Best Slotted Poems
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Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk
“Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”
Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet
“Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”
We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores
“Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”
When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures
“What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”
We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality
“Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”
We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone
“Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”
For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked
“Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”
Now stands open an arbor of hibiscus blooms
and teapot pourings fore our eyes, open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone
”True friendship will always find us and comfort us in the darkness”
Rutabaga cooks
On range emitting strong scent
After chopped by sharp hachet
Done rutabaga
Served on plate with slotted spoon
They enjoyed _not very much!
Sponsor: Russell Sivey
Contest: Sedoka Me Any Subject
Written by: Sara Kendrick
Restless soccer moms,
whose kittens have all become mature,
got plenty of suburban boredom
Time enough for sure
to get hooked on every advertised lure
As daytime soaps and gossip kitsch
are the mundane, daily double feature
So they buy themselves some
beautiful, youthful promises,
packaged in a slick cardio video
Victoria got some bedroom secrets
that frustrated spouses wanna know
Put the proper promotional letters
in the slotted payment space
Then they sit back and anticipate,
let that warm scented water luxuriate
their uncaged primal thoughts:
That lackluster romantic routine
with the half-interested spouse
has become so very predictable
Mannequin lovemaking so emotional sterile
When expedited delivery late evening come,
they strike their favorite sexy pose,
in their most come-hither revealing clothes
But such meticulously planned foreplay
gets the usual NITM treatment today
This last straw has stirred these tigress spirits,
but not in a good way
When the Good Wives Club start breaking bad,
there’s gonna be divorce hell to pay
Those Ladies Night Out
now grinds to an adulterous sway
Neglected desires are maritally hated,
lost fidelity mourned in Goth black
Intimacy ignored is so cold calculated;
bad math, write digits for call back
Cougars don’t like being domesticated,
coyote ugly do love to run in a pack
Foxy motives ain’t hen house overrated,
passionate predators are on the attack
Suburban lionesses on a stag hunting mission,
got dark jaguar urban jungle keen night vision
Painted panthers on a one-night-stand prowl,
coy cheetahs moving fast with their claws out,
Hot, feral women with cougar pent-up emotions,
are lethal loving leopards with spotted devotions
Passionate predators,
only lascivious hearts dare venture
If you got a taste for the forbidden,
then you got a wish to be eaten
Acronym alert:
NITM
(Not in the mood)
**Poetic shorthand —
Romantic Warrior
When the temperature drops,
When it gets REALLY REALLY cold,
Being inside all day can be such a bore.
So what about braving the cold!
Bundle up VERY VERRY warm,
And send a lot of bubbles soaring up high.
Pop them or let them fall to the ground.
You'll be amaze at what you'll see.
Winter bubbles are not the same
As the ones you blow in summertime.
"WHAT?" You say.
I guarantee you'll be surprised.
A breathtaking magical sight to behold.
Recipe for homemade bubble solutions:
1 cup warm water
1/2 cup dish washing soap
1 teaspoon sugar
Combine together, stirring until sugar dissolves.
The kitchen is full of creative nifty wands:
slotted spoons, wire whisks or funnels too.
Kids ask your parents first before you begin.
Now just dip your wands into the bubbly solution,
And blow, creating a fairytale world of your own.
For Heather Secrest contest, "Tell Me a Story"
DONALD TRUMP – RE: DUCKS --
this portion dashed off
(while dry ving an open white hearse slay
so many months back before
slated him slotted the most coveted
Casino biggest win - before the political imbroglio
much more upsetting than today
- - - - - - - - - -
Axe the old don
A trump peter n piper of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
With the ha air brushed pompous ****
so the Macy jackal hound doth run
After public outcry yelps
for his hide and proletarian discord won!
- - - - - - - - - -
Donald Duck Trump ™$ - a pompous ass
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination with bro kin glass
inciting banal deathly hallowed expletives
toward lass sees – especially
Fox Television news anchorwoman Megyn Kelly
inducing said personality to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults from incriminating verbal pass
so…ex post facto viz mine NO VOTE from me
thus this digital screed to disallow him
to accept the oath of office, cuz he will hurrahs
from such a snooty arrogant simian with sass!
- - - - - - - - - -
I van a try to describe while sitting on me rump
How he oh bomb in lee rages with gnashing teeth
while back a slump
Blasting Democratic nomination as a sham –
From special interest bro and sis turn pump
He, the epitomy of crass bloviation, a malignant lump
Whose rants sans presidential outcome a sham rocking red bull
in a China shop with his millions beds this,
- - - - - - - - - -
That and another woman to bareback jump
Disseminating gene pool –
Obama null lee birthing more Quakers
and additionally doth hump
The mass media as some foolhardy charade
And caricature of a frazzled grump
This arboreal clothed ape
Erecting Taj Mahal phallic symbol where players dump
And gamble away hard earn cash
- - - - - - - - - -
For his hello kitty, as if that cachet to grind and bump
Lambasting with that maniacal leering pout
while hair rum runs rampant with red bulls
In a China shop atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed heady measly shaped
ulterior motive aimed his sights to become Pastor of Muppets
Dis eased cranial hologram
Of a cretaceous, facetious and insidious mump.
----------------------------------------------------------
By: Baron von Ivan Mal N. Ya.
Megan had megabucks inside her duck
She reckoned the cost of a real good Puck
She went to the city
It was a great pity
Puck kicked on her ass and slotted the duck
Megan© rajat kanti chakrabarty November 23 2014
Ever wonder what happens to suggestions
Dropped in your employers’ slotted box?
They are extracted and read with questions
Seldom answered is somewhat orthodox,
Proposals by the great, “unwashed” masses
Of underlings seeking more remuneration,
Gutsy enough to speak, these lower classes,
Indeed, to want a scheduled, paid vacation!
Imagine a thirty-minute lunch break, I laugh,
Extending the law-provided ten-minute take
Or double pay for overtime? Surely, they jest
For all the silly complaints they love to make.
More work, I say!--simply what you do best
With my feet on my desk, I’m taking a rest!
Written August 9, 2022
Harsh is the wind of Sahara,
Serrated by grains of dusty sands,
Stripping flesh from the bones of the dead,
Kalishnikovs gripped in their skeleton hands.
Child-soldiers trained as assassins,
Magazines slotted in like building blocks,
Smooth as silk, this gun never jams,
It musically clicks as the catch unlocks.
Itchy were the trigger fingers,
Calloused from teasing the guarded steel,
The psychopathy of poverty teaches
Kill what you can, kid, that’s the deal.
Dead lie the innocent children,
Dead as the sprawl of the desert terrains,
Conflict diamonds as payment
Fired Washington bullets into their brains.
Harsh is the land of corruption,
And black the nocturnal Liberian sky,
The blood in the moonlight drying
Seems equally black in the white of the eye.
glossy green hearts hang
slotted on blotched grey branches
flappers try to fly
17th August 2020
Haiku Nature Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
Resting in this lead crystal glass I see
is a mystical little green fairy.
Outside in the light of a summer full moon,
a sugar cube is nestled in a silver slotted spoon.
There is a sweet anise scent the fairy does not hide,
as ice takes the sugar and runs down the side.
The steps are slow, but worth the wait,
as few living men can take you in straight.
Little green fairy, as I hold you in my hand,
open the gate and let me enter your land.
_____________
Poet’s Note: One of the last strong-holds of joint-family system, India, is breaking up. Old-parents, all-alone in lonely homes, have become a common sight. This poem depicts the fate of one such lonely mother.
______________
Two sons, one far across the continents,
His visits rarer than of a Blue Moon—
With some gifts to garnish his rustled guilt,
To cover up for time seldom given.
Another next-door close, and too far still,
Cared for money more than his old mother,
Parents he felt a needless burden were,
And incongruent with spirit of time,
He’s keen to sell her memory-filled house,
And place her in care of an old age home.
Both did well know what their mother wanted:
The one— far-off— hoped, she’d appreciate
That he can’t be home more often than now,
Both felt, their compulsions made immense sense.
Their visits dried like a helpless river
Handicapped by dams, much irrigated,
Her own concerns remained confined to her,
And left to fend for her fate long fated,
She aged fast trying to wipe own tears.
Age is no child of time, but faulting years.
Time was, not in a far off horizon
When children piled on mother’s ample bed,
Evening sun sliding through slotted windows,
She a rare focal point of their young life—
Childish cares, complaints, concerns, bed-time tales,
But that seemed like ancient time too far gone,
No use she thought hankering for spent time,
Now reduced to fragile vague memories!
Soon an old age home was lined up for her,
Her neighbours shaking incredulous heads.
It was of little practical use still,
For, no one had the time to intervene.
She was even taken there for a feel,
Perhaps to make the future shock less mean;
An old inmate showed her expensive shawl
Her son had sent, which, as a parcel came,
A telegram-like note and that was all;
Her wrinkled fingers on shawl, but what shame!
As she tried hard her hurt feelings to hide,
Best gift is time, she seemed to say as cried.
Time once was, richer her fabric of life,
Of late if life were rife, it was with strife! ________________________________________
Happenings | 08.03.2017 |
We groomed him to perfection
lured him with our lights
cooed him with our sizzles
blurred his dreams and sights
We slotted him in awkward
hampered his imput
laced his drink with moonshine
on his fingers shut
We cautiously immersed him.....while his mind involved
then cut him in slow motion.....as our pills dissolved
Goons staggered in his footsteps
cracked behind his back
baulked him in the darkness
saddled him with black
We gathered to ignore him
clashed in crude mischief
receptive in our duty
deceptive in our sleep
The schoolyard's sang his story
the children gagged and quipped
in church his face was gory
in time his name be ripped
So a section dress to party
forfeited his invite
we'll designate the barmy to blind his way tonight
Attire obtuse and tarty
a slice above the knee
let's prey on his exclusion from pagan history
Could you have ever thought that one day
You would come and stay with me without dad?
Not once did you let such a thought trespass your lifelong service.
Overwhelmed and blessed am I that you are with me, Mother!
Sad that our slotted time is coming close to an end. Your words like a conjurer's trick
Ushered into every drop of my heart. Mom, I'll always treasure and
Remember these days when you felt it was like a return to your parental home. It is
Eternal bliss that you wish your last breath to be in my arms! I want nothing more!
June 30, 2016
For Nayda Ivette Negron
Cynosure ( a person or thing that is the centre of attention or admiration )
An indissoluble overcast
hazes stark starless skies,
submerging neuortic Atlanta's
shapely, contrasting shadows.
Peering through magnetic stratus
neon flashes a stuttered stammering staccato.
Silent voices scream out
from their calico maze.
Treacherous felines prowl roof tops,
searching with iridescent eyes
for unway soaring eagles
jetting through the cloudy sky
Nesting clouds reflect
patchy haloed night beams,
outlining vague shaped obelisks
rising up through a collected sky line
Piercing tenant eyes penetrate
senior level structures,
curvung window panes
enclosing mirrored towers.
Window entertainment assimilates
electronic pin ball machines,
visualing the cities blood
flowing throuigh astringent vessels.
Ant army sqyadrons, wearing
miner's helmets, march through
paved slotted furrows
hypnotically following each grove.
penchants for doing things the right way
unhinge the knighted sky shot full with holes
twinkle twinkle little star, you burn so very
bright, where have you all gone? home you say,
dancing the edges of madness’ thin veils
containment slotted through the IS’s of
consecutive sequenced selfs, unawakened
self-righteous indignation, plagiarize the
potential for adulterated emotions
conspicuous lapse of good judgment
right the scales of too much this or that,
the arms of balance form both positive
and always behind the seen, negative imagery
this land whirls the positive insisting it’s
our only reality of expression, negative quivers
with pretence experienced as a landscape
of oblivion ensued from forgetfulness...always is
a this and a that, a hat and a cat, a louse and a mouse.
Always is...