Best Snagging Poems
It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.
As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.
It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.
a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.
The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?
My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.
My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?
Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest
Categories:
snagging, memory, nature,
Form:
Haibun
Cyclops moon's silver beams
piercing crowded misty dreams,
lonely stroll through fog filled trees
whispers heard on Autumn breeze,
side ways glances in the park
fill my thoughts of creatures dark.
As I walk through guarded wood,
peeking out from shrouded hood,
no eyes through molten shadows seen
I walk this place where souls have been.
My senses sharp, I want to flee.
I feel the evil watching me.
Nimble fingers on leafless shrub
reach from twisted craggy hub
snagging swaddled cloak I wear
seeking virtuous thoughts to tear.
Eerie twilight stains abound
on plants and stones and on the ground.
Shadows eager for evening meal
await the touch of souls to steal.
Through tangled copse I proceed
on flighted feet to end my need,
from devil thicket I remove,
my lonely locus to improve.
Shimmering fears fill my head
escaping from my sense of dread,
as dark demented demons rise
from stark places under clouded skys
Then as quickly as rain drops fall
I see my chance to end it all.
Through ebon velvet my eye sees
the path will end, beyond the trees
Past the shadows, past the dreams
my spirit floats on liquid moonbeams.
So soothe I must my troubled mind
and leave this devil wood behind.
11/05/15
Categories:
snagging, evil, imagination,
Form:
Couplet
The Hush of Christmas Past
It came more slowly then.
After Thanksgiving
the lights and decorations
started showing up.
The excitement started to build.
Santa showed up at the
department store, The
ads in the newspapers
were larger, some even
in color. There was talk of
“the list”, and “naughty or nice”.
It was agonizing – waiting for
the night Mom said “OK, let’s
go buy the tree”. The trip to
the back lot behind the
super market, “This one…
NO! THIS ONE!” We carried
the tree - by any means possible -
remembering Mom’s warning:
“Remember, you will have to
carry that big tree home.”
The tree was somehow decorated.
Lights, tinsel, bulbs, each one someone’s
favorite, ribbons, bows, a picture
of the cat. Now the speculation
began in earnest. “Whadaya
think you’re gonna get?”. “OH,
I hope, I hope, I hope”, “But I can’t
tell you, it’s a secret.” We knew there
would probably be sox, some new
PJ’s, mittens – the usual. But there
would also be those other nicely
wrapped gifts – from Santa.
The baseball glove, the skates,
the “un-wrapable” scooters, bikes,
baseball bats, hockey sticks.
These were always brought by
Santa Clause. Santa supplied the
dreams, Mom and Dad the gifts.
We provided the unmistakable
sounds of Christmas morning.
There would be church and a
Christmas dinner, lost amid the
joy of dreams. Dreams of snagging
that line drive with the new baseball
glove, of racing down the hill on
the bike, of Bobby Orr like moves
with the new skates.
The colored lights took their cue
from the setting sun as we gathered
around the table and savored the
sweet, juicy, succulence of Mom’s -
never to be equaled – Apple Pie.
John G. Lawless
11/22/2014
submitted to HUSH OF CHRISTMAS PAST – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Mystic Rose
Categories:
snagging, childhood, christmas, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
half speed of sound
nose-diving from dizzy heights
snagging baby's brunch
Categories:
snagging, nature,
Form:
Haiku
I WISH I WEREN’T A SPIDER
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
I wish I weren’t a spider, not even my relatives are a friend
Getting close to another kinsman could bring a lethal end
We're not a glamorous group, we are hairy and scary
We set up snares and spin webs snagging the naive n unwary
If you visit my web I’ll spin you into a tailored silky cocoon
In time I’ll drain you, you’ll end up resembling a sun dried prune
Now I ask you, is that a hygienic way to earn a living
I hide in nooks n crannies, my bites totally unforgiving
Most of the time you’ll get a little fever maybe some pain
But the fright that I cause is so impossible to contain
Now, I’ve got kin in a place called the land down under
Being not aware of their presence is a fatal blunder
In South America we are big, hairy and lightning quick
We hide in holes, when prey ambles by, our pounce is slick
In the jungles we can spin webs several meters across
Snagging creatures n eyeing them as they struggle n toss
No escape: some will become a gourmet’s month long meal
Spun silks are sturdy, flexible, elastic, yet stronger than steel
The mating process is a venturous trip with fatal chances
We’ve got to lure and subdue her into hypnotic trances
Being lucky enough to catch her, turns into a dangerous ordeal
After impregnating, I got to be quick or I’ll be her next meal
She’ll get her comeuppance from babies carried underside
They’ll rapidly devour her; how she lived is how she died
Now I ask you is that a commendable way to exist
We will never be included in any preferred list
But if I were a butterfly so fragile n brightly colored
I’d flit from flower to flower, sweet nectar easily devoured
I’d be regaled, loved and showered with daily praise
I’d be included in children’s books on the front page
Categories:
snagging, allusion, butterfly, children, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
My psyche's playground
Is a horrific landscape:
There is no escape
From the snagging cleft
Of its jagged inlay,
As steep as a million years of seeping blood
Coagulated through coldheartedness
Confusion and subterfuge
- It's like coming home when your lover's asleep,
Or breaking a promise by taking a peek;
Personal experience tells me,
That right about now,
It is nearly
time for me
To take my extended leave...
...Can we keep this between you and me,
Exclusively?
I never really liked you very much anyway;
But why should we let something like that
Stand in our way?
And try and hold us back?
Or stop us from running away?
Maybe even together (someday)
But not necessarily on the same planet...
...Is this a joke?
A poem?
Or an insult?
I don't think I get it?
I really cannot be expected
To know the correct answers
To these specific types
Of metaphysical questions;
Yet...
...That's what makes me an artist...well, isn't it?
What are you?! - A friggin' idiot?!
Don't answer that:
I was just starting to like you,
Even though, it is true what they say:
I do think you are incredibly stupid
Considering your unexpected age...
...But we can still be fair-weather friends
Whenever it isn't raining again...Is it just me?
Or is it always raining these days?
I can evoke a joke or a poem
From almost any known substance
Comparable to injustice!
So why then, won't anyone pay me for my poetry?!
Is it because I'm still drinking too heavily?
Somebody, anybody
- Seriously, please; just kill me
# They call this "topical" humor, but I still don't get it...
...And I feel like I'm running out of time to "get-with-it"
- Any suggestions would be appreciated....
Categories:
snagging, angst, crazy, political, silly,
Form:
Free verse
Objet Trouve*
diverse assortment of art
on the stoop, enticing allure
bright clay pottery
welded lawn ornaments
photographs and paintings
inside the gallery
traveler's treasure trove
time slows, snail-like
eyes dining, sumptuous feed
walls, steps, tables
crowded with creations
eloquently speak
the artist's message
snagging emotions
louder than words
son's poetry penned
honoring father's sketch
childhood memory
treasured tree house
Instant Sale!
*Found Object
Categories:
snagging, art, poetry, remember, son,
Form:
Free verse
Very, very naughty I can sometimes be
Turning over a new leaf but I sure need to pee
Be back in a jiff
Well that's really if
I can zip my zipper without snagging my wee tree
Categories:
snagging, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
** In This Last Waltz **
I am swirling around thoughts,
Swirling even ‘tween ‘em , too — stepping forward —
Getting ready for this nght’s joys to end , and
See The Last Waltz come up on my dance card.
I’m twirling thru wonderings
— Biding my time hopping with the rocket man —
As my mind goes wandering,
Considering all the ways Time’s passing
Changes things —
I’ve been tapping along to the music’s beats
While “tripping through the light fantastic”
Off into only the finest of old memories.
I beg away the painful ones,
Keeping them in a far, secluded realm,
Which I look to name Forgotten —
And from where their attempts to recur will be for naught.
I’ve been gossiping with Caledonia
About which men will still be fit for the last dance.
We’ve been stomping to rythms of the blues —
Both of us wearing our alabaster shoes,
So fine for kicking up our gowns with some flare.
We’re running away from The Last Waltz as it ends..
Just minutes before midnight…
We’re sliding onto the taxi’s backseat,
Snagging our dresses, plus losing a shoe!
Nonetheless, we’re squeezed tightly together,
Shouting for the driver to race speedily off into the wind…
As we’re testifying that only good memories
Will be lived
To end our fun, illustrious, regal most fanciful night!
———————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger. 6/28/2023
** written to “The Last Waltz” concert music by The Band
With a mention of Elton John as the Rocket Man.
The prince, not notedwas, I think in another realm…;-)
Thanks be to God…
Categories:
snagging, cinderella, dance, fantasy, fun,
Form:
Prose Poetry
You would've labeled it a shotgun wedding,
if you'd seen how we rushed it,
snagging the license on Friday morning
and exchanging vows that same evening.
No white dress, no people-packed pews,
simply a long drive in my brother's Chevy,
from St. Louis to Morse Mill, Missouri;
that July day burned into our memories
at a hundred four degrees, no A/C,
and a flat tire on the road to the church.
Uncle Vernon officiated
in a less-than-five-minute ceremony.
You mean that's it? Is this legal?
I certainly didn't feel married!
"They'll think you're pregnant,"
my mother said. No chance of that,
with our entire courtship advanced
solely through airmail letters.
He was marked for Japan,
courtesy of the U. S. Air Force.
Only death or instant wedlock
were valid pleas for allowing leave.
We hadn't clapped lips together in 10 months.
When he called, I said yes,
and we had the shotgun wedding,
without the gun.
Categories:
snagging, war, wedding,
Form:
Narrative
Recover
I have no clear recollection at all
That time rescued me from any pain
I know it wasn’t yesterday or a week ago
Because ridged shards of it still remain
They pierce my heart with a razors edge
The sharp edges snagging my soul
Tearing the very delicate fabric of me
All of me gone now, with nothing to show
They say time is an awesome healer
Well that may be true for many things
But for all the tears I’ve shed over you
There is no healing for tears it still brings
I lay quietly in the gathering darkness
I do not care if I live or if I die
Time seems to have stopped moving
Its healing powers clearly just a lie
My soul in tragic self inflicted dispair
Cannot survive much more misery
Something must happen and soon
Or I will become a spec of history
I need to be stronger then this
To find strength buried deep down inside
I will move one foot and then another
And dry up all the tears I have cried
I must get time moving again
It has to happen one way or another
The only way I will ever survive
Is to pray for God to help me recover
Connie Moore
10/2/2015
Categories:
snagging, heartbreak,
Form:
Rhyme
Executing the realm of beauty,
puncturing your torturess soul
while the sinister truth exemplifies purity,
the kind you lost along the way.
You can't see that longing,
you can't comprehend that willingness-
the deepest form of revenge-
success.
And with the success,
all that surpasses is the crooked
unreliable action,
a pretense definition that karma is mandatory.
It moves me how such a belief holds,
totalitarian regime.
Your highness,
I'll bow to you once more,
one more adieu
and passing by.
But after not one
but two steps away,
you are no longer existent-
like the leaves evaporated by the snagging wind-
wrapping its arms around the oak's leaves-
sucking out the poison of the leaves,
as they drop one
by one.
Farewell,
one final time.
Categories:
snagging, angst, art, confusion, forgiveness,
Form:
Lyric
No Way Out
By Rick Rucker
As recently as a year ago,
I knew not, which way to go,
From financial ruin, to likely cancer,
I could not seem to forge an answer,
I went to work, all depressed,
My problems, largely unaddressed,
My problems seemed to overwhelm,
I could not seem to grasp the helm,
Then, out of the Blue,
I decided what I would do,
That rather than “going out,” sad, and lonely,
I no longer wanted to be “the only,”
Rather than being alone, at the end,
I would rather share the time left, with a friend,
I thought that my search would be a Quest,
But, I found it one of the best,
Times in my Life,
A Mission, with potential, rife,
From that time on,
The funk, that I had been in, had gone!
Like snagging Victory, from Defeat,
I got a bonus, an Angel, sweet,
While it may seem to be remote,
Those Dragons from my Mind, she smote,
The end of my Life, once forecast,
Was incorrect, it would last,
Far longer than my doctor thought it would,
I decided it was due to my Angel, good,
I knew that I could not let her slip away,
I did not want to go alone, into the Fray,
As she had already changed my Fate,
I beseeched her to become my Mate,
She finally acquiesced,
Rather than see me grovel, she thought it best,
In the course of our Romance,
I found that she is a genius at finance,
I thought that money would be a concern of my heirs,
With a longer lifespan, it again was one of my cares,
I am but a silly Man,
So, she put me on a savings plan,
One that will do what is all the Rage,
To have money, ‘til The End, at any age!
So, if you want my prescription for a Life, so fine,
Find an Angel, but you cannot have mine!
Her time is already spoken for,
For the next hundred years, or more!
Categories:
snagging, introspection, love, time, me,
Form:
Couplet
Textures
Burlap and satin, old age and youth,
that’s probably backwards to tell the truth.
Cause something that’s satin, is easily cut.
While hide of pure burlap is tested and tough.
Burlap and satin, old age and youth,
a rigid garment and something that’s smooth.
Shining and snagging with rugged touch
not giving out warmth very much.
Burlap and satin, one up one down,
bulging potato sack, a sleek evening gown.
One’s not for the moment and one is hot.
We make the best of what we’ve got.
Satin and burlap, youth and old age
years of life give birth to a sage.
Burlap keeps strong the things that it holds,
precious loved ones and moments of gold.
Categories:
snagging, age, clothes,
Form:
Quatrain
Morbid angel
With that crooked gothic grin
Smearing licorice lipstick
On the licentious lips of sin
Morbid angel
Whimpering salacious sighs
Snagging the souls of men
In your fishnet thighs
Morbid angel
In sable studded noir
Matching spiked collars
With your high heel scars
Morbid angel
Black lace over ashen skin
You’re late for school again
Much to your parent’s chagrin
Categories:
snagging, daughter, family, introspection, social,
Form:
Quatrain