Best Spiky Poems
Look closely, feel the harmless heat
enveloping black-diamond
petals in the glistening
garden of glossy geraniums.
There, sprouts rosemary dreams
from an untouched silhouette,
eager to be seen beyond
her perfumed pigments.
Her universe was sprinkled
with starry streams
of gleaming rays,
as she swayed to symphonic
serenades filled with hazel dust.
They may gawk with greedy
glares as wide as the night sky,
marking her with lecherous
objects that only please
shameless eyes.
She was never
in need of a sixth sense
to understand iron glances
that travel in nefarious packs,
with sugar-burnt hunger
washing all over her
unblistered flesh,
judging her concealer
as a manipulative facade,
seeking uncalled-for affirmations
that she never solicited,
misconceiving her thin lines
of red-river lipstick.
Her summer physique allowed
no consent for invasive intrusion,
yet carnal cravings become
unwelcome toxic trespassers.
Their immoral thoughts
believe shallow words
give them wanderlust wings,
while sinister stars in their sky
label her a soulless mannequin,
objectifying her
cinnamon-glazed skin,
sun-kissed hair,
and pecan-powdered~
caramelized voluptuous flare,
with their vehement
voracious desires.
Swinging penetrative thin blades
of opinions from miles,
oblivious to the fact that
she is the sanguine strength
that strolls in silver silence
across spiky swards,
suppressing the pain her
bones have endured with
every whiskering
whistle they wolfed.
There, if the mauve moon and
crystalline constellations look closely,
they would find versatile
mirrors of meaning
reflecting the times
she parades a smile too
comfortable to wear,
for they have concluded
her bed to be a shrine
of blenders and
overflowing thickened blades,
cursed by the biological
sins of Adam's ancestors.
Categories:
spiky, deep,
Form:
Free verse
As shades of grey overwhelm white clouds,
their rain tears begin to pitter and patter,
creating a pattern upon my skin.
Like a dehydrated petal, I taste their
tenderness with the tip of my tongue.
A gypsy breeze kisses my skin's shivers,
as I gaze at my muddy decaying garden -
roses look rusty, but their thorns remain.
As my eyes close in silent stillness,
I'm lost in a melancholic moment -
when I was like a vibrant spring bloom
but I wonder why my roots crumbled.
Life moves so fast,
but some of us struggle to grow.
Some images remain forgotten,
some promises remain broken,
so, I ponder what happened,
to those childhood dreams and schemes -
when the mind cared not for meaning,
only hidden treasures we would find.
How many are still searching,
how many souls are at peace?
How empty is your jar?
Reflecting upon those who arrived,
hardly any stayed - few left an impression -
most left without understanding.
Some still live within boxes of my heart,
especially those who lifted me when I fell,
but there was only a few
and I regret the ones I hurt,
forgive the ones who caused me pain,
but, I shall never forget.
We can never escape our past,
some of us will never really heal,
memories are like lost photos,
stored in a dusty album.
I awaken from my reverie,
as conkers fall at my feet, cracking their spiky shells.
A ray of light breaks from a canopy of leaves,
reflecting upon my face - I begin to a smile.
I can't recall when my bubble floated away,
but, I embrace the rain and what it brings.
I accept what the winds take with them,
because I can feel the warmth of the sun.
Become the gardener of your own life.
Categories:
spiky, analogy, childhood, growth,
Form:
Free verse
Look past
the faded little girl braids and bows
in a polaroid picture
buttery yellow skirt
curtsying a smile
frog prince
imprisoned in her palm
under a creamy pound cake sun
(her grandmother’s recipe
sugar and spice folded carefully
with love and guilt
into a thick summer sky)
daisies like polka dots
piecemeal on her bonnet
seem to stare down
her face with jaundice eyes
slanted above ensnaring weeds
swirls of sorrow linger
in knee-high field
where flowers grew wild like
freedom once felt
Look closer picture fading
She is running
legs bent shouting from the page
stockings peeled off
lanky legs running
through her pain
till her heart detaches
from a barefoot soul
She still feels spiky burs in her heels
drops of blood
zigzag numb
beyond the treeline
memories meld
love and loss
euphoric rush warm winds fuel
an urgency her creation
until lightning strikes
her grief rushing to catch up
through crushed wildflowers
fragmented patterns
under paths at her feet
tears flooded her field overgrown
She remembers to forget
Her mother
buried under
a distant willow
She was taught
by her grandmother
to be composed
poised like other girls
wad up unpleasant feelings
slip them into a corner
of the cedar chest
under layers
of afghans and quilts
she laid them to rest
long ago but
never stopped
her fidgety legs from weaving
through floral tapestries
of field and meadow
wild brush turned emerald green
in mourning
Her daddy passed away
ten years ago today
He was buried with wildflowers
tucked softly
in his lapel and praying hands
he always said windswept blooms
reminded him of his girls
If you look closely at the picture
of that faded little girl
you will see her running
from the graves
as the wildflowers crush
beneath her feet
Categories:
spiky, daughter, death, family, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Santa Barbara, Summer 2017
Monday
I walked on the bluffs above the sea.
Orange poppies bloom in the dunes.
I discovered
the labyrinth:
smooth stones spell the path.
Peaceful pilgrimage.
Tuesday
Walked on the beach and smelled:
Tar from the oil seeps,
fennel,
coastal sage,
eucalyptus.
And, of course, the sea.
Wednesday
Hiked in the foothills.
The grass is brittle and yellow;
the land sizzles.
Spiky shrubs, spiny scrub oak.
The chaparral is ready
to burst into flames.
Thursday
The eucalyptus trees
on Ellwood Mesa
are dying
from the drought.
Where will the butterfly sleep?
Friday
The sandpipers
hurry to the surf, neck forward,
to peck with long bills.
They scurry inland before the next wave
as if they are afraid
to get their feet wet.
Snowy plovers skitter
like cotton balls on wheels.
Saturday
The infinite ocean
under an infinite sky.
A white S among the reeds,
the egret can teach me
poise and patience.
Sunday
Found a piece of seaglass.
Translucent blue,
The edges smooth
Worn by water,
Sanded down.
Beauty from adversity.
I think I will write a poem about it.
November 1, 2017
For contest: From my Diary
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Categories:
spiky, nature, sea,
Form:
Free verse
Silver haired, the year
rests in the field.
Crows gather
on the sycamore bones.
The day is like glass.
Winter lurks
in the shadows.
In brittle glades,
papery pods protect
the last seeds.
Spiky coneflowers stand tall;
the goldfinches had their harvest.
Everywhere signs
of a cycle
fulfilled.
December 24, 2017
Categories:
spiky, nature, winter,
Form:
Free verse
Going through some old things that just had to go,
I came upon something that nearly got tossed.
Memories came to me from long ago. . . .
I thrilled that my treasure was no longer lost.
Toys come and toys go. In the 60’s, one fad
was to own an odd doll not seen much today.
This doll had long hair and was scantily clad
but wasn’t a Barbie with which I would play!
Its body was squat and it had a pug nose.
I probably loved it because it looked droll.
Its hair could be orange, green, yellow or rose,
but if you don’t know yet, that doll was a troll!
How I wish I could dredge up some memory
to know what was happening inside my head
as a pre-teen with friends and what it might be
that we did with those dolls and what fun things we said!
The trolls that I owned must have been at least four -
both sexes so they'd make a small family -
their hair different hues, each a doll to adore.
But one day they no longer mattered to me. . .
I can’t say where all of my playthings got stashed.
When I left for college, they vanished from view.
But knowing my mom, they must have got trashed.
She doesn’t hang on much to things like I do.
Now four decades later, I looked at my prize,
bare naked and smudged but its hair still jet black.
It stared up at me with its cute amber eyes.
I couldn’t believe how I got that thing back!
It somehow had ended up in my new state.
Good luck for that troll, I throw few things away!
That doll would be learning soon of its new fate
and meet other troll dolls with whom it would stay.
Just like Peter Pan, I refuse to grow old,
and new trolls I’d bought with long bright spiky hair
when troll dolls again in the 90's were sold!
But I had to recall where I’d stored them….. oh, where??
(I found the dolls and added the old one to the new collection,
but my daughter's family moved in with me a few months ago.
My daughter is a clean freak like MY mom is (apparently it skips
a generation or something), and my daughter took my troll dolls
and put them out of sight somewhere so currently they are floating
around who knows where!
For Paula Swanson's "Yard Sale" Contest
Categories:
spiky, nostalgia, hair, daughter, me,
Form:
Quatrain
Today I present an old poem, written at least a decade before "Doubts". What this poem lacks in poetic format, and style, it reaps in sentiment.
Enjoy:
the Girl Who Ate the National Park
I was picking apples, from polystyrene
boxes, when she held aloft a spiky
green football and her excited voice
asked, “What do you call this?”
She named it durian. I didn’t know,
and pulled a lettuce from its packing.
Harvested multigrain rolls
from bakery bins, and hunted
sandwich ham from fridges.
I laid our picnic mat down
amongst market gardens, and planted myself
to grow in her company. Uncorked
a shiraz in a vineyard, and savoured
her smile. Pulled an apricot from the cooler,
in an orchard, and hungrily
consumed her words.
She took to the park's paths
like shopping aisles. Selecting ingredients
for a salad from green foliage shelves.
She chose a duck dish
as it flew above us, and decided on a fish,
as we watched it swim
beneath the waterfall.
Then as we left, she created a desert
from the trees.
Her touch stopped me. Rooted
me to the spot, where we ravenously
embraced. Our feelings blossoming
around us. Forming a canopy
which we took shelter under,
and bore fruit, that we ate together.
Our appetites sated.
Categories:
spiky, love,
Form:
Free verse
When we are walking…
and we’re stepping on a spiky ground,
Walk lightly without looking down or turning around;
Ahead of us always awaits the finest sand
where we can lay down and laze in the sun.
When we are climbing…
and we’re going to climb a scree,
Dodge those stones that roll down on us freely;
And if we feel disdain and in vain,
remember that we’re unique, with special knacks and strength.
When we’re swimming…
and we’re swimming on distraught of morass counts,
keep dancing the minuet of life in mellow sounds;
When sable clouds and torrents of rain teem down too,
swim at our best stoke, on those clouds we’ll always float and glow.
When we are loving…
and we’re loving too much from the heart,
It hurts, but Cupid also heals wound with his magic dart;
Keep on loving others, never stifle and give up
Love is a berth of comfort, a precious gift, a great reward.
When we are standing…
and we’re lashed by cataclysm that mangled our heart,
Cling to the Lord, He will restore everything from the start;
He will reshape whatever was deformed
And make us stand straight, a forever cypress amidst the storm.
Dec. 9,2014 10.50pm
©2014Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
-I hope this humble poem of mine can inspire or uplift. God bless! This was not entered in a contest because it’s too late but it’s ok with me.
Categories:
spiky, inspirational, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
The iguana is certainly a popular lizard
To figure out why doesn't take a wizard
With that spiky mane curving down its back
It looks like a stegosaurus who went off track
I myself prefer pterodactyls to lizards
To guide me home when lost in a blizzard
Categories:
spiky, animal, bird, flying, storm,
Form:
Rhyme
I potted up a plant, with love, for you;
Although I fear it could turn out a weed:
I’ll have to stick a flower on with glue...
It wasn’t something that I really do,
But when I found a bird’s discarded seed,
I potted up a plant, with love, for you.
I could present you with a species new!
Perhaps I’ve got a tree or bush or reed...
I’ll have to stick a flower on with glue.
I cried the day you said our love was through;
It’s sad you say I am not what you need.
I potted up a plant, with love, for you.
I left and didn’t know what else to do...
They say that flowers help with love; indeed,
I’ll have to stick a flower on with glue.
It’s growing huge with spiky leaves of blue;
I gave it whisky, lots of chicken feed;
I potted up a plant, with love, for you;
I’ll have to stick a flower on with glue.
written 12th June for 'Villanelle me a flower' contest
Categories:
spiky, garden,
Form:
Villanelle
The Rose is the ultimate floral Queen!
A radiant beauty. Colourful blooms.
A feature of any idyllic scene.
Some live in gardens, others brighten rooms.
Delicate. Precious to the beholder.
A symbol of affection in romance.
Nestled in a lapel 'neath a shoulder
For a wedding, a funeral, a dance.
Appreciate their glory. Sing their song!
A sweet aroma have some, others none.
Don't take them for granted. They don't stay long.
Suddenly they season out and are gone!
Spiky leaves and petals tender,
Grace our vision with their splendor.
Written 17th September 2022
(My first Sonnet)
Categories:
spiky, appreciation, rose,
Form:
Sonnet
All the little pieces
Shards of broken flutes and ripped flowers
Of handcuffed hours
Of burning showers
That had gnawed at the soul
Hammering and thrashing the whole
Into pieces of pangs pathos and spasm
Chasm in psyche
Cactus spiky
Time teeming with tattered twigs
In battered towers and disheveled churches
Leaving the life in lurch
A meaningless mangled moon
But it is time that prevails
Time ultimately treats tempers and mitigates
Its hurts and traumas
Life lightens liberates loves and lures
Loosens the soul to listen to
The deep blue music of life
Swapping the sores for the humming beehive
And lo
Now there flows the river
Boats with their swollen sails
Holding the wind from those broken pieces
Wrinkles and creases
Releasing them in crimson emotions
Into the wind and ocean
Palm holding dew
I love you
________________________________________
22/9/2016
For All The Little Pieces Poetry Contest sponsored by Broken Wings
Categories:
spiky, anxiety, beauty, emotions, image,
Form:
Free verse
In pursuit of imperfect perfection,
she slowly turned every lucky star blind,
drowning in constant chores from obsession,
unable to appease her stormy mind.
Promises ascend against perception,
nothing halts fixed rituals from spinning,
as turmoils of time twirl through aggression,
she sees the devilish mantra winning.
What is left when breathing becomes a pain?
whilst malignant fears urge for reliance,
spiky succulents perish faith in vain
frantically panicking in silence.
day bleeds into repetitive debate—
Emotive wildfires stir despair and hate.
emotive wildfires
appease her stormy mind blind
stir despair and hate
breathing becomes a pain~in the pursuit of imperfect perfection
Categories:
spiky, mental health,
Form:
Sonnet
How Are You Feeling? I
I feel yellow to-day.
I feel as playful as a child’s “Do you like butter?”
amid a field of yellow, waving buttercups.
I feel as naughty as the spiky haired, boldly invading
dandelion’s yellow head, nodding cheekily in the yard.
I feel as pucker up and kiss me as the tart and
tangy lemon’s yellow juices promising to quench my thirst.
I feel as brilliant as a sunbeam shining everywhere at once
without casting the faintest shadow.
Yes, I feel yellow to-day!
Categories:
spiky, feelings, joy, yellow,
Form:
Free verse
In the winter morning
Diamond fogs play on spiky grasses.
The rising sun is my friend then.
Not pigeons but crows flying on this town
In winter, the feathers are crystal black.
Then cawing is my morning song.
Town streets of dawn are not alone.
Female garments workers are busy.
Like the butterflies after blooming fresh flowers
My country is my pride for the hard workers.
This world is my heaven for welfare inventions.
The winter helps me to see the rising sun of life.
-20.12.2020 Chattogram
Categories:
spiky, work,
Form:
Free verse