Best Slumping Poems
There is a sombre silence,
as mist veils morning air.
A plethora of feathers
float among dew drops.
A ceremony of birds,
heads slumping,
soundless and homeless,
perch upon rooftops,
observing fallen nests,
cracked eggs and
lifeless nestlings.
Arrival of their fate
is like paper in a storm.
But birds don't ask why,
they just spread their wings and fly.
The Writer's Book Bag
When I looked done,
The bags were all around.
Scattered on the floor,
Obviously bought at a secondhand store.
Writers came in and sat down,
Claiming most of the bags that were around.
Except for one.
Leaning against the chair leg,
Slumping with exhaustion.
Faded from the wash,
Ground stains on the bottom.
Sweating metal flask,
Hidden in the side.
Leaving a moist imprint,
That almost comes alive.
Stuffed to the gills,
Tiny wisps of paper sticking out.
Torn slightly from being tossed about.
Straps all askew.
It has been everywhere,
Continuously added to,
Strata to be mined,
When you have the time.
Cupped softly,
Hopes,
Dreams,
Fears,
Treasures left of
All that is left of you.
Its raven skin follows without a 'woof,'
no bark no bite,
darker than a shadow in sunlight.
It reflects in the mirror,
staring with 'Edgar Allan Poe,' ebony eyes.
At dawn it's at the bedside,
wanting to wander into the morning mist.
At twilight it rests its head on my pillow,
stalking, into my sleep.
It sits on the passenger seat,
without a seatbelt, unfocused,
unconcerned, like it has no need to exist.
It plods slowly around the office,
slumping forward, back curved like a 'jack knife.'
Colleagues ignore its obsidian paws,
sore from scabs, resting on the desk.
Its head droops with my sullen, dull ache.
Its tongue looks rough, no saliva drips -
a bit like my cracked lips.
We both seem to breathe in dry air,
as it feeds on my molasses mind.
It has no interest in sticks nor treats,
nor cares to leave my side.
A sinister magnetic faithfulness.
Unmoved, as I vomit black bile.
I wonder how is he a man's best friend?
Bony knuckles raking gloomy halls
Chambers echoing fate’s footfalls
Slumping shoulders and deathly grins
Recounting on fingers, countless sins
Shuddering, shivering in godless fears
Admonishing my guilt, the end, it nears
Cowering in silence, holding my breath
Smelling foul odors of impending death
Grasping and groveling a final chance
Embracing, mating, in fatal romance
Facing my fears in a sorrowful stare
Fingertips gracing my tendrils of hair
Ghastly screams erupt pouting lip
Into the darkness my soul does slip
Naked death
…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
disgorge
at the Konzentrazionslager
the faux pas relief
from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
turned to damp rags
reduced to moaning cattle
nameless
even the heifer wan straggly limp
Alles! Raus!
…the last quick dab of face powder
the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying soggy stained
through bellowed haste
on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
averting glances on sapped sagging busts
shoulders hunched buckled in
fingers reaching to scratch loins
nostrils quivering
whose the naughty stench
then the trooped Indian file
stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
the once highheeled gait
slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
prodding the miasmal mist
the exposed varicose veins
the knotty pubis
the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
last year’s Ceasarian stitches
the rump twitched less
the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips
neither shame nor pudeur
and then the last gangway to nowhere
the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
a reprieve
From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1999/2016
Coffee Addiction
Calibrating coffee homeostasis flows easily back and forth
On the ‘high’-way of instant craze and crave of gratification
'Feodor' true to his name slurps the divine gift all day to rise
From moody withdrawal of night slumber slumping aground
Energetic vigour and buoyant exuberance alights from
Exhaustion brought on by life and pulsating caffeine’s fix
Abortive attempts to reduce hooked intake accrued no success
Doomed at one time and in lack of hot water 'Feodor' even
Dissolved coffee in Cola to feed effervescent dependence
Imbalanced the mixture blew up but nourished his need
Caressed by foam on his face he confronted his addiction
To vow not to drink less tropical grind but have water
In sufficient vital supplies at all times to keep well afloat
On balance his highs derived from his beverage of choice
Navigate his depression much better than Cocaine or booze
30th November
I catch a fleeting glimpse of her room from the hall,
my back slams lightly against the wall,
slumping listlessly, my anger out of control.
As she lies in her hospital bed, tubes patrol
in and out of every conceivable opening,
with new vital bodily fluids dripping
monotonously, in time released droplets of life
through the needle pierced veins of my wife.
Abruptly, I feel the cold uncomforting
frigidness of this smooth wall unyielding,
pressing firm against my back, in this hospital hall.
Reality becomes my depression shawl,
covering and smothering all of my senses.
Angrily my muscles push and body tenses
rejecting the insensitivity of these unfriendly walls,
and began repetitious canticle paces
through the drab, inculpable, uncommitting hospital halls.
Tears rush to my eyes flowing furiously,
focused anger colors my face visibly
revealing the naked fury of my livid crimson brain.
My heart beats with the resounding of pouring rain.
Pounding with my self incrimination, as I seek others to blame.
Doctors, Surgeons, God, others must drown in this shame.
Anger rolls through my entire being, allowing no one to console.
This anger is pervasive, it permeates into my soul.
Our oneness is evident, she stirs and I know.
In another universe, I sense a furrow in her brow.
I turn swiftly, my pace quickening to a full stride
at her door and move quickly to her side.
A moan, a gasp, a sigh, a groan, a cough,
but, the medicated trauma flowing through
her inlet tubes, force her back into a heavenly sleep.
I breath a sigh of relief for her and weep.
It burns and it stings.
It hurts.
More than drowning beneath
the ice.
More than remaining in a
kindled flame
She hits and I no longer cry.
Why mother, why?
It burned and it stung.
The markings remained,
returned, and were relived
Looking, loving, and little
known loathing were the known
ways of living.
Never was their pity for the
child that cried
Never was their relief for the
child that tried
You were that lovely bird that
understood the complications of
felicity
Nothing looked the same in
those dewy browns of yours.
My everbeating would cry tears
of joy.
The others-they were yet to
appear.
Caring Mother, o' so fair
You were that beautiful bird
filled with care.
The others came and were not
alone. Their two suitors sat on
the throne.
Rampage and rage why did you
come?
I began to wither and wither
slumping along. So very soon I-
the child of fines- became a
human raceme.
The droops of the Lily of the
Valley became the slumping of
my heart.
My lovely bird the enemy had
taken you and the person you
were is far from near.
For that divine nature left its
intricate self and you became
irretrievable my big bird.
All of your fairness died.
With that went my pride.
Mother, Mother what moved
you so?
Your intense spirt vanished only
to supplement a monster.
Mother, Monster and your tar
filled lungs.
How did I kill that liver that was
so, so strong?
The lesson of pain was one you
came to learn.
My darling bird why did you
turn?
My lovely bird and your big
brown eyes
I'll tell you once, but never
twice.
Pain is only a flower for it
blooms and dies
And a mistake can be killed as
quickly as lice.
You dear bird hurt me well.
Though, haven't you heard?
Weakness is a souls greatest
strength.
You brought me up, then you
brought me down.
You haved helped, hurt, and
hindered my blazing spirit.
A hero in my heart-I left you
down in your deep black
slumber.
Escaping those terrible nights
To go for the town of delights.
For Angie
The hallways rotated over and around me, maybe it was that aged smell of antiseptic affecting my equilibrium...
Trying to keep my feet, bracing the wall of the room she was assigned with my hand to gain my balance, I was overcome with
hot vibrations
of past voices, shrieking, pleading, crying out for lost loved ones at the time of their greatest need...
unanswered
Slumping to a chair, I felt the weight of despair
Nothing, nobody
My will to live had been broken
Shaking myself, I knew I needed to be released from this
Possession of my soul, so I began praying...
'God, grant these souls entrance to Your Kingdom, reach out with Your Loving Grace to hold them and keep them in Your Love'
Free at last, the orderly asked if everything was alright, I said No...he said, I'm sorry, I need you to sign these papers for Insurance, we have a patient waiting for this room and Housekeeping needs to finish some tasks
Angie's heart had given up, but the cause of death was listed as covid
I just got up from my chair, set the forms down, and walked out, the orderly pleading behind Me "sir, sir, the papers!"
Housekeeping brushed hurriedly past me as I hit the elevator
Down button, entered and
Released at the lobby floor,
Stepping out to the fresh air,
I noticed a Ruby Throated Hummingbird alight on a trumpet flower nearbye, sip, then pause to acknowledge me and spun straight-up...
Heaven awaited
11/12/21
Altarwise-Hum
Nick Rush
When it’s late enough to hear locusts love
East of altarwise, humming.
You can see the somber moon fade away
Sunshines duty coming.
The sun grows ever-meeker now
As night is blending dusk with day
The moon has since been slumping
West of altarwise, hear the bees humming.
As it soaks you in, awry goes the moon
Bidding a lie to sun
Finding contrast drums our gun
North of altarwise, hear the birds hum.
Just as darkness turns to light
Then begin to balance as one
When you feel the tongue
From the altarwise-hum
You finally hear
What love can become
The sun leaves loving faces,
As vibrant hues leak
Outlining the peaks
As it’s dragged underneath; our sight.
True beauty immense, for only a peek
Morphing remnants scream into bleak.
Ah, the voyage of life
Where tears engulf
Like the bright moonlight
Though the dark side outguns some
Following lights anointing south
To dealers joking at the altarwise-hum.
This is actually a Shadorma. I wrote it in response to a review of the anthology that was done for research of the brain disorder that my son has. The review was a personal attack on me. Writing this, helped me get past it.
She slapped me
slumping sliding dumps
cascading
I'm held down
I feel like I cannot breathe
gone into hiding.
partial regression of the thin vertabrae,
slumping in a vampire support group.
cheap folding chairs reapolstered
in victorian velvet.
styrofoam cups held in a languid grasp
stained with revlon crimson lip gloss.
morbid pathologies in the carpet.
i taste the ugly pattern..
blue hexagons with gray squares.
im tired of returning to this place staring at the
carpet and drinking folders dry roast coffee.
turn the events .. strange..
sick again of the avenue that brought me here..
floor-light-escent-bulbs.. in the hallway bleed pale arteries.
Her hands gnarled and knotted
slumping as she walked
some called out when she was spotted
her shout name was Lady Dumpster
as she staggered along, she talked
folks tried to help her—she balked
When she was a girl, she was plump
family lived near the dump ground
her dad called her “the big lump”
everything they owned was found
from digging in the garbage dump
Maggie never finished school
rumor floated round the town
(pregnant by a family member)
her brother said to be so cruel
someone made her sister drown
No baby, no Maggie!
sadly lost from the start
an elusive character no longer human
years later, out she came pushing her cart
her dignity and mind were now subhuman
Her saga does not end well
life for her, a living hell
under a bridge lay Maggie quite frozen
holding her dead cat—
So it goes--how fortunate for that
she died in a place that she had chosen
This a true story with literary license. © a year ago, Carol Davis
A straggle of figures litters the path
Stumbling, windblown, straying apart,
A ragged assembly against graphite clouds,
Inky - black smudges blurred by the rain
Flapping dark shadows, crows circle above them.
Struggling, the figures cluster together
Wearily shuffling, standing then slumping.
Rag dolls with stuffing steadily leaking.
Far away faintly, a wind-torn crying,
The fading call of a solitary bird
Nearer, the sound of someone sighing
And the soft thudding of falling earth.
There are times, when I the pauper, pretend that I am King.
Power uncontested have I, the master of everything.
Beloved by all my subjects who adore me from afar.
Festivals honoring this miracle me, my name etched in the stars.
Tailored cloths adorned with jewels to cover my royal hide.
A simple tear or pin prick drip and I toss them all outside.
The finest foods from around the world brought in each time I dine.
Fill the goblets of glowing gold with most luxurious wine.
My leisure is of royal command my joy by royal decree
Just think of it, a whole Kingdom thinking me High and Mighty.
A knock disturbs my nap one day in late afternoon.
Another ball in my honor at the next full moon.
Posing for another sculpture, another portrait commissioned.
This bard’s song of my good deeds, and that one’s new rendition.
My every day so busy now, my Kingdom must prepare,
Strong against our enemies, may they all beware.
I toil over strategies and rulings of my court.
Solving problems of those little people with whom I do not consort.
Into bed I fall asleep exhausted every night.
My advisers unrelentingly needing my ear at first light.
More battles to be won today new subjects fall in line.
Soon the entire world it seems might very well be mine.
The people they need food and drink, I must divide the lands.
The royal lists of would be Lords, all under my command.
Arguments continue on it seems they never end.
So many to bow before me and yet I’m without one friend.
Every decision a higher cost, nothing’s simple on this throne.
It has been near fifteen years since I had some time alone.
Slumping on my golden throne, lost in royal thought.
Sometimes when I am King I pretend that I am not.