Best Smithereens Poems
"I've rode the range now fer nigh on sixty years,
Brandin' dogies and ropin' them wily Hereford steers.
When I come to the end of the trail, I don't want no big scenes.
Boys, jes' wrap me in my hoss's blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"I don't want you fellers carryin' on and bellerin' when I'm gone.
Jes' say a few kind words, git back in the saddle and carry on!
Think of me now and then when you're chewin' yer bacon and beans.
'Jes promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Promise me you'll take good care of my faithful hoss, Old Dan,
And let him tag along on roundups on the range when you can.
I love cowboyin', but boys you know I ain't a man of means.
Jes' wrap this poor old soul in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
"Buck, you kin have my scruffy boots and old sweat-stained hat.
Rusty, you take my saddle - Red, you kin have my 44-caliber gat.
Them's my worldly goods 'cept fer these jeans that's worn to smithereens,
But promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in them jeans!"
"I'd like to be planted on that knoll yonder 'neath that ponderosa pine.
If you kin scare up a preacher to send me on my way, that'll do jes' fine.
I've been a cowpoke since I was fourteen - I reckon it's in my genes.
Boys, promise me you'll wrap me in a blanket and bury me in my jeans!"
Entry for Line Gauthier's "Cowboy Poem Contest"
Kirk: ‘Lt. Uhura, come to my quarters at 1800 hours’
Uhura: ‘Yes captain, might I ask what’s up?’
Kirk: ‘Nothing now but something WILL be at 1800 hours’
Bones: ‘Jim, is this a medical issue?’
Kirk: ‘You bet your ***** it is, Bones’
Sulu: ‘Captain, a Klingon ship is approaching’
Kirk: ‘Blast that sucker to smithereens, I got a date’
Chekov: ‘Captain, you’ll need protection on this mission’
Kirk: No problem Ensign, got a few here in my wallet’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘May the force be with you’
Kirk:’ Thanks Obi, but you’re in the wrong contest’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘This isn’t PD’s contest?’
Kirk: ‘HELL no, now SKAT will probably disqualify us’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘Well, may the force be with you anyway’
Kirk: ‘Look Kenobi, nobody’s forcing ANYBODY here’
Spock: ‘Captain, I’m receiving a message from SKATfleet Command’
Kirk: ‘What Mr. Spock? And why do you always talk like that?’
Spock: ‘To qualify for the contest, the writer has to command the ship’
Kirk: ‘Damn it all! What the…FRONT AND CENTER WRITER!’
Writer: ‘Um…All hands on deck?...Anchors away?’
Uhura: ‘Ohh Captain KIRRK, it’s 1800 hours’…
Kirk: ‘Not now Uhura, I’m not in the mood!’
Uhura: Ohh Captain WRITERRR, it’s 1800 hours’…
Writer: ‘Kirk, you have the helm. I’ll be in my quarters’
Spock: ‘Fascinating’
Kirk: ‘Shut-up Spock’…
Tim Ryerson
Theme: Sexual harassment in the workplace
For SKAT’s contest
I've been watching you
Since your beginning
Whispering to you
A thousand subtle ways
Throughout all your days
You picked me up as a leaf
You were only three
Clutching my stem in your tiny hand
Long time you stared at me
Gazing at my veins, amber colors
Other leaves rustled in my fall winds
My songs to you, thousands of them
You couldn't listen then
At twenty three with your friend
You laid on your backs one clear night
In a grassy field peering starry lights
My voice was that galactic silence
Too low a whisper for you to hear
Only crickets caught your ear
Now you did hear
In your thirty third year
When your first child was born
And you heard my primal cry
Shook your illusions, you asked why
Your deceptions re emerged over time
Forty years later, no longer aware
Of the cosmic cycle we all share
Still my voice too quiet, too low
My greater voice in a single clap
Disintegrates humanity into smithereens
Think tectonic plate shifts are epic?
My full voice explodes a supernova
A sound no human has ever heard
A mere hiccup for me
I speak through this fragile human
Something of a poet, his intent is fine
Make no mistake, his thoughts are mine
Oh, I have many stories and wisdoms
I could have shared, had you only cared
At your end, we will finally embrace
As your dust clears
And leaves no trace
Listen
Be aware
4/6/18
Nature Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh 5/6/21
I could not write poetry
till I was brain damaged
a life of shame, abuse
no good to anyone, oh yes and of no use
hiding behind the dark side of you.
Memories dreams are of that time,
many a mile we accomplished
amongst the grey stones
the bricks the muck
hiding behind the dark side of you.
I use to spend many hours
just looking for inspiration at the sky the ocean,
hear the rushing water
and in simplicity feel the gentle rain
hiding behind the dark side of you.
Why oh why should I wear this affliction
I’ve been many things in my life
that, which never stops creaking
lives here in one’s head
hiding behind the dark side of you.
Yesterday’s events were so different
penetrated my head my heart my soul
regarding earth’s greatest feats,
mainly war and of its dead
hiding behind the dark side of you.
The media’s strength used by the subtle
Oh! The mind control
tuned to sporadic applause
swells admiration for their efforts
hiding behind the dark side of you.
Truth complemented occasionally
then smashed into smithereens,
the pieces in abundance
having lived a life of torment
hiding behind the dark side of you.
Oh Soup! Quiet haven away from it all
aids to adorn my memories, just,
love, one hears and reads about every single day
helps no doubt this victim of society’s goals
hiding behind the dark side of you.
© Harry J Horsman 2013
This time around, I will not scatter these grains
to land where the weeds might choke them.
This time around, I will collect these kernels
and take them to the gristmill in my head
to crack under all that weight and break free…
Turning while the other is static
Between these stones lay our thoughts—
(the bran, the germ, the endosperm)
Fibrous fertility re(de)fined.
Crushing each layer to smithereens
Grinding and grinding, round and round
Negligent space between these stones
‘til I can think no more.
I gather my bushel of milled thoughts (ground yet still whole),
add some yeast, sugar and water.
We rest and we rise,
we take the punches and fall,
but we embrace the heat and rise again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---I smile as I bite into my warm, buttered pan de sal
mesmerized by the sun, glowing in the east...
06042018
When I wake up, you'll be there
Warm mocha eyes, café au lait
On cold days. On warm: parfait
On rippling breeze of wind, air claire
In gliding streams of sundust words
I see inside the one you are
The one so near, so very far
Smithereens of you, carried by birds
Perfection, it does not exist
You are, I am, nous sommes
Each other's imperfection balm:
Completing what the other's misses
Each time I sleep, you're with me
I revel in your familiar wheeze
I add mine too, one wheezing breeze
Lovely and (im)parfait, across the sea
***
March 24, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
AMERICAN DREAMS SMASHED TO SMITHEREENS
Miss American pie has a dream -
whipped cream of tijuana brass.
Groovy tunes quit on smoking grass.
Frisbee LP like steaming saucers crash.
The homecoming court is plastered.
What could possibly be the matter?
Moon rockets in flight, rock me all night baby.
There were stars in my eyes, as lala land denied.
In my crib the beatles rock me to sleep,
while Tate’s fetus stares at the Helter Skelter light.
7/28/2017
Chosen song: American Pie
I beseech the shards of my shattered self,
as recollections collect with a jagged edge,
for a softened reflection of a dream in smithereens
to sheath this sunken cheeked shadow
lost in the mirrored fragments
of hollow-eyed tears.
Susan Ashley
February 12, 2019
~ Sixth Place ~
Premiere Contest: May 2019 Premier 4 (Max 14 Lines)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Fifth Place ~
Contest: Capture That Emotion
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Quote used "I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.”
Dr. Seuss, Green Eggs and Ham
My mum says I’ve got to eat all my greens
They’ll help me grow strong, guess l know what she means
But why green eggs and ham, I just want to eat jam
For I like to eat jam whenever I can
Jam on potatoes, oh that’s simply delish
I spoon it on carrots and it covers my fish
I eat jam for breakfast and always on dinner
Mum says I’ll get fat and I need to be thinner
Why does mum always think that she’s right
I need to eat jam morning, noon and night!
Every night time I kneel by my bed and pray
I thank God for letting me eat jam every day
But why won’t he listen for he knows I don’t like greens
I’d put them in firework and blow them to smithereens
Sadly mum disagrees and still gives me green food
It makes me all grumpy and puts me in a mood
But I eat them all up as I don’t want to fight
I still tell mum I love her every single night
Jan Allison
7th August 2015
Contest – Dr Seuss Quote Prompt
Sponsor Casarah Nance
In nights, in stillness those small hours
The clock’s quick hands caress me more
Than I can remember yours
Once held me close so long before
I am no lamb but still think: slaughter
Is what this is, and in despair
I turn to stone, my soul to water
You were so much, but never fair
I count the myriad smithereens
You left floating in the moonlight
Feeling in transit, Bedouin
Nowhere at home, fearing daylight
Your warm heart was a home to me
It’s cold now, lacks humanity
***
April 12, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Before her Auntie died she built her a big sandbox,
I remember her sitting there with long curly brown locks.
The sun in her face with an innocent smile so bright,
she’d stay out there playing morning, noon and night.
She had little tractors and buckets with tiny figurines,
she’d make sand castles then stomp on them to smithereens.
This one time she built a fort for her favorite Little People,
a huge monstrosity with a long bridge and a steeple.
She reached the age of eight and still loved her sandbox,
she used her imagination through the summer equinox.
Silly little girl with big brown eyes so enthralled,
but after Auntie died she just sat in it and bawled.
Now at tender age of ten we still keep it in the back yard,
once and awhile she sifts through the sand, but it’s quite hard.
But yesterday I saw her feet deep in the sand buried,
playing in that special sandbox lovely memories are carried.
Sandbox Contest
October 14, 2016
When I closed my eyes they swirled before me,
like little atoms, protons in my hands,
little worlds of their own.
The colours and the sounds, the smells.
When I opened my eyes for the first time
After,
I could not see,
but for those twirling coloured specks of light.
Could not interpret, see what it was,
could not distinguish head or tail.
Was scared when in the middle of
these smithereens a voice appeared
saying things I couldn’t distinguish either.
Life was frightening and complicated
back then.
I am a little proton,
shining bright in the middle of the night,
opposing everything and everyone,
just because I am still around, am still here,
because I am who I am.
I am a little proton,
I am allowed to be here.
I don’t need to be perfect,
don’t need to see, hear or walk faultlessly,
I am allowed in your swarm of
dancing little colourful atoms,
me, your little proton.
***
November 24, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
In early morning light I wheel myself outdoors. The vibrating air lively with small dancing aphids. In distance near, that booming sound of crashing waves against the sand, waves with their perpetual wish to walk the shore. Waves, so powerful, so strong yet so dumb, a caged animal wanting to escape. I want to escape the prison that sometimes is me, but not now. The air is fresh, the light is sharp, the wind brings longing and the salty fragrance of jelly fish in their frail beautiful dance in water, so plump and sorrowful in death on the shore.
waltz in ozone sun
song of life and love in blue:
waves of soothing sea
The beach also represents my love for dance and motion in harmony with nature, The evening light with its orange colours chant words without speech, that only need to find their way into sentences, born in movement. Stars and nightly black guide thoughts into music, where I see me dance the way I once did.
soft water ripples
around the wheels, inviting
to dance forever
I write down images in sophisticated colours, the eternal dance of fragile mentality, and physical injury, seated here, in the evening shade. Slowly darkness sends away the tangerine sky, covering me with a blanket of warm yellow, and small smithereens of starlight. A myriad specks reflected in the soothingly speaking sea that nibbles at my feet in tender kisses of friendship.
musical shower
courage in frail harmony,
water in motion.
Ah, the wistful daydreams about my lost youth!
Astride upon a white stallion, riding into a distant past
I miss youth like a barren, parched desert misses pouring rain
I wish I could coax father time into restoring my vernal exuberance
My aging body is starting to betray me. I can't see quite as clearly
I can't move as quickly. And I sure can't run up the stairs as fast
As I used to. My memory isn't quite as sharp anymore. Each morn
I awake, full of aches and pain. I'm a squeaky wheel in need of grease
You needn't strain your eyes to see what my age wants you to see
I have greying hair, crows feet, lines across my forehead, the works
My testosterone is shot to smithereens. My virility is steadily waning
But who's complaining? I'm loving life. There's a lot of it left to live, still
Aging is hard to accept, but I must. I see my wrinkles
In the mirror, and I smile because I wear them well. I'm still me!
No one stays young forever. I am but a flower no longer blooming
As beautifully in springtime, but c'est la vie. I'm still thriving!
Youthful folks may deride and dismiss me as over the hill...
A Phoenix with clipped wings, thrashing about the ashes
Sucking me in like quicksand, but I'm still alive and kicking
Look how far I've made it! I have something they envy---wisdom!
Submitted for...
Strand Select 2 Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest(Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 01/01/2019
A Contest On Aging Poetry Contest (Winner: 2nd Place)
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Date written and posted: 06/02/2019
The words
I write are fluent;
my pen twitches, my face
with eyes closed, halts my tongue.
With eyes closed, I can see these
beautiful little poems evolve.
Turns of phrase turn a smile
from my colorful smithereens.
They save me from the harsh,
reality that is this body,
and clutter oasis syllables
on barren page
***
May 9, 2017
Copyright © Darren White