"I understand if you want a divorce!" Mr. Adams replied.
"But, remember, no more furs, luxury suite,
Winters in Barbados,
Summers in Tuscany."
"Infinity or Lexus, and first class plane seats."
"Forget about the Yacht Club."
"Party by the swimming pool, that land a hundred feet."
"It is up to you my Kitty Skat Eve to give it all up."
"You decide if these diamonds you want to keep."
Without thinking of taking a leap.
I saw Mr. Adams business partner Cain with a Jezebel in his arms.
I ask my husband Chris in a small peep.
"Do not tell me that Cain commits Adultery too?"
"Cain's blonde looks really cheap as if she works the street."
"Well, our mistress is prettier and looks real sweet."
"Honey, our mistress Bath-Sheba is worth the keep."
"Mr. Adams tonight you can call me Steve and not Eve,
Whatever it takes to satisfy your needs plus my gold lust!"
**************************************
(The moral of the story is what some Eve's
will do to keep their investment, I mean Adam's.)
A joke and dedication to Chris D. Aechtner
For THE Eve in Eden* (Contest) *
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
Once upon a midnight, ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
White eyed werewolves gorged, engrossedly.
In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly)
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.
Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.
Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.
As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.
If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...
Chef 's Winter dishes are simply delicious, not too much oil or cream.
Rich or plain, taste tested to perfection, tiny portions sometimes steamed
He starts the day with freshly squeezed orange juice,coffee and toast.
And embarks on a fitness journey along the seaside in Adelaide.
Today he is going to create a seafood bisque inspired by his walk.
This morning whilst walking along the beach he noticed the outgoing
Tide and outlet left a long groove with definite honeycombe indentations
snaking parallel to the shore for a distance near a giant swirly starfish.
From an aerial perspective it looked like a Christo dragon , hardened ripples
representing the scales and the sometimes swirling patterns here and there
where the giant Sea-dragon moved, slithered or shifted about in the sand .
The Sea-Dragon must have laid there for some time before he disappeared
as his scales were deeply impressed and clearly embossed in the firm sand.
A clear body of water flowed in the center of this outlet echoing the scales
shimmering and gleaming with sunlight smoothly on the groove's surface.
Upon seeing this ,Chef etched it in his memory and began to mentally gather
ingredients for his creation.How could he give his bisque the dragon flavour?
Grilling the whiting, prawns and scallops with butter laced with honey , chilli,
cardamon + crushed nuts , garlic, a dash of brandy.......
then adding chicken stock , lime , thyme ,cracked pepper , rock sea salt and
finally pureeing the lot with a splash of coconut milk.
The poem you wrote missed my heart
it had no words of emotional chew.
After reading the words, what could I say
you'd said them all but they added up to okay.
When I slithered over the alphabet,
I smelled no phew, grit never stuck, water didn't drip.
And then there are the times when my hands
kept tapping so fast so furious I just sat back
didn't have any more energy and to snip snap
clackety-clack was plain wiped out of my self.
But the most times I miss the comment and viewed
Susie was in love, heart broken, in a stew
the eye of the needle, the jump over the moon,
the clock ticking all sounded just good,
but I had no newness from you
when I needed the pain sizzle of lightning,
a jigjag jangle against purple while orange daisies
danced a jig on the grave of enemy number one
boring, ordinary life in a cage with no ale biting tongue
no kisses probing into the curls under my toes.
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.
Examine your surroundings,
most importantly their hue,
for I recall a day when setting sun
hung in the fire of a neon sky
and blazed an orange red.
What imperceptible thread held it
there above our heads like a paradigm of passion
suspended for all time!
Even now, years later,
I draw that moment out and bask in it again. . .
and over again. Also I remember how
that serpent came from nowhere
and slithered terra cotta in the sand around our feet.
I believe he was exponential (in a Biblical sense)
of what we soon would lose - our innocence -
as afternoon slipped into an iridescent dusk.
The colors of that dusk
bursting and sizzling like our steamy summer love,
primarily in nuances of lust,
flowed scarlet over us in the color of a crimson
which was cardinal as sin.
Then to the screams of gulls and to the crash of waves,
I writhed beneath a surge of heat
and his face. . . that glowed with desire.
Only at the beach was I ever to know
such splendor. . . there with my first love
and there with the sun, where it burned out.
My shoulders drag through whirls of crescent night
under a wooden bridge this heart retains,
a pile of thickened ash
where reason hangs on edge, hollow the veins.
Above a skyline, a deep madness roars
oh, patience grows thin along slithered bends
that I, in deep thought grope
for fate’s comfort as street lantern descends.
Nearing the foot, a dove rustles my skin
its pearl-like glow cleanses a dusty face,
soothing my troubled head
so near the fall, so far a warm embrace.
From nowhere, a glossed horizon appears
connecting me back to life’s overpass,
as birdsongs lift my glides
till cinders fly as joy pours on life’s hourglass.
John Lawless' Gathering Dust
3/02/2015