Best Spackled Poems
i have kissed beneath summer’s sweltering
fragrance your array of spackled decay
in lovely gardens; sweet roses weltering
plundered and plucked; an incidental lay
beneath your satin I have run my fingers,
trembled as famished breasts groped my
own; your mellow poetry still lingers
imperviously enriching - and when i try
to kiss another i feel your haunting roots
encroaching my tingled thighs and i shake
beleaguered by your lavender; heat shoots
through laboring reeds sprouted mistakes
pale panhandlers passionately proposed
then by your tender
i’m awaiting... (so you suppose)
4/8/17
Salmon pink horizon beguiles as I towel dry
Upon a muted canvas morphs hues at sunset.
The lake decants of its waders and pontoons.
Mirrored waters tranquil—a soothing elixir.
Tidy up and make camp for the night.
The campsite invited blissful slumber.
Natural waters reflected frond umbrellas.
An artificial lake at once sequestered.
Fuchsia shades spackled across dusky skies.
All had surfaced—I dove into a lost horizon.
Peas in the laundry
Skates on the stairs
Car keys in the trash
(put there on a dare)
Raisins in the carpet
Cheerios in the john
Nail polish on the dog
Laundry dots the lawn
A child lives here it's clear to see
Or maybe two or four or three
And here's a jar with a bumblebee
Is that a bra up in the tree?
Peanut butter-spackled walls
Jelly-coated drapes
Toys scattered on the stairs
A fish tank full of grapes
Bubblegum stuck in the drain
Footprints made with tar
Tax returns in the circular file
House plants in the car
A child lives here, as you might guess
It's easy to tell from the godawful mess
And although at times I feel great stress
Most of he time, I feel well blessed.
So you think you know just how us cowboys should behave
But listening to your jawing, I hear Chisholm spinning in his grave
A Cowboy who don’t drink or cuss, I’ll tell you that’s not right
Ain’t you heard of Old Whiskey Row, Where two cowboys got tight?
To go to tying knot’s in the Devil’s tail took more than lemonade
There’s been liquor on the bar in every movie John Wayne made
Back when Chisholm blazed the trail & cattle claimed the West
It was music round a campfire, as the hands settled for a rest
They’d often talk of home or sing a tune to pass the time
You’ve seen that in the movies, when it only cost a dime
They sang of Laredo, Lil Joe or maybe Annie Laurie
Right then & there you decided what a Cowboy ought to be
There are some things we might share with Hoppy, Roy & Gene
But real cowboys won’t ever be like those on the Disney scene
Any buckaroo can sure clean up sharp for a Saturday night dance
Even be persuaded to use pretty words when sparking a romance
We pick a little guitar and some can make that harmonica wail
But you’re just as apt to hear La Bamba as you are a song of the trail
Those cowboys that you talk of, all slick & squeaky clean
All pressed and starched, with proper speech, they ride a silver screen
You see that feller in the corner, all tattered & dusty, that’s the real McCoy
Battered old Stetson, mud & manure spackled jeans, a bonafide Cowboy
He might be rough around the edges and his language a bit coarse
But when he sets to working cattle, You swear he was born on a horse
We are only human after all; sometimes we just need to cut loose
Shoot out the lights, kiss all the ladies; drink our fair share of the booze
We still love our mommas and say grace with most meals
We just don’t handle being boxed, can’t stand the way it feels
Those who don’t tolerate a lot of rules choose the cowboy way
Much like this cowboy you see here before you today
I can see you are trying to sort this out in your head
For all you know of cowboys is what you’ve seen and read
I surely hope this little talk about cowboys made it all a bit clearer
The only one we answer to is the maker and the face in the mirror
I hate to burst your bubble, still you best here it from me
Cowboys can’t be pigeon holed; they must be wild & free
Catherine Lilbit Devine © September 19, 2005
(Machine gun bullets, or is that rain?
Mud spackled riv'lets down the drain.)
Did you ever think that the truth was funny?
Same old joke for any Money.
Burns are red, bruises blue.
Enemies here in their village stew;
And with the same old same old thing to do.
Head over heels, I fell in love
With a pothole.
Twirling through the air in total weightlessness,
Spinning out of control, skateboard watching from the sidelines
Until Crack! Head first onto the pavement.
And my whole world
Shatters. Mind to tattered
Remnants of Question
Marks along my back and neck.
Spackled lights glittering
Images fluttering, color
Ricocheting through my brain
Thought stained.
And suddenly, 1 plus 1 equals sidewalk.
A minute saunters by
And 2 black eyes peel open
To a faint outline of curves.
A polka dotted yellow dress,
Brunette hair falling beside her shoulders,
Green blue eyes set aflame:
There were galaxies inside her.
And in that timeless moment,
Gravity ceased to exist,
Golden leaves hung in midair,
Suspended rays of orange sunlight stood, motionless
Framed by the blossom of clouds in the background.
And she stared into me with a mixture
Of concern and compassion.
And in that timeless moment,
I thanked the pavement, I thanked the pothole,
I thanked the lump bulging from my head.
And as sight turned to black,
And gravity flipped it's switch
I passed backwards into a state of pure bliss.
7/11/2015
Jacob Reinhardt
Swaying and shuffling to the bathroom,
once again,
I hoped this time that I’d summon the wherewithal
to finally start my Saturday.
But my visit was bookended by
my usual return to bed.
The previous night’s tequila and IPA’s
had been reincarnated as leftover remnants of vomit that
spackled the roof of my mouth.
Voice deepened by hangover—
also made hoarse from
shouting over the bands, in the belly of the Roxian,
let out a groan
as I shifted in the cozy-yet-itchy cradle of the basement couch,
trying my best to avoid the irritating sunlight…
face shoved into the upholstery,
smothered by pillows.
Nose dizzied by the familiar scents of home
dulled and havocked by cigarette smoke from
Rudy’s High Dive,
where the bartender remembered I wanted to be a writer, as a kid,
but all the THC made it hard for me to remember what
I’d just said to him.
Just then, I was disturbed by
incessant tapping—frequent and forceful, like my offbeat attempts
at matching the rhythm of Donna the Buffalo
on the venue’s upper floor’s safety railing.
Seeing how ignoring it proved fruitless,
I dragged my body upstairs to find my dad.
He too was slumped on a sofa
safely transported to & from McKees Rocks
on his first ever Uber ride.
While I showered,
Timmy Z snooped around, eventually discovering
the culprit of the commotion:
a trapped woodpecker.
We armed ourselves with brooms
swatted, batted, and shooed,
dodging our feathery friend’s
maneuvers near our heads
as it flew out the door before company arrived.
The picture is perfect
All spackled and new
Under dim-lit forsythia.
The reflection is shone
In the new fallen snow.
And base to the corner
Its' curiously known.
Each texture, each timber
So hallowed receive.
All the grandeur and loyal
So effortlessly groan.
Always windswept and drifting
Carefully blown.
Spring.
cockamamie and cockleburs —
spineless and spackled
hall of mirrors
2/12/2021
When we walk the campus
to what used to be the center,
we might miss the venerable place.
Taller piles of brick and towers
obscure the central space
of Western Pennsylvania brownstone.
Who hasn’t heard the poet moan:
“Present concerns shroud the past;
Granddad’s principles will not last.”
But as we turn the corner
at the edge of vast Old Main,
we may glimpse a simpler grace
in the Ur-construction
of Washington College
(before Jefferson was spackled on)
and on higher ground,
raised up from lower down
near the center of the town.
We’ll see the wings added
before the world flew west
past our hills to flatter nests.
Maybe we’ll hear that vines
grew up the extended wings,
that J-men felt like ivy kings!
Then one will say, “A trustee quipped
that vines weaken most things.”
Presto, the vines are stripped.
Another then will say, “A sage opined
that walls are firmer when envined.”
A committee will study the case
and advise us to coat the face
with a super-brick-embracing kind
of paint that holds old walls in place.
“Save the symbol!” We’ll apply the cure.
Is paint sufficient to insure
that we will keep our symbol pure?
I don’t know, but here’s the plan:
sustain Grandad’s dream, if we can;
and if we’ve mislaid the liberal arts,
let’s find out where they are, Dear Hearts!
Smeared summer blue skylight
dabbed and spackled white
over drab green meadows
where clashing floral pedals
seemed like odd speckles
in an old oil stained painting unframed
Its now my perception now these odd impressions
were clever color alternations
an odd rendition of gentle carnations
bled dye the shade of pink pastel
during morning's rain spell
Displayed in an odd shaped imported pastel vase
until winter's frost and winter withered
its pedals lost yet remembered
after several seasons time the stems bled lime
as chlorophyll spilled
its pedals decayed
until no flower remained displayed
Star spackled night sky.
In darkness I sit,
beneath the lights of The Milky Way.
They shine with a humble beauty
and remind me to look within.
Gazing out in introspection,
I'm struck by a realisation..
I am all that I see.
And all that I see is me.
Greening trees thatch a spackled sky.
Cardinals kick up patches of sound,
red periods and full-stops
amid an increasing catawampus.
I am far from song yet.
my ears are bats hung from chill temples,
but I do feel
a coyote-itch in my dreams,
do imagine a splatter of green
on the hairy chops of whistle pigs.
Written: November 19, 2023
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Beyond the ethereal hues, reigns peace,
Incongruous with intrinsic ease.
Noshing desire tugs at the core fibers of my soul,
Wear tiredness bruise, frailty, and out-of-control.
The twinges of awe distort and narrow,
Dazzling me with its emerald harrow.
Crushing the sunlight rays that spread,
Oozing a cruel throb of dryness in my head.
The emptiness hosts sight and sound,
The truth is revealed by my idle ground.
Controversy seeps through my arteries,
Providing a safe haven for my mysteries.
Salt penetrates the skin's surface,
Water waves form in pools as they face.
Sharing the mind wonderful disarray,
So utterly, I'll be in anguish all day!
Life is blasted against the glass akin to sand,
Time is marked by simple, quiet steps stand.
What remains is a barely flickering light,
That is a velvety smear spackled in the sight.
Last night a high wind
undressed the maple grove
it broke both twig and bough.
A flying carpet fell,
blood-tinted gold
spackled the woodland floor,
all in a heap and litter.
If you walk ankle-deep there
your shoes learn to speak
with the dying and the dead.