Best Slouched Poems
The hands of June will soon scoop up this earth.
Her palms will gently cup sunlight and rain.
The wind, her fertile breath, will warm the eves,
yet here I’ll wake to feel her blush in vain.
Without my love, each star-filled night turns black.
At dawn, the sunlight breaks to blind my path.
My ashen heart will char as summer flames,
and flowing blood will parch in aftermath.
I ‘ve often heard of death by broken heart.
It seems that winter’s chill could hasten this,
but this oppressive heat has fueled my pain.
A frozen heart turned numb might feel like bliss.
The summer sun has slouched, the moon has gone,
but somehow through my grief, I carry on.
Written 5/29/20 for JCB Burl’s
A World Without You Contest
She asked him, "Why are you drinking
Before it's 9 am"?
He told her not to worry
She said, "Damn! You're drunk again".
She said that she was tired
Of him sleeping on the couch
She told him forty seven ways
He acted like a slouch
"Get up and fix the plumbing
Go outside and mow the lawn
Close your mouth you stupid ass
Don't let me see you yawn".
"Comb your hair and shave your beard
Look more like a man".
He rubbed his face and shook his head
And said, "How's that again"?
She stomped her feet in fury
As her fist shook back and forth
"I'm going back to mommas
If you don't get up and work".
So he staggered to his feet
And grabbed his britches by the waist
He pulled them up and stumbled off
To find a quiet place
He said that he was going
To the store to by some bread
But never made it further
Than his broke down pick-up bed
Thirty minutes later
He was wakened from his sleep
She took the backyard garden hose
And sprayed him head to feet
He jumped and ran to save himself
And find some place to hide
He heard her cackling like a hen
As she went back inside
He hid behind the bushes
Till he thought the coast was clear
He had to find a way inside
To get another beer
He crept up to the screen door
Looking in to take a peek
He slowly pulled it open
So as not to make it squeak
He slipped inside and closed it
Then he tiptoed 'cross the floor
Quietly he reached out
For refrigerator door
But something caught his eye
And he looked over toward the sink
That dadgum woman took his beer
And poured out all his drink
His head was bent in sorrow
At the tragedy he saw
A dozen soldiers down in flames
And bound by Sundays law
There was nothing left to do
But go and take his seat
Beside his wife of twenty years
Who made his life complete
He loved her 'cause she loved him
It was paradise in hell
He whispered that into her ear
And she said, "Damn you smell".
"Get off me with your drunken breath
Go sit over there".
And so he went and slouched down in
His worn out easy chair
Quietly they watch tv
Into the dark of night
Then went to bed with word unsaid
And turned out all the lights
The end
Rockman :-)
Drab pigeons in flight, skimming over the streets
Swift, restless movement, but going nowhere
Cleaving curved wings in the hot and stagnant air
While no one takes notice of a gray day's defeat
They circle and settle, no rhyme or a plan
They perch, then depart, feathered gypsies who roam
Chasing the shadows, surveying the land
They scavenge the streets, for a place to call home
Summer that coils between cracks in the concrete
Liquefied smog brews far deep in the bone
Pigeons fly low, testing virtues of streets
Assemble in flocks, yet must forage alone
Searching at feet of the crowds who walk by
Waiting for nothing, just a crumb from the sky
…..
Drab men walking circles, slouched over with scars
Their only companions are ghosts of defeat
With no place to go, except under the stars
They huddle in corners, as the bitter night peaks
People and traffic are pounding the beat
No one gives notice, while they travel not far
Down sidewalks, and litter, in the noise of the street
Like pigeons in circles, where home is the dark
Summer that coils between cracks in the concrete
Liquefied smog brewing deep in the bone
And gray absent eyes, testing virtues of streets
Just litter on sidewalk, where cruel winds have blown
Searching at feet of the crowds who walk by
Waiting for nothing, just a crumb from the sky
………………………………………………………………
She sat on a park bench late Christmas night
a hallmark moment in my memory.
For relaxing there, she was quite the sight
her face shone as if buffed by emery.
The soft snow lay like a fluffy duvet
covering all in a blanket of white.
And sitting slouched in a casual way,
her silhouette stood out in the moonlight.
She blended right in with the Yuletide mood
earphones on, listening to Christmas songs.
And finding her there I didn't intrude
for in her mind, she was where she belongs.
There are many ways to gift a present
sometimes, simply by not being present.
Nov. 24, 2018
Let me tell you a story of my night journey;
After a hazardous trip from a far off state
With drooping spirits and waning energy
I alighted at the station to catch the night train
My heart besieged by memories of my home, left behind
Like a drop in the ocean
I quickly merged with the buzzing crowd
In the blinking light of platform lamps
I saw a huge crowd- the young and the old
With baggage heaped on baggage, patiently on wait
Time slouched on at snail’s pace….
At last hearing a long drawn whistle from far
I looked out and saw the train coming, snorting noisily
And halting with a screeching sound
The real ordeal begins as one lifts his suitcase
And pushes his way along with all strength,
Between bags and boxes and people,
And the porters running after you to carry the cargo
Finally I got into the train and occupied my seat among strangers
My mind plagued with fears of thieves and molesters
It was my first journey alone at night
I don’t know when I fell into a deep slumber
It was with the sound of * ‘chai…chai’ that I woke up
The inviting aroma of brewed tea entered my nostrils
At last I have reached my native soil!
I am heading home, every step and every inch
Drawing me closer and closer to my sweet haven
My heart began to pump quicker
I felt like a marooned mariner
Suddenly cast ashore by a rescue boat!
__________________________________
*‘Chai’is a local term in our language for tea !
April. 19. 2022
Form N- Narrative New Poetryy Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
Topic- Journey
If you ever find yourself slouched on the world’s perfect riddance
If, somehow, all the air that’s stayed with you are smokes of cigarettes
If you know that you have fallen into the hands of hell, blazing with fire,
Flickering like live wire,
Seek further down the path-
Intrude further down the core-
For there is no question,
How diamonds find derision, isolation and hell
As places to score a flawless sleep.
Slouched in the chair, with the lights off
Bottle in her hand she’s
Amused, by the illusions she’s having
No parents, dropped off at the steps of those who don’t even know her.
Who don’t even care
Don’t judge me!
Smoke slowly releases from her soft lips
She has no education no understanding
What comes after 10!
Who cares.
Her hair is wild as she smacks the guys hand away
That tries to touch her
You don’t know me like that!
Lost and no love
She sniffs away the powdery
Snow that falls from the sky with no shoes on
Black eyeliner drips down her face
And her scent is unbearable
I have low- self esteem she says.
Her skirt rides up her backside
And her eyes roll back
She is at the point of no return
She is lost with no home and no one to love.
All because someone forgot to love her a little more
Written: October 22, 2023 For Brian Stand Contest
_____________________________________________
Lonesome
gorgeous tree
almost standing straight
I discovered the splendor there
decorative branches is wonderful
can the candied sticks be in a pristine state?
seems as if an old sled had demise standby
there is a slouched spiritual book on the table
a little light-weary
tie a vivid crimson bow
yet, loops let you feel loopy
the angels' wing plumes fluttered
the beard on saint was blown haywire
teddy bear lays on his side after chasing pooh
a blue drum, afar of perch, flips in on its thin legs
the rocking horse doesn't rock just crouches in place
the lighthouse appears
extremely out of the setting
the moon tipped over on its side
an inside-the-tree-flying reindeer as well
It seems the pinecones are around to oust
saffron beads block the light from an elfin lamp
jack-in-the-box is positioned parallel to the facade
the nutcracker prince maintains there is a problem
the gingerbread man is gaunt in his standing position
the snowman lacks zest and lacks any sort of charisma
utterly, the reindeer fails to eventuate and to be in charge
gorgeous, isolated tree
Inching its way toward decay
bringing flawed beauty into the home
and a profound gratitude for everything I have
In a dreary mood, bent and broken,
With an ailment that crippled my life
I lay bedridden for many a month
With every muscle weakened by arthritis
And every nerve radiating the pain
Dull were the days and sore were the nights,
Time slouched on in mechanical beats,
Mind devoid of any buoyant thoughts,
Senses shut to every cheery throb of life,
I lay awake, day and night staring at the ceiling.
Never a smile lighted up my face,
Nor a gleam of hope brightened up my brain.
Inertia crept over from head to foot.
I had long lost my zest for life.
With my life sap drained out like an empty well,
All I felt was the burn of scalding drought.
Nothing could move my grief laden soul,
None could lift the weight off my back,
Embers of fire sparked from the anvil of my heart,
Heaves of sighs escaped my parched mouth,
I wriggled and writhed in unspeakable pain,
My spirits sank deeper into a slithery marsh,
I saw around only a thick pall of gloom,
Or was it a projection of my own self?
Anguish gnawed my nerves and sinews,
Flames of pain danced within my spine,
I felt my head wobbling and reeling,
And the heavy weight of lead all around my neck.
Felt being pushed down to abysmal depths,
And the octopus tightening its tentacles all around.
“Who on earth will set me free?
What on earth can lift me up?”
With thundering force, the question shook my weary self.
I sprang to my feet and broke the binding chains,
I found I was but in self – exile,
A captive entrapped within boundless space.
I saw the door opening to infinite lengths,
And the arched horizon looming larger than life,
Unbroken, I spread my wings and propelled up,
And darted through the clouds to distant shores.
Who would have thought, my life would change this way!
(Own Story)
Sitting on the sofa
Munching on some chips
Not a care in the world
Of calories on the hips.
Slouched down on the cushion
The tv glued to his face
You ask him a question
But he's out in outer space.
You call him to the table
He won't leave his favorite chair
The sports are on the screen
He must eat his dinner there.
The man is getting fatter
Nothing you do will get him out
You turn the tube off
And all he does is shout.
This couch potato man
No further does he get
His life is all downhill
Cause he's caught within a net.
The tv screen has got him
It's made him very lame
He won't go out the door
This man has earned his name.
I walk loose slow
slouched but straight
smooth
unknown
Arms swing
On comers avoid
eye contact but I smile
Hips swing
No need to keep my joy
contained locked away
I share
my sidewalk groove
Fingers snap offbeat
to a passing car’s rhythm
Who cares? Birds sing
I walk loose carefree
Butterflies flit wings
I'm not trying to be
anyone else not even me
No purpose in my stride
Not trying to hide
No particular place to be
right-left-right-left
tap-tap- of heels
Hair swings
I walk loose then pick up speed
finding my direction
regaining perspective
The source of
My joy
Source of
My swing
All
wait for me
His heart was cold, cold as stone as
he sat staring straight ahead. He
had white lines from squinting painted
on the sides of his suntanned temples.
Even the wide brimmed hat he wore
couldn’t protect his face from the sun
which seemed to burn like a ball of
fire coming from hell. He hated his
Sergeant for dragging them through this
barren dessert searching for an outlaw
named Jake McCloud and he was certain
Jakes bones would already be bleached
from the sun when and if they ever
found him. Five men had already died and
now they sat waiting for Sergeant Bennett's
next command with stomachs aching and
lips cracked from thirst. He knew death
was following them rapidly so having
enough he grabbed the Sergeant’s gun and
sword and made Him get off his horse. Don’t
be a fool the Sergeant had pleaded with him,
we are almost there. He ignored him saying
you’ve been telling us this for days and he
rode off alone. He lasted two days out there
alone when his horse fell over from exhaustion,
then he walked for hours staggering like a
drunk. Finally worn and broken, thirsty and
starving, he took out the little medal stool
he had and sat down slouched and beaten.
The Indians tell tales of how the man with
the stone heart sat that day a broken man
and as he sat there his whole wretched
body turned to stone. To this day, you can
see him slouched in his chair in a place
called East Jesus.
His Sergeant and comrades? They were
rescued by the Calvary just hours after
he had left them.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
12.20.2014
Contest: East Jesus
All joy had fled these pinched, wintry alleys.
The sun had slouched away
to die somewhere alone,
like a poisoned cat.
Across the steep valley,
Chestnut trees stood stoic and erect,
terracotta warriors, undecked,
their green bled out.
Damp was the only regular
that now attended the village church.
Plaster was bulbing out, like gout
or arthtritic knuckles,
and paintings of rustic saints
were wrinkling out of their frames,
unloved, unnoticed, flecked
with fungus, freckle-frowned.
The coffin yawed and lurched,
coming out into the drizzle.
No-one’s buried in the ground
in Spain. They slot you in a wall.
We mourners, with murrains and galls,
and racking coughs and limps,
were huddled, waiting.
We saw them hoist the pall
to offer it to its slot.
I was appalled. What I got
was a glimpse, to my distress,
of something claustrophobically small,
so dismal, comfortless –
the interior of her “plot”,
that niche that’s waiting for us all.
THE PAUPER
Bent and frail, the old man stood
Seeking alms only when in need of food
Without any whining to gain sympathy
But an upturned palm and a silent plea
In the five odd years that I saw him on Lansdowne Road
To and from office with long strides as I strode
Merely a few times did he indicate his need
Which at first I ignored, as I did his creed
One afternoon, on my way back home
Engrossed in thought and walking alone
An upturned palm was thrust from the side
And I fished for change and my rancour died
After that, he ignored me a while
I felt he was testing me, as he would a child
A frugal life he lived, and his needs were few
To him it mattered little whence the ill wind blew
There is a temple off the road where he lived
Where the rich and powerful come to voice their need
And at the temple gate loiter a clutch of beggars
But never he; he sported different feathers
He shunned the spot where the pickings were fair
He had his dignity though his back was bare
A pungent odour still pervades the space he dwelt
Even a week after the morning of his death
Torso hanging forward between parted knees
His lips barely grazing mother earth for a farewell kiss
I saw him slouched thus, on that log that day
And distinctly recall it was morning, and the 14th of May
He died with dignity on his wooden throne
In death, as in life, he was all alone
I still don’t know what his story was
Nor how the dice of his fate was cast
Pigeons in flight, skimming over the streets
Swift, restless movement, but going nowhere
Cleaving curved wings in the sweltering air
While no one takes notice of the rhythm's repeat
They circle and settle, no reason or a plan
They perch, then depart, feathered gypsies who roam
Chasing the shadows, surveying the land
They scavenge the streets, for a place to call home
Summer has coiled, wherever it can
Hunger's obsession, grows deep in their bones
Pigeons fly low, testing virtues of man
Assembled in flocks, yet must forage alone
Searching at feet of the crowds who walk by
Waiting for nothing, just a crumb from the sky
…..
A man walks in circles, slouched over with scars
His only companions are ghosts of defeat
With no place to go, except under the stars
He huddles in corners, as the bitter night peaks
People and traffic are pounding the beat
No one gives notice, as they hurry on by
Sidewalks, and litter, and the noise of the street
Like the pigeons, he circles, where home is the sky
Summer has coiled, wherever it can
Hunger, depression, grow deep in his bones
His gray absent eyes, testing virtues of man
Is compassion a stranger? Or will he find hope?
Searching at feet of the crowds who walk by
Waiting for nothing, just a crumb from the sky
______________________________________________________
For Contest: Sponsored By Carol Eastman