Best Slurred Poems
I watch as she sleeps,
the gentle rise and fall of her chest
making sure her breathing is rhythmic
Thoughts take me back years ago
when we were playmates ~sisters
separated by little more than a year.
A tear escapes my eyes. I wipe it away
for if she wakes and sees me crying,
her tears will flow again.
My sister, my best friend
Always vibrant and busy with life
Taking care of everyone
and putting her needs last.
As quickly as a breath was taken
she'd had a stroke
and when she woke
her life had been turned
upside down, mouth drooping
as if she were wearing a frown.
My heart grieves silently
Bleeding with pain I cannot show
for I'll not let her know my fears~
My tears hidden,
I replace them with a smile
and if she would look into my eyes,
she'd know. She'd know my anguish.
Her needs are many~
Slurred speech, limp left arm
Fran, who is gifted with empathy
for the plights of others.
Now, she fights to get her life back.
She sobs when friends call
and I have to say, "She's just emotional."
Damn it! I would be, too!
I tell her it's okay and smile~
Sometimes, she smiles back at me
Sometimes, she turns her head away
We talk about childhood days
and when a haze fills her eyes,
I talk about something silly~
desperate to give her hope.
A blood clot broke free from her brain
at least it had the decency
not to enter her heart.
Distraught, of course she is
but my sister is a fighter
and we work together, day and night
to help her hand grip mine tighter.
It's 4 am, and by the night light
I look at her face, wrinkle free
but only when she's asleep.
I pray to God while I weep,
"Please give her the life she knew."
There's little more I can do
except to be her big sister.
She'll get through this hard time
with help from family and friends
Those who love her as much
as she loves all of us.
We talk about it being another hurdle
she'll get over, but this one...
this one is physical, a literal mountain
that she must climb, but not alone.
There are goals to set and reach
and each step she takes strengthens her will
to be as independent as she used to be.
I sit here, watching her as she sleeps
and only then do I allow my tears to fall.
The Sounds of Silence
By: Simon & Garfunkle
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciERzSFRwzk
---------------------------------------------------------
With a Little Salt and Lime
Hello Jose my old friend
I've come to guzzle you again
The party started before afternoon
I started sipping on you far too soon
My last SENTENCE I fear was slightly slurred
(Vision blurred)
Forgot to EEEET----my breakfast
They look with pity upon me
'Can't hold his liquor', they agree
Now I'm weaving when I try to walk
Senseless babble when I try to talk
Then I feel the NEEEED to flee to an old-oak-tree
(To heave and pee)
but cannot LOOOZE---- my breakfast
Did not like his tone at all
Got myself into a brawl
I quickly put him in his rightful place
Broke his knuckles with my pretty face
Shoulda’ had my OOOATS but didn't so alas!
(I kiss the grass)
and now my ASSSS----is breakfast
In the morning I awake
moaning with a bad headache
Bright-sun glaring through the window pane
I whine and whimper in my wretched pain
In the next room a TV-is-blaring
and screams in my pounding-ear
(No thank you dear)
Believe I'll PASS on----breakfast
*Moral of the story: Never drink before noon OR on an empty stomach...
Oh where could one sweet person go
Who craves a phrase to ebb and flow
Or meanings' depths as oceans know
How could it be, oh could it be ...
A world bereft of poetry?
Oh how could joyous laughs be heard
But naught for play of word-on-word
A whimsical wisecrack smilingly slurred
How could it be, oh could it be ...
A world sans punny poetry?
Oh where could loners take their tears
Or troubled souls find hopes to pierce
The roiling blackness feared and fierce
How could it be, oh could it be ...
A world without dark poetry?
Oh where would lovers hope to chart
The grandest coursing of their heart
The dreams that bind and tear apart
How could it be, oh could it be ...
A world with no love poetry?
How could the human race e'er find
The artful words of heart and mind
That poets craft of thought refined
Of urge, intent and dream entwined
The deep expressions oft' designed
To phrase what can't be yet defined
Oh ALL the things left blank and blind
How could it be, oh could it be ...
A world bereft of poetry?
Thank heav'n that world ... won't ever be.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "If There Was No Poetry" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
How can I care about poetry ...
When my dad doesn't care about life?
How can I care about poetry ...
When he can't recognize his own wife?
How can I care about poetry ...
When my face is one Dad doesn't know?
How can I care about poetry ...
When my real father left long ago?
How can I care about poetry ...
When Dad struggles to find each small word?
How can I care about poetry ...
When his mind and his speech are so slurred?
How can I care about poetry ...
While this man that I so love is leaving?
How can I care about poetry ...
When I have little care left for grieving?
How can I care about poetry ...
While Dad's mem'ries go dark like the night?
How on earth can I care about poetry?!?
Well, sometimes I DON'T care ... I just write.
Bloody rude drunken pen has enjoyed a nib of ink or two, reminiscing on a few
Bad and ugly times, we both admit at times things were, a bit of a mess,
All kinds of intertwined, confused but along the way making some progress
On the grand masterpiece of all masterpieces – writing bliss
At first polite, we take in turns, to interject with collaborative words,
Until the air hits us hard, take a breath, where’s your etiquette, manners and respect,
My turn pen, I command, continue on to write, scribbling like an erratic bird’s nest.
Pen resists and spits its ink, a dirty blob from its nib…how rude
All smudged and slurred is a dribbling rambling of everything crude
Across the page leaking its ink, clearly from excessive drink
Dancing on thin ice, my drunken pen decides to try and entice
Inviting me to envelope, his muscular body with smooth fingers
Such fraternisation you drunken sleaze, how do you expect to please
The love of your life, giving you permission to write and express your ink with ease
Drunken pen is at a loss as reflects on his drunken state, its very late
Blubbering relaxed words across the page, deep within and obscure
Then I realise that my drunken pen is sometimes a little insecure
He has a way of making me melt when I think of his 50 shades of blue
Each drink of ink that fills his nib, that prints our words, that stains my skin
Is in every way the partnership of creative bliss and my perfect hue
2nd October 2012
Written for Drunken Pen - Part 2 Contest
It'd been one of the most bizarre days; downright crazy
so I had a martini, maybe four, so things got kinda hazy
I fumbled in my wallet so I could pay my pricey bar tab
Friends thought I had too many, so they put me in a cab
I stumbled up the steps. It seems walking was a chore
Couldn't find my key, so I tried beating down the door
Her screeches of "Where the bloody hell have ya been?"
Pounded in my head, making me sorry that I'd come in.
She hissed, then off to the kitchen she foolishly prattled
With horrendous noises, pots and pans were being rattled
My head was sorely throbbing so I begged her to be quiet
She screamed, "Don't yell at me! Blame your liquid diet!"
She banged a bowl of something down on the table cloth.
I weaved my way to a chair as my mouth began to froth
Put my head in my hands when the room started spinning
Caught a glimpse of that evil woman. Yeah, she was grinning
A mound of muck she'd plunked down right in front of me
looked like it should still be swimming in the salty sea
It smelled vile and disgusting... nauseatingly atrocious
I gagged and turned away, that's when Liz became ferocious
I couldn't move an inch to find my way back to the couch
I was a brick, held by mortar. My wife was being a grouch
but I couldn't find the strength to flee. I felt far too dizzy
My turn to shout, "Can you just stop your naggin', Lizzie?"
I didn't mean to say it, and my words came out so slurred
My vision was fuzzy. Everything was clouded and blurred
Something was staring up at me while awful music played
That's when I saw green heads and grew appallingly afraid
Whether fantasy or reality, frogs had escaped from a pond
These were fugly creatures. From evil they'd been spawned
I was being serenaded by a quartet of deep croaking voices
So suffers the drunken man while his heartless wife rejoices
I crawled to bed when I couldn't take the harmony any more
Lizzie punched me and said, "Wake up if you're gonna snore."
I tripped down the stairs, woke the dog and made him bark
Left the wife and found a bench to sleep it off in the park
With this napkin as my canvas
A word picture I paint
While he drowns out his sorrows
Until he finally faints
The best works he weaves
Are when unconsciously drunk
While sober and thinking
He writes only junk
While he flirts with the barmaid
Thinking about the sword in his pants
The sword in his right hand
On this napkin words plant
When he wakes with this poem
Stuck to the side of his head
He’ll read it and conclude
He’s the genius instead
Instead of getting credit
For these words that I write
It would be more correct to say written
By Jack Daniels last night
So why are the words
Not slurred or mistyped
Because while the lush was all trashed
His pen was alright
So barmaid pour another
For this bum who holds me
And let’s pray he uses his other hand
When he has to go pee
I approach the wooded trails and hear nothing save for my footfalls crunching in the soft snow. It is the kind of winter day that even a feather falls without drifting one way or the other. The trees stand straight, tall, and silent, their branches appearing as if they’ve been painted there. The water in the nearby stream is crystal clear and motionless, reflecting the cloudless morning sky. It was still, utterly still.
crystal waters flow
reflecting winter’s stillness
peaceful Christmas scene
Copyright © Sara Etgen-Baker | Year Posted 2023
A loud string of clear down-slurred two-parted whistles reach my ear. There is a little red cardinal tucked between thick foliage. Its an architectural beauty, an inquest. He looks at me with two round eyes then shows me a circular world made up of silence and noise. We are standing on a precipice of the Sacred. A unanimous ground holding space with Nature, Creature & Human, alike.
winter evergreens
snapshot of a Cardinal
perched on my nightstand
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
Across the rink that winter evening stood,
against a wall, a rose, in freezing cold.
So striking in her pose, beneath her hood
two cheeks had stolen glow from sunshine’s gold.
Upon this diamond bloom he cast his eyes;
released his hockey stick and ran to greet
his shining rose, by far his sweetest prize
and comfort in the times of his defeat.
And as he came to her, she did not stir
until the crunch of feet on snow she heard.
She limped on damaged legs toward him, a blur
she viewed through lenses thick. . . “Hello,” she slurred.
No limits hold true love. He took his gem,
and held in warm embrace that flower’s stem.
For PD's "A True Love Poem" Poetry contest
Through the lies that shatter, the tears that gleam,
Your eyes show the stories, the shadows unclean,
You were mine to have, you were mine to dream,
You were my spotless lies, my everything.
Time wasn’t money, just as love wasn’t trust,
Time was short and love was lust.
Urges were many, to comply was a must,
Goodbye, blue eyed angel, grind this thin wall to dust.
Love was given and unreturned,
Shadows cleared, lies were slurred,
Truth was fought and visions blurred,
Not love, not lust, not the single heart cured.
Not but a memory, not but a name,
Held fast to a girl with her head bowed in shame,
So long gone but a voice can tame,
Goodbye blue-eyed angel, only I was to blame.
The day that followed . . .
Blossomed blue, bright . . . beautiful
Clouds towering into the heavens
Wheeling white, wonderful . . . wordless
The clouds danced in the expanse
Rolling on a sea of silence
Sailing soft, supple . . . serene
Saw nothing
Cared nothing
Floated away
Alone . . . . . blind . . . . . marvelous
mute!
The trees . . .
The trees reveled in their own wild
E m o t I o n s
Old Man Walnut – a true heart-wood
Big boned brooded black
Dark, dangerous, defiant
Lady oak took red at the edges
A deep striking flame-red
Her heart a luscious lively living green
A gentlewoman of a long experience
Patient, Peaceful, persistent and powerful
Elms burst yellow – effulgent
Cried for attention
Demanded attention
Wind whistled wantonly through her leaves
Tall, tenacious, testy, temerarious
Some of the maples slurred
A bright primary red
Like harlots laughing, listening, languishing
Showed interest but cared for nothing
The Sweetgums stood aloof
Star-shaped leaves
Like bruises oozing deep purple
At first draft
S N
T A
O K
O E
D D
Abused . . . abandoned . . .
alone
Crape Myrtles cluster together
Gossiping busy-bodies
Bursting orange with outrageous desire
Watching, wanting, waiting, wanton
Modest were the Aspens
Slender and graceful
Giggling trees
But where they were
They were so many
They could afford to be
Modest, monomorphic, musical, memorable
The Pines and firs
Raising forth green among the colors
Unchanging
Unwilling to change
Criticizing by their contrast
every other change
The Woods
The woods
The chaotic woods
The heartless forest
And the trees . . .
. . . . .The boughs, leafs, limbs, roots
That whole glorious community
Simply went about its
Natural business
Another day in creation.
Live and Love Generously
Words are not enough,
Alphabets strung in uncertainty,
Speech slurred in disbelief,
Love endlessly professed,
Lacking in action or substance,
Intentions of the heart,
Inexpressible by vocabulary,
Pledges frustrated by timelines,
Lofty dreams built with bricks of vapour,
Visions written on sand,
Children of promise orphaned by unfulfillment,
In foster care of compromise,
Doubt takes up tenancy,
Sin, its landlord.
Grace grants clemency,
Faith offers a new lease,
Adopted by rectitude,
Shut doors avert imminent destruction,
Redirecting the path to destiny,
Visions conceptualized begin to materialize,
Pipe dreams turn reality,
Old debts reconciled,
The hearts intent,
Superseded by divine counsel,
Love endures its rule,
Substantiated by fidelity,
After all said and undone,
Words alone are not enough.
Will old age cause any of these?
a) Tresses to become gray or white
b) Inability to sleep at night
c) Just when sleep finally arrives, nocturia
d) For men maybe prostate problems with anuria
e) Some of the above, all of the above or none of the above
Can old age bring one or all of these?
a) Memory loss and maybe loss of keys
b) Getting chilled by a little breeze
c) Knees that creak, shoulders that ache
d) Inability to chew a good steak
e) Some of the above, all of the above or none of the above
As life goes on and on, do any of these come along?
a) Skin that starts to show spots
b) Some skin spots cancerous, believe it or not
c) Wrinkles line the brow and smile
d) Sitting down means napping awhile
e) Some of the above, all of the above or none of the above
All in all, is aging like this?
a) Standing for a long time, is quite fatiguing
b) No more the opposite sex intriguing
c) When someone speaks, words get slurred
d) Words in books are quite blurred
e) Some of the above, all of the above or none of the above
After all, I have to say, "He fills my life with good things" each day. Psalms 103: 5
One tall and gaunt with hooded eyes
The other bearded, bent, time-worn and wise
They relished unfurling their intellectual sails
To seek secrets of wisdom on ancient gales
Two wizened old philosophers in a huddled conspiracy
They picked through the bones of archaic mythology
Pondered the tomes of scholars of yore
Then fleshed out the virtues of masters of lore
They sniffed out the dragons of hateful hypocrisy
Harangued and railed against heinous heresy
Decried the dogmatist's intolerant curse
Then like poets esteemed they trundled through verse
Their furrowed cheeks glowed as the whiskey flowed
Voices gravelled and slurred as their logic blurred
They fumbled and mumbled, weary and weaving
As the dying embers of day, dropped into evening
With their feverish fervour fully feted
They stumbled into the night, agreeably sated!