Best Snipping Poems
~
She gathered roses,
one at a time,
choosing carefully,
for you see, they were her healing
A light breeze tickled her hair
as a brief smile curved upon her soft lips
The sun, bright on this day was a welcome diversion
from the clouds that followed in her mind
Life was green in this meadow
and she enjoyed the green as it flowed
as far as her eyes could see,
snipping yet another pink rose
Not everything was beautiful in her world
but the roses spoke to her, delicate whispers
telling her she was special and that even a thorn
drawing blood could feel good once the pain had subsided
She had touched many thorns in her life,
the scars though faded still decorated her in guilt
A butterfly caught her glimpse, wings of black and blue,
once her colors, now another slice of nature’s wonder
This butterfly was her and she knew it,
free to move about the petals as she pleased
Happily greeting each bloom, caressing the textures
within the safety of her garden
She gathered roses,
one at a time,
choosing carefully
for you see they were her…
healing
~
8/21/19
For the: Wow Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
Written: March 28, 2024 For Constance La France Contest
Quote: (The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.) Marcel Proust
__________________________________
Slumber unwinds within crinkled cellophane,
Enigmatic visions come to life and sustain.
Geometrical shapes skin to pyramids, expand,
Cruising fairies sing through shimmering sand.
Hey, Captain! Ferry sails across any hurdle,
A searing streak splits the sky as a starved squirrel.
A prize is won, dock shuts, and crowds cheer,
At night, memories of you come back so near.
Delicate spiderwebs hang as stars in the sky,
Mozart hands waltz ivory piano keys sigh.
Galaxy emits a lambent, milky-white light,
Tapestry Highways sails by my a quilted sight.
A cosmic queen embarks on a cynosure journey,
Slicing over a glistening ocean during night mercy.
Colorful pathways in the sky are formed by sea swirls,
Mermaids glide fluffy waves of glistening pearls.
Behold a sturdy sail, a tough and bold ship, oh heart!
As bleak as the gnomes at dawn, it's time to depart!
On deck, the skipper is fierce and red-dripping,
Meanwhile, my soul lingers in frigid buds snipping.
Captain! Rise and hear chimes; to you, a flag raised,
You gained fights and flights, and doves amazed.
The ship has sailed safely and fulfilled its voyage,
He gulped distance, sea, time, and buoyage.
It was a time of jubilation and feelings of love,
During spell hour, they shone brightly from above.
Dived in the chaotic bliss of love, this waned,
In a misty past, the spirit soared and stained.
Rivers rush down slopes, and peaks loom tall,
Rafters ride via waterfalls as bridges never fall.
Deer graze in fields, and craftsmen, work away,
Sweets and meals sizzle on burner, made to stay.
Chili, pasta, beans, and maize are all we need,
The Alpine guy eats grits, Angus, and meat, indeed.
Riders hold on tight with flying manes and fish dives,
West Virginia alpine star twinkles and jives.
Here she comes again,
That clip-happy, snippy crone who fancies herself a gardener.
What?
She is doing such a horrible job of it.
She clipped two of us unmercifully yesterday,
And we both had potential, talent, and gloriousness
These other buds can never hope to achieve.
Duck, my friends, hide.
The thorns are not doing a good job of snatching at her.
We need her cut up, and bleeding
So she will return to the house.
Love it that she has on a new straw hat with a gay ribbon.
Leopard spots; makes sense for her.
She is a leopard, leaping and crushing us, under her
Silly garden shoes with the decorative owls.
She is snipping and singing.
Hey!
Watch what you are doing you old hag.
Uh-oh. She is cutting this way.
Dhramn!
She got me!
The leaves, long gone, each golden child carried
on autumn draft to reach a season's death,
portends bitter squalls will blow the harried
vines with long, cruel winter's icy breath.
Now slumber long beneath the warming banks
upon your tender roots deep in the earth.
All while stillness patrols your sentried ranks,
you strengthen sap to bring a new year's birth.
The spice of burning wood pervades the air
as gentle snipping of the pruning shear
sets free your limbs for summer fruit to bear;
from tender newborn buds, which soon appear.
And so the cycle starts for wondrous vine
to once again turn sunshine into wine.
I just want to be me, free to exist,
rest knowing everything inside is seen;
The somber parts also need to be kissed,
if it's love then there is no in between;
Really, can't I simply be who I am?
Tired of only being half a vision;
Start to feel better in this skin then bam!
Intrusive thoughts offer no solution;
Snipping at whatever doesn't suit you
little did you know it always grows back;
What's bitter will bleed bona fide and true;
It's a vibe when you linger in the black;
Cutting into me I don't need sutures,
do not conform me with painted scissors.
Was it his head tilt that stumped me—
Was it his keen variations of hilarity,
Was it his words—wild, strange, free,
Like a bird straight out of captivity?
He had a frisky, playful tongue
That sounded like a friend
With no limitations save the time span
Of sixty seconds—
There—none wasted—
No—a wit sharp and full enough
Uttering colloquial meanings I could only dream
To attain through a matter
Of a downloaded app
And yet—he needed only sixty seconds
—on the spit and spot—
To relay inch by inch
A soul so beautiful and rich,
Creative and lovely,
With flawless bite and light
Smart phone readied,
His big toe hit the record button
As he played his tunes,
As he always had
And always will.
He called it the Toe Jam Jamboree,
And I applauded ever so inwardly
With a smile of awed sincerity
Sixty seconds and it ends,
Cut off too soon—
The limitations of fellow man
And fellow receiver
Playfully cruel
Ever playing through
Maybe the thick sail of tunes reached my ears
Beyond the time of the app’s snipping jeers
I told him—ever so inwardly,
His Toe Jam Jamboree was symphony—
Onward with sovereigns in silver harmonies
Reaching a peasant’s light and a warrior’s fight
Straight to a lone cock with feathers too bright
Beak strong-held high, and sharp
Ready to peck his way out of the coldest of hearts
And into ripples of rhythmic paradise
Where there breathes
The guy who attracted me,
With his tilted head,
His words of glee,
Flipping off every useless ad
And sifting words and airs like mad
Toe Jam Jamboree, he called it
And I call it symphony
With a steadied foot
And a readied middle finger
It’s his difference that will always
Linger
Sound scissors make,
each time they are
opened and closed…
Snipping out and ad
or clipping the hair…
Snip, snip, clip, clip…
By Sandra Lea Hoban
©2007
Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated,
and Life
were spread out
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold
metal and pleather chair
and thought about
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose,
or another pointless prop.
Images cavorted as
Gino’s quick hands
floated around
my teenaged head
and his silver
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.
I'm no good at trimming trees,
Cut right through them like a breeze.
Snipping here and snipping there,
Like someone without a care.
Make no-sense to hire someone,
For I've already begun.
I always start way-down low,
Fast and fiery as I go.
Where blossoms are crunchy brown,
Still and quiet on the ground.
Branches green and full of leaves,
Without one trace of disease.
Stopping here and stopping there,
As fragments fall everywhere.
Leaving the trees very thin,
While I stand and scratch my chin.
I'll trim just a little more,
For I am a conqueror.
Upward with my best attack,
Knowing next year ... I'll Be Back!
Wise men
Somberly Pondering
Over Imponderables
What if.........
Why not .......
Cut, Cut .....
Master Tailors
Or Gardeners
Snipping at Schedules
And Budgets .....
Topiarists!
Patronize me not because your feet ride in new heels
In a flurry of moves to prop the ego
That in a hurry kills
Dreams and creams in streams of unwise steps you and I can forgo
To pave the way clear
For you and I to step up gears
In thoughts and plans you and I hold dear
Despite uncried tears and unseen fears
You and I can do without
To grow a little warmer
Snipping frills, nipping in the bud any lingering doubt
About the role of a reformer
Who when the going gets rough
In real time or at a later stage
Claims you and I don’t possess the stuff
To engage and manage intricate matters when on the verge
Of putting the icing on our cake
Knees collapse as you and I lapse
Into making the most elementary mistake
That perhaps
Sets us back months of careful diplomacy
In our march forward towards the consolidation of the relationship we treasure
When unalloyed gynocracy
Sails, nails, wails and mails nonsense beyond measure
Ensconced in manifestations of self adulation
In whose sludge you and I indulge
To promote moves whose undulation, moderation and modulation
Multiply errors to ensure our collective failures bulge.
My rose bushes are lusher than ever this year.
For soaking rain and warm days abound,
Though with too little sun I fear.
Still, they give me many blooms that astound.
Their gentle glow lightens any despair,
On return from the chaos filled outer world.
Sweet, spicy, fruity and musky rose scents fill the air.
As I gaze upon their colors - solid, picoteed or swirled.
Passing among them, snipping spent blooms in morning light,
Butter yellow, flashy pink, raspberry red and blushing off white,
Pale peach, bright orange and deep purple are a cheering sight.
Their varied forms - ovoid, pointed or urn shaped, all delight.
Be its shape classic rose, doubled daisy, peony or begonia,
In my enchanted garden, neighborly diversity is prized.
Proud hybrid teas, generous grandiflora, and free spirited floribunda,
Yearning climbers, and compact, smug minis are organized.
But after the thrill of their abundant first flush,
How do I keep my many roses from succumbing,
As pelting rains just opened posies bend and crush?
Yet, despite heat, humidity and bugs, more are forthcoming!
My thorny ones with their crusty hard canes, have a lesson to heed,
Under their fabled beauty that brings me such joy and peace.
More dutiful a rosarian, I prune and feed, spray and weed.
In our symbiosis, our stamina increases and life’s perils we appease.
For be it humans, pets or roses, the secret, if your life they enhance,
Is take them as they are, tend their needs and the common cause advance.
M. Renee Taylor
7/2/13
when did the
douchebag get his own
beard?
when did the pencil-thin
maintenance of the facial
hair of a male
become something
with which
we walked with our heads
held high?---
first time i saw this
idiot stripe
wrapping round the
larded jowls of a man
was when that fat bastard from
smash mouth
came hopping around
“singing” about being a
“rock star”---
but the douchebag style has
continued &
one wonders where it came
from?
one wonders what women
actually get off when they
see a guy standing in front of
the mirror
preening himself,
snipping all the little hairs away,
buzzing & shaving,
doing his best to leave that
little line to trace whatever
he thinks is a
jawbone---
pity the fool who parades around
with a pencil-thin douchebag
beard---
pity
pity
pity
the
****.
Come take a tour,
of my grooming shop,
at poems end, I'm sure you'll agree,
were the best,
so forget the rest,
C'mon, read on, and see,
dogs all check in, in the morn,
looking all tattered and worn,
now let's trot down this path,
for a warm bubble bath,
swishing and swashing,
as we start dog washing,
now groomers try,
for that perfect fluff dry,
now moving on to snipping and clipping,
finishing off with shaping and tipping,
now lets go out for a pee,
by the old maple tree,
not a moment to lose,
back in for a snooze,
owners are called one by one,
to tell them that their pup is done,
owners arrive right away,
and we all wave goodbye,
as the pup's drive away.
I was never afraid to
Tell the story of the panic doors.
It once began while I shimmied my
Way up a lattice and
Into the guest room.
I felt like a child on the
Verge of an egocentric breakdown.
Full to the brim with euphoria.
Vibrant and agile and overwhelmed.
I could hear her shifting pots on the
Burners down stairs.
I could hear him breathing fast.
I swear to this day I could hear
His heart beat from that windowsill.
When I slid my way under the glass
It caught my skin and tore the flesh.
I didn't feel it until he forced his thumb
Through the rupture in the scarlet abrasion.
I watched as a plum colored stream slid
Down the underpass of
My hips and his fingertips.
A plum colored stream
In sexed up heat
With the breaks of
The dishwasher latch clicking.
A green light at the docks end
Showed worries puddled up
And wetting an open wound.
I felt as eager as a child,
Snipping the ends of dusky hair
At midnight as
My mother wondered beneath her sheets.
I let a few sighs and groans
Seep though the guest room
And down the stairway
Where an indebted woman
Tiptoed, curiously.
Then the creak of the panic doors.