Best Snaggle Poems
a hush shivers my spine,
it reeks havoc and I no longer speak-
I traveled back in time,
the only thing I find
is the tapping of soft feet.
they keep quiet at daybreak,
and wipe a tear before bed-
unspoken words are insinuated
when you're hungry...unfed.
pull the plug,
shock me with paddles,
remorse comes so cheap,
when you're the sinner who reaps-
hush little babies,
don't cry when your broken,
for so much is said with
words unspoken.
a lonely boy follows til
he can no longer see-
and in his last breath
he whispers hello to me.
I wonder if the little birdie knows
there's no room for pain-
asking questions,
demanding answers,
driving everyone insane.
freedom of speech can
reveal so much,
as the pain of a whisper
can damage as such.
no reasons for healing,
my dealing is dead,
sanctify moments of
sorrow before bed.
sinister and snaggle-toothed
you slur with wine on your breath,
all lies hidden in the truth,
when you wake up lost...dead.
suicidal tendencies
stole you away from me,
tragic hushed ease,
the cruelty finally frees.
until the day arrives when
you can speak with love,
I shall hope with grace
you'll find healing from above.
fly away black dove...
fly away...
June 19, 2017
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
Now pick apart
My S E X U A L I T Y
and tell me these traits
That must define me.
From my heads to my tippy toes
Am I more man or Mo?
Dont hesitate
While you emasculate
They must call you Webster
Because you act like now.
Is it because-
I dye my hair to ignite these eyes
Or I skip to the beat
And step in time?
I dont wear clothes that pop
My pants sag NOT snap
I dont death at the drop
But Ill always clapback.
I pee standing up
But cry standing down,
More wit in this sass
To asassinate a clown.
I flick my wrist-
sideways
But have hair on my chest,
I dont pluck my brows -
For days
I choose ladies over men
To spill the tea
But I can outrun a sportsman
If someone is chasing me.
I got Fem tropes.
I pull man ropes.
I dont vape, I smoke
Im riddled with jokes.
Got a snaggle tooth
That bite will your truth,
Im not GQ clean
But I on the cover if you know what I mean.
Liza, Judy, Gaga, Babs
Parade my phone
with disney pics and washboard abs.
Denzel, Deniro, Statham
Are the dudes I roll
I dont spit whiskey
But ill drink vodka from the bowl.
I believe in truth and the American way
I pray to God,
YES I was born this way.
So paint my sterotype
With your sheltered PC hype,
I am just a ruggedly handsome prototype-
Now continue to archetype me
As I drop this Mic.
Sitting on the porch
neath the old Oak,
breakfast is over,
bacon, fried yeast bread and peach preserves
canned by hand in ancient jars.
They’ve seen their share of life,
garden tomatoes,
blanched to remove the skin,
peeled and crushed,
a smidge of salt and hint of lemon,
lovingly filled
as the sweat is wiped from furtive brow,
and the last of the butter beans are picked
…taters dug.
Watermelons and cantaloupes are long gone,
only the pumpkins remain in the garden,
their leaves yellowing from green,
their cheeks blushing orange,
awaiting their ritual makeover of snaggle toothed grins
and flickering hollow stares.
The summer season slowly, limpidly
goes to sleep.
Sweet tea at hand,
the ice has all melted,
and the clacking rhythm of the old rocking chair
slowed,
as time stands silent
in the oppressive heat.
If you look through the clear glass
now there is held
the sweetness of Autumn’s fruit,
strawberries and blueberries
and of course sweet, succulent, juicy peaches.
fruit and sugar and nothing more,
cooked to perfection,
with slow caring hands.
How many pints and quarts
over how many years have these bent fingers held.
Soon now those same jars will empty
and soap and water will wash
from them the years of use,
the memories we’ve shared
...but the love will remain.
The rusted rings will be thrown away,
the broken seals replaced,
and like new a young, strong set of hands
will heat the jars …sterilizing …each one,
preparing them, one by one,
to be filled with the new memories and love they will hold.
11/23/17
As dawn cracks the sky
and yellow light leaks through
The neighbourhood oracle begins her day,
sets out her stall on the corner near the station
"The end is coming"
The newspaper boy in his sister's scarf
snatched in haste too early this morning,
just before dawn,
yawning he peddles past the prophetess.
Her long hair writhes,
arms paddle the air
like a swimmer, only grimmer,
then, grinning at the boy on his bike.
"Ha you! Think you can fly!
Come to Jesus"
Over the Eastern roof tops
the dawn light gleaming
Mabel is born again,
beaming her snaggle tooth smile
"Joy today! The kingdom is come!
Repent!"
She has her reasons,
though parts of her story
her pain, her history, are a mystery
In all seasons, all weathers, every morning
while the sun slowly clambers
into the sky,
Mad Mabel, the local oracle
with twenty seven
assorted bags, eleven teeth,
and three bibles
is born again.
And we are all doomed.
I went to the Secretary of State's office
to receive my license today.
On the way, I swear
I saw my uncle fresh out of rehab.
I swear
I thought I saw Miguel Pinero's ghost
on the sidewalk
in his classic rags, three-day beard
and fedora ensemble.
My mother and I arrived,
walked in with the right papers.
'I want a burger' is all on my mind
'And maybe a Coke. Yeah, I could really go
for a Coke right now.'
We sat across from an obese black man.
He wore black dress pants, shoes, socks,
black dress, jacket, red dress shirt underneath,
and a large golden cross on a golden chain.
He was talking to a small blonde boy
with eyes like headlights.
The boy with eyes like headlights
chatted nonsensically, almost in half whisper.
The large, religious black man nodded,
gave the occasional glance
into those big, bright eyes,
and let the boy carry on.
"Number 71" was called
from one of the counters.
"Well, that's me. Take care o' you ‘self"
said the good black man to the boy.
And those eyes,
like two moons with deep, blue pools
in centered craters,
gathered a look
of sudden, traumatic loss.
He did not cry.
He simply turned away
and went to sit next to his mother.
I watched this as I sat there;
and I judged terrible judgments
unto everyone there
except the black man and the boy;
and I questioned as to what drugs
the workers there are prescribed.
"Number 73"
Finally, our number.
The woman at our counter was a find looking one;
small, perky breasts
tried to break free
from that tight, tight grey sweater.
She was a tan brunette with
swampy brown eyes, slightly glazed over,
probably from the medication
that I was still trying to determine.
I started to fantasize
of taking her home with m
when I noticed
the woman working at the next counter
was snaggle toothed.
Some part of me wished
like it were Christmas Eve
that she had called our number instead.
For those who do not know,
Miguel Pinero
is twice the poet
of any man alive today.
On morning-time drives, my daughter and I,
Would sing along songs which rarely were heard,
That music was playing seems to defy,
My recollection of photographs blurred;
Vividly now, still I see Ava there,
Rockin’ like Bono with snaggle-tooth grins,
Smilin’ at daddy from her special chair,
Laughter erupting as answers to questions;
Yet, somewhere near where my health went astray,
Were magical moments stolen from us,
Now only silence do memories play,
While tearful sonnets are written as thus;
So to my daughter, I say with all love,
Let’s sing again soon, my morning-time dove.
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.
Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize
On Halloween the spirits rise and walk this ancient planet, once again. Put out your jack-o-lanterns to keep them away from your door. Make them scary and snaggle toothed to get those ghouls and goblins, running. Witches and ghosts are different lots so send them running from a bonfire; they’ll be sorry they met you.
On moonlit nights like,
Halloween among the trees;
Shadows will be seen.
Brother Moon casts his
Light and banishes specters,
Through the hallowed night.
Our Hannah with her snaggle tooth
Is prettier and that's the truth
Than any sultry movie star
Who gets her beauty from a jar.
She's just turned six years old and so
Her baby teeth are primed to go;
But one, reluctant to vamoose,
Just hangs in there, relaxed and loose.
Our Hannah doesn't seem to mind,
She is not the conceited kind
And has more things to think about
Than a laggard tooth, that won't fall out.
Those who have offered her assistance
Have met with six-year old resistance
And though our Hannah isn't vain
She has a low threshold for pain.
If you chance to see beguiling grin,
With a tooth that is more out than in,
You have seen our Hannah, there's no doubt.
With her baby tooth that won't fall out.
Side Note: This next poem is an old poem from high school that WAS, and I repeat WAS based off a dream I once had of an old crush I had who I no longer think of and thank God for that! That guy was a f**king ugly snaggle-tooth pisher Lolzx. Anyway, here is my poem "As I Run Away". Please comment and enjoy!
I sit in a room,
All alone.
Until you come.
You're a distance away,
I grab my shoes,
And run for the door.
You call my name,
And I stop for a second.
As you come closer,
I run out the front door.
You try to catch me,
But I'm too fast,
I run further away.
I finally lose you,
But I keep going.
I get away from you.
I won't turn back now.
I've come too far,
As I run away from you...
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
He was a hatchet-faced guy and snaggle-toothed.
Most said he was a good guy,
but sometimes it happens
with snaggle-toothed hatched faced guys,
in time they get itchy,
the kind of itch you can't buy a cream for.
After the first murder he felt better,
after the second, better still,
after the third he felt like the very hand of God.
He was a hatchet-faced guy if you know what I mean.
Tread gently around such folks,
even when they smile at you -
especially when they smile at you.
He was a hatchet-faced guy with snaggle-teeth,
most said he was okay in a peculiar way.
It happens sometimes;
snaggle-toothed hatched faced guys get itchy,
the kind of itch you can't buy a cream for.
After his first three murder victims
he confessed to the cops
that he felt like the very hand of God!
He was a squirrely guy if you know what I mean,
with horsy snag-teeth that grinned
all friendly-like,
yet I always sensed a hatchet
raised above my head
when he smiled my way
and he smiled a lot.
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.