Best Snarl Poems
"I'm a conundrum. Or an enigma. I forget which." James A. Owen
In a white man's world,
I've become an enigma,
feeling like I don't belong,
trying to break the stigma.
In these mental maladapted creations,
against misplaced monachopsis damnations,
they stare at the colour of your skin,
like it's some dirty unwashable sin.
Be like Nelson Mandela,
you have the strength to fight,
once labelled a terrorist,
he said: 'always shine your light.'
Bob Marley sang loudly about the
Buffalo Soldier held by a chain,
a reflection of courage,
questioning whether to evolve or remain.
Like the lyrics of Libbe Siffre,
the higher you build your barriers,
the taller I become, this is who I am,
walking among the warriors.
I may have a quiet mind,
but you will never silence my tongue,
there is a snarl in my gentle eyes,
I keep proving bigots wrong.
Keep expressing my flawless scars
through the power of my ink,
softly swaying from page to page,
verses that make the ignorant think.
Brothers and sisters, just pause for a while,
we are not colonized minds,
despite their imperialistic prejudice,
we have to be kind to all kinds.
Trust the process of poetic words
and rediscover love for self belief,
even when they try to burn your pages,
rewrite to release your grief.
In times of oppression,
flow like waves onto pebbled shores,
When are you the happiest?
Tell them when they end their wars!
If weak winds rekindle flashbacks,
when you meet the eye of the storm,
against all forms of adversity,
stand strong in a proudly beautiful form,
so, don't shush me with antagonistic tones,
because my peace comes from within me,
as my pen was born to speak the
truth through powerful poetry.
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
Where conifers gaily waltz tempos evergreen
Unspoiled by human deeds, pure, and pristine,
Eagles soar there, spanning freedom wings
And trees gently whisper to rhythmic bird trills
Echoing grey owls, blue jays, robins, crossbills,
Hopping, jumping, circling, frolicking in breeze
Reveling with hatchlings, feeding on berries
As sun rays filtering-in on wildflowers glow
Oscillating shadows in gusting, windy, woes
Amidst bears’ huffs, woofs, raging ugly growl
When raccoons coyly snarl at foxes’ feral-howl
Hiding from pitter-patter of tropical rainfall
In heavenly paradise as birdsongs toll daylong
Serenading the land where liberty is paramount
In forest of my dreams’ blossoming sanctuary~
A temple, a hideaway, a refuge, an ecosystem,
A reserve for humanity, a shrine for sanctity,
In equilibrium, edifying calmness and peace
Where elixir of sacred life flows in holy streams
Sustaining earth’s renewal in tranquil harmony.
April 17, 2021
Placed 3rd: In the forest of my dreams premium contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Placed 1st: All yours (Apr 24) contest
Manger Shadow
A shadow lurks behind the manger bed
Swaddled by indifference,
Creeping behind
Lowing cows
And
Bleating sheep,
Power without power raising up a hoary head
While in vanity dim shades attempt to weave
A gloomy thread into the scent
Of frankincense
And
Myrrh;
Endeavoring to cover ears of prophecy,
Encouraging ignorance
With busyness in crowded streets
Of travelers taxed,
Bowed down with burdens;
No Gloria’s heaven sent
As shadows pass in front of starlight
On highways straight
Deserts wild
Mountains leveled
And star-struck strangers
Asking only for directions;
Where flowers,
Blooming in the wilderness,
Lay trampled
Beneath pilgrim’s feet;
Trying to drown out
Amen
And
In Excelsis Deo
Shouted out in triumph
To wide eyes
Keeping watch
Beneath olive trees
Rather
Longing to smother a baby’s breath
With a snarl,
Rejoicing only in the anticipated silence;
To leave no room at the inn
For goodwill
Or
Shalom Eternal
Yet cower in a nightmare’s chaos,
Breath held in,
For a kingdom lost by victory
Already claimed;
Futility, the unwelcomed guest,
Birthing fury
That pounds upon the chest of truth,
Stalking the Word protected
By holiness,
Claiming dice unfairly loaded
To howl
In rage
As justice and as peace now kiss –
As swords and spears
Rise up
As plows and pruning hooks
To tend the vineyard of the King
Then sing out the great glad tidings
On a mountaintop
Where people walk out of darkness
Into light.
An all-but-empty Interstate stretches
straight, streaking horizon to horizon:
it is a ribbon with no bow, wrapping
northern Nevada.
The eye fixes
on absent fences, looks for limits,
scans scenery overwhelmed by sky.
I cock my thumb to beg a ride;
a tear forms at the corner of my eye.
"Damn wind!"
I mutter, half believing the lie.
A dusty pickup rolls toward me
then accelerates, leaves me staring.
It dwindles into distance. -- "OK!",
I snarl.
I kick a rock, pick up my pack
and start to walk, left thumb poked
out to nothing.
Someone will stop.
Two cars speed by; I wave to them.
My belly rumbles and I count
the steps I take. My wet eyes ache.
Someone will stop.
Or won't.
Alley cats meow
Bees buzz
Canines bark
Ducks quack
Elephants snort
Frogs croak
Geese honk
Horses neigh
Iquanas wheeze
Jaquars snarl
Kangaroos thump
Lions roar
Mice squeak
Northern flickers wick wick wick
Owls hoot
Parakeets chirp
Quaggas whoop
Roosters cock-a-doodle-doo
Scorpions snap
Turkeys gobble
Urials baa
Vultures hiss
Wolves howl
Xuhai goats bleat
Yaks moo
Zebras bray
Thursday, October 21, 2021
Mark Clarke was the gentlest man of Denmark
Yet considered by all a most unlikely patriarch
He was proud being Noah’s apprentice on the ark
Mark was in charge of ensuring all the animals did embark
Two by two in harmony, elephant, giraffe, tiger, and aardvark
Shared the gameplan with the many types of whale and shark
Ensured every bird was onboard, especially the skylark
Mark’s wondrous inventory was classified by icon and footmark
And sometimes in the margin he would jot a special remark
Hoping no one would notice he found neither unicorn nor snark
For weeks torrential rains made the sky darkest dark
They prayed for the rainbow, that long-awaited coloured arc
When the rains finally subsided they looked for the closest park
Everyone had cabin fever and were ecstatic to disembark
Rowdiness of meow, oink, purr, caw, growl, snarl and bark
Plans were soon ongoing to celebrate with a feisty spark
Evaluating the damage up and down and all around Hark!
Mark said Yeah, that’s gonna leave quite a watermark
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
People in my school have names for someone like me.
Freak, crazy, weirdo, a spawn by the devil's decree.
I took note of every malicious word they ever spoke,
knowing that before long they'd no longer make me a joke.
None of them knew how truthful were their mocking words.
They had no clue I could spread my wings to fly among the birds,
with ravens that caw out for blood at the stroke of each midnight.
I'd fill their haunting dreams with images of daunting fright.
A snip of dried herbs, a pinch of fungal root, boiled in fat of fowl,
a concoction for me to savor, secreted to me by my mother, an owl.
Eyes that see through bloodshot color, they would see them too
when the full moon was high and the sky turned dark cobalt blue.
No help will they receive from a scream or gyrations to be free.
They soon will know they should never have made a mockery of me.
The time is near, my brew is cooled, now it's my time to have fun.
Tonight their dreams will be nightmares, a gift from the evil one.
With their eyes closed, they will envision they are being chased
by hundreds of bloodshot eyes, the likes of which they've never faced.
Black robes adorned, scepter of wormwood waved from my hand.
Eyes... wild bloodshot eyes, will seek vengeance at my command.
Fog advances to the bedrooms of those who sleep in peace.
My adrenaline is pumping, just a few more minutes until release.
A snarl of satisfaction I feel curled upon my blood red lips.
You won't belittle me again with your taunting nocuous quips.
NOW! I gave the order for the eyes to creep into their dreams
But my heart is beating too fast. This was not part of my schemes.
I can't see a bloody thing. What's happened to the spell I cast?
How long will this blindness torture me? How long must it last?
A truant officer was sent to see what had become of the freak.
Through a window he saw many ravens, all with bloodied beak.
No body was discovered. All that remained was a robe of black
and a note scratched upon the floor. "Too late to take it back."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
December 26th, 2015
Deep and Dark Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
YES, IT’S A DOG’S LIFE
Out at last and oh boy am I gonna enjoy some fun -
Leg-up, ahhhhhhhhhh, the poodle next door will envy that one.
He‘ll be calling for me pretty soon, to cross the road (as if I can’t do it
alone and get a in a bit of car-chasing to boot) with him, the dimwit.
So, gotta get to the corner and sniff who’s been and how long ago was that.
But whoa! What’s that scent I feel on the breeze? A cat?
Excellent ! - a chase with one of those furry mouse-snatchers -
Just to show ‘em who owns this street…Ok…ready you dog watchers?….
Excuse me for a mo….woof, woof, snarl, woof, woof:
Just a bit of theatrical dog-voice there. Mmm . . . I love cat-on-the-hoof.
Oh yeah, I figured, now he’s gonna put on the leash
As a statement that “he owns this stretch of street” - it’s his niche.
Ok, it’s on now, but he’s gonna have to pay: his muscles will tire
Cos I am pulling the wrong way all the time, and pressure gets higher
On the leash, I’m a-gonna want to be ahead of him whichever way he goes:
Were talking arm-out-of-socket after half an hour, I suppose.
Another corner, stop for a good sniff, make him wait with patience deep:
On his “tight leash” he’s gonna have to stand near the crap heap.
Ok, quick leg-up, no liquid but just gotta do it for show
Demo of who-owns-what-corner around here, you know.
Now it’s the neighbour’s poodle, “Oh hi, how are you?
Let me sniff your rear-end a good bit, mmmmm.. . . .ooooo!”
Then I’ll lick his hand he’ll have to wash that hand when we’re home.
Just showing him who owns the butt-sniffing rights around here where I roam.
Ok, so it’s the newspaper shop ritual, gotta show a little obedience here.
Why can’t he buy it at a shop that’s near?
How’d you like a roll of paper in your mouth for fifteen minutes?
And no drools on it or else he’ll have a seizure or fits.
And with the roll in my mouth as I pass all the guys laugh. . .
I tell you, man, it’s a dog’s life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written 13 June 2012
Entered in Tanya Harrington's Contest Dog Gone Tales
I feed the seagulls in the morning sitting on a bench
When my sister looked at me and said in quite content
Miriam don’t feed those seagulls there’ll poo on your head
I ignored her and instead….
They pooed on her head
She wasn’t amused at all
She didn’t even snarl
Now every time we see her we say in good tent
Have you been pooed upon lately
Not even on your head
Finally you asked for dog’s point of view -
The dialogue of depth, long overdue.
Without a word I’m whistling in the dark,
Articulation’s muffled by the bark.
Seems all I need is to frolic and play,
It’s true, but man! I have a lot to say!
Firstly, thank you for making my dog’s life
Domesticated bliss versus tramp’s strife.
Grateful I am, loved, trimmed, walked, bathed and fed,
Well-groomed and I would like to think, well-bred.
Anatomy and science, not my strength,
Honored that pampering goes to great length;
I must be one exquisite species group,
Since my poop is collected in a scoop.
But I often question, why am I spayed?
While my master so frequently gets laid!
If deemed as your best friend, a well-known claim,
Isn’t making me beg for treats a shame?
Sit down, shake your paw, play dead, dance and prance –
Shallow, degrading, ludicrous commands.
For you I’d sacrifice my life, my friend,
I’d snarl, chase, leap and tackle to no end.
I pretty much follow one petsy rule -
You got the bone, thus over you I drool.
But, master, while I’m fetching your thrown sticks,
Don’t waste your time teaching old dog new tricks.
Be aware I’m an easy pet to crack!
If you love me, I’ll always love you back!
June 6, 2022
"People will forget what you said, forget what you did,
but will never forget how you made them feel."
~ Maya Angelou
I woke with twisted thoughts, coiling in my mind
like a trellised vine, weaving through my head
Gnarled bits of thread stitched me to my bed
and both my eyes were sewn shut til I was blind
I heard the sound of my notebook pages turning
by one whose mind was gnarled and full of hate
I could not see to stop him. I was much too late
to save my poetry. They'd been set afire, burning
A grizzled hand ripped the stitches from my eyes
A man with bony knees, bulbous nose, nubby toes,
said, "I am an ugly thorn, and you a beautiful rose."
He cursed at me with a snarl, "It's you I despise!"
Tears bled from the gnarly bloke. One fell on my cheek
I asked him to please free me from the tangled thread
He released me, and then I stood before him and said,
"When a rose needs protection, it's a thorn it will seek."
He stood to full height. The scorning frown disappeared
A smile curved his lips and he flexed each fingertip.
He shook my hand as if we'd just signed a partnership
His life had meaning, for he felt esteemed and revered
We always wanted a wife, my husband and I.
He wanted one he could order about.
Laugh. Snort. Snarl. Growl….
I wanted one to do the dishes.
We always envisioned her as willing to help, my husband and I.
He wanted her to do his bidding, carry his food to him on trays.
Snort. Chuckle. Laugh. Throwing back my head in full wolf woman howl.
I wanted her to vacuum the house.
We always wanted a wife, to order about.
To act as a maid, to cook us good food. To care about grocery shopping.
My husband and I have had this dream for a long time.
There have been no applicants.
We lament about it sometimes, sighing deeply.
Usually in the evenings when we are arguing
about whose turn it is to feed the cat.
I sip Long Island Tea, watch your bare knees upon the tiles,
the suits and Blaneks pass you, unaffected by your smiles,
you work so hard to brush the day's debris to ordered piles,
still, folks pass you unaware, kick your dirt without a care ...
You are a gem of nature - shining eyes that best the snow,
that grin of ivory brilliance noonday sun could not bestow,
with flawless cappuccino skin, buffed chocolate afterglow,
yet the steady passerby's find you something to despise ...
I see your nails are neatly trimmed, as clean as they can be,
work dress - pressed with utmost care, as anyone can see,
your hair up in a braided bun, and tied with ribbons, three,
but all that others do, is deride and snarl at you ...
I can not help but think just how absurd this is that they
can find you so deplorable - though somehow in the way,
when you are working hard for but a fraction of their pay,
and yet their views and skin are at odds, and far too thin ...
The madness of this picture gets too much for me to take,
I leave my drink to walk to you and take your hand to shake,
but as I do, you yank it back, as tho' some cursed mistake,
your complexion pales to wan - in an instant, you are gone ...
It's so sad their biased spell, has now chilled your heart ...
as well.
~ 7th Place ~ in the "Children of a Lesser God" Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
( How horrid a reflection on humanity, that we can apply the label "untouchables" to others of our race )
Your chill will turn the leaves
bacon crisp
as flowers droop
pole dancing roses
will shed their petals.
Squirrels will play
Hide and seek
with acorns,
distant arrows honk
their long good-byes
as last “harrumphs’
echo across stilled ponds.
And at your passing
pumpkins will snarl
in early darkness.
©9/30/2021
October Poetry Contest
Regina McIntosh - sponsor