Best Splotched Poems
She sits perched, like a gorgeous gargoyle, upon the boulder
splotched with spots of mint chocolate ice cream moss - the wind tasting
her lovely locks as if it were spicy cinnamon straight off the tree.
It excites the senses (to put it frankly) watching her gaze
pierce the sapphire roof of the world
with a challenge to be met.
Or was it the twinkle in her smile
that shone like polished ivory, reminding me of the legalities
of elephantine tusks, and the slippery slope of falling
for that gracious grin and hallowed hope.
It could just be, she's got a lasso on my heart,
that takes delight in my vertigo - flipping and flopping
much like an oval shaped wheel.
I'd ask her to grease the hinges, or go back to the drawing board,
but to tell the truth - it adds character to the path
digging dangerously into the dirt dutifully
causing a spray of pebbles to the face of normalcy.
It could just be, that letting go ain't in her vocabulary,
reeling me in like a big fish story in one of those backwater
little ponds, that spawn such discrepancy.
I'd say she's a catch, but that would be cheesy
(though that does bring to mind her chef-like tendencies,
plopping strawberries on my tongue with little tidbits
of Wisconsin sharp cheddar)
It could just be, that life according to Miss Ooh-La-La
couldn't get any better ...
... then again it could just be
I'm waxing eloquently.
If I were to tell you
Of a Saturday in May,
Of lying in bed as the sun came up
And brightened the room;
If I were to tell you
Of the fluttering curtains,
Of the cool air flooding in
And how I curled up beneath the blankets to stay warm;
Of the birds, some with sweet songs, others harsh,
Of the thump of the newspaper tossed against the door
And the sound of a train approaching a distant crossing;
Of my thoughts in that sleepy haze,
Of my confidence and anticipation
As I compiled a to-do list in my mind;
If I were to tell you
Of the faded and frayed blue jeans,
Of the torn, paint-splotched sweatshirt
And the battered tennis shoes I put on;
Of standing before the mirror,
And thinking my clothes had seen better days,
Knowing those days had not been better than this;
Of my breakfast
Of shredded wheat and toast with strawberry preserves,
And how much better it tasted than it did the day before;
If I were to tell you
Of the coffee that morning,
Of its savory zing,
And how I warmed my hands on the mug;
Of going outside,
Of wondering about the fellow who wrote of the day
And rejoicing and being glad in it;
If I were to tell you
Of that fellow waking on a morning like this,
Of his feelings of awe and inspiration
And how they moved him to write about the day;
If I were to tell you,
Would you remember waking up
On such a morning in May?
there was a girl,
a natural artist.
she painted her artwork everywhere she went.
she painted her lonely walls, she painted her skies.
she painted for everyone, they cherished her artwork,
but no attention was ever paid to the girl.
everyone loved what she did, but nobody truly loved her.
and so, the girl was lonely.
the girl cried and cried, her artwork no longer brought her joy.
she never realized her true worth.
the girl was always unhappy,
one day she decided that she would paint herself.
her artwork soon covered her body,
yet she kept it hidden, afraid of what people would think.
this artwork wasn’t beautiful, not like the other paintings
this one was full of sorrow, hurt and anger
People started asking about the artwork on her body,
they asked her about the sadness in her face,
she new that they didn’t really care,
so she continued painting her artwork.
one day, she met a boy.
this boy was different to the rest,
when she was around this boy,
she finally felt at ease, for this boy had artwork of his very own.
they shared stories of the artwork on their wrists,
creating canvases and painting their emotions,
as her artwork began to fade away, she regained her happiness.
He made her content about her paintings,
and soon, her body was clean of her artwork
until one day, the boy changed.
he left her for another, less broken life.
he pushed her to the curb, and once more, the girl was lonely.
She once again cried and cried, knowing that the one who she had cared most for, no longer cared.
so once again, the girl painted herself.
Her beautiful snow white skin had become splattered and splotched with deep and dark colours
reflecting her thoughts
the girl finally decided that her artwork wasn’t enough agony for her,
so she decided to frame her artwork,
and hang it from her ceiling.
feathers twirled,
long into the night.
ebonic ink,
splotched and saturated,
with the heart’s content.
t
e
a
r
s
created the first draft
of watercolors,
s
e
a
r
i
n
g
of the candlelight vigil,
long forgotten grief,
h
o
w
e
v
e
r
God never
f
o
r
g
e
t
s
He bottles up the flagrant fluid
of our awfulness, kept for
the day of wrath. Careless,
never; He eyes antiquity.
Down the pine-studded mountain and towards the sea
Me, mounted on a rickety, swaying, desperately-desiring bus,
Floorboard splotched with rusted holes revealing
tires
Below my feet
and salted sea wind soon
Breathing down my neck.
The Luzon day stretched before me, road
Singing in it's curves
drowning out Philippine faces painting
Collages of
colors and years.
Revealing Spanish lighthouses beckoning
Lost souls and
Galleons
Scattering gold onto
ivory shores.
One hour later,
Nerves frayed from endless bumps,
I tumble onto the palm-fringed beach to
Witness
Waves cresting like glittering
Champagne and a
Delicately worn grandmother being
Gingerly dipped into the
Azure Softness like a
Queen Cat in a
Cherub's cradle.
Once, when no star shined
on slick, black, asphalt roads,
the murky wetness of November's
watered nights a freedom-feeling
and strangeness-sense inspired.
The moisture lubricated
sluggish mental cogs that
all the dirty, dry, autumnal
season rusted tight and atrophied.
Wildness no man can tell I knew then.
All November's labored length
my nightly notions filled:
my bacchic spirit soared, and flew,
traveled far, saw much in waking dream,
along a single street, wet and splotched
with light from cars which coughed their fumes
and passed my momentary immortality.
And now...time has come when
I no longer feel delight to revel
in the wildness that I knew:
senses, now subordinate to sense,
defuse the spell and November nights
are merely murky.
Behind my desk of daily duties, I hide obliged,
blind in perceived intent in days debilitating me,
grinding relentless against my need to find meaning.
My bleeding mind leaning against my breaching heart,
preaching intent I cannot grasp.
I gasp for a breath of substance of a sort,
distort in my own demand of dithering paths,
like a slithering mole sniffing the trodden ground,
drowning in my intentless surround.
My splotched mind now fired up on a frigid stove,
an imposter, a trove dug up and claimed,
framed...
As thought the picture of perfect suffering is rule
I plunge…
Posing in intent’s pool I seduce my own pseudo smile
and all the while spirit leaks from my soul.
This hovering abandoned hole day in and day out
I’ve filled with doubt of a truth led astray the stars,
as hardened scars plow my unburied grave
like the brave face I wear disgraced.
My life…
Misplaced...
This space of intentless surround.
Random occurrence pounds and pierces my felt fate,
my soul mate of self-sacrifice awaits.
As choice’s debris freezes my will to incite,
I back down …
From a fight I should fight with formidable fury
as the only jury be my yearning destiny freed,
as self-sacrifice waits for me.
Poets stumble over half written sonnets
find themselves trapped in dark poetic throes
Not for the lack of interest, but they often wilt
as petals wither on the stem of a plucked rose
Their Haiku go on hiatus; lingering on vacation
Romantic writings drag on without decent rhyme
They are not procrastinators, but often tumble
down a mountain side they cannot seem to climb
Writing sharpens the points of dulled memories
black ink is splotched by an onslaught of tears
eyes blur as their hands tremble from sorrow
pens draw deep scars across hearts like shears
Long held melodies keep playing across their minds
unfinished lyrics that lay resting in regions of nether
tunes haunting them until tears rain and lips quiver
Impossible to complete when shackled by love's tether
A small advance party scouted the valley high,
The rest,
In a ba,
Massed on the ocean nigh,
Not towering creatures with spindly hairs,
Nor mountains of bellows with rumbles of bears,
But endless splotched
Like cotton from cats,
Plumps and hunky
Like so many rats,
These clouds rolled by
In a playful parade,
Summer chasing Summer,
Turtle passing hare,
Chicken riding puppy dogs,
This tree and ground my chair.
Horsehead whales
And heads of bores and boars,
Dragons and unicorns
The half-moon with me watched.
My shirt is splotched with spit-up,
Though my shoulder sports a burper.
My clothes are like a kingdom
And my grandson's the usurper.
He drinks his bottle, gives a burp
And then, without a doubt,
A quarter of what just went in
Comes, like a fountain, out.
I really do not mind, but learned
My lesson, truth be told -
When I'm with Henry, what I wear
Is faded, frayed or old!
The sands of the tumultuous rain drops,
Graced my eyes to the brim with tears,
Splotched memories behind my eye lids,
Like a finger print you stuck on my mind,
I found love in the poison even though it wasn’t truths,
Unbeknownst to the impending tragedy,
I pressed on, ignoring the slightest signs,
It didn’t matter at first but the window was caving in,
Cracking, loosing its quality,
Like an old negative film, the pictures came out of focus,
The demons swirling within the depths of my irises,
Were like pulsing streaks of sunburned screams of wanting you back,
Transfixed by a mirage of love, seeing the world through the blackened kaleidoscope,
I was left stranded on an oasis, going down a new darkened lifeline, without you.
The spiral downward is a broken laddered step,
Each step caves underneath our broken love, the balance lost.
Where’s the remedy? When will this nightmare end?
No feeling left in this eroding chemistry, 1 + 1 just add me and you
But the math is lost in the darkened glow of our lost love
Wish I could reverse engineer the love we had,
Find what made us break
Find the reason why the universe doesn’t want us to be.
Find why you don’t love me.
Find the antidote to my aching heart.
Geniuskin
One lone tree standing sentinel over the grassy field; patches of weeds stealing ground
with dandelions intermingled, their bright, cheery color lessening their thievery. The
splotched, motley colors of leather-skin disguises the barren ground where cows trod,
making a maze of trails.
The tree's shadow meets its restraints, as it gives refuge to all that draws near. Birds rest in
the branches. Rabbits nibble clover. Then, with full stomach, they hop off to the thicket
beside the fence, the fence that frames the field where one lone tree stands sentinel.
TOMATO CHASE
Now....
Out of season
They're reddish
Uniform in size & shape
Firm
And flavorless
In season
They're RED
All sizes and shapes
Firm, soft, some just right
And flavorful
Yesteryears
They were magic
Like the transformation of a caterpiller
The little yellow flower
Gives way to the tiny green marble
Stalk n stems grow bigger
Marbles grow larger
The green fuzzy rough stems
The scent
That wonderful smell
So unique to the tomato plant
They turn green to red
Some even get incubated on a sunny sill
When it's time
Knife reveals seeds and red splotched juice
And the TASTE
A taste that fades with our age
That TASTE that we chase every summer
Close
But never a ringer
november’s storms keep my travels safe indoors
the wind and snow prosper
the tumult is a sad caricature of change
gusts play tag with ill-prepared complaining cars
pedestrians believe that even three legs aren’t enough
birds clench the branches patient and unblinking
ruffled only in the feather of their migrating dreams
the whole world slides
the palette of my summer colours bleach to white
and the knife cold whispers down my spine
windows only offer partial refuge
from the nameless anger blasting past
edmund fitzgerald felt november’s curse
when the beasts of weather ploughed
into the lake and the best that we could do
was left broken and betrayed
we wallow in slow motion sliding
to the gaping mouth of next month’s frigid grip
november stings all splotched with snow
november is the fanged and howling hunter
scouting for the wolf-pack winter lurking near
november is not quite the corpse
but the dying patient much confused
with the stealth of marching winds
we are swept by short dismantled days
and longer nights where did all
the winged distractions of our summer go
now only all the evergreens are clothed in grace
november is the bleeding wound
a cracked conceit of angry words and whorls
with shivs of icicles and sinking breath
the cold is needle-like - injected anaethestic
numbing all the toes and fingertips
with illusions of sterility while the
teasing shrinking sun with troubled light
rolls toward december’s promised tipping point
My night palace is a dark abode,
a mortal passage to salvation.
I play the day just as I'm told,
until night's invitation.
Paternal guidance at night sublime,
dead days are simply props.
But night brings life into it's time,
mine starts when their life stops.
Blood tells all in many ways,
my passenger confides.
Those who think crime truly pays,
wind up as blood-splotched slides.
So murder, greed, and godless souls
stray down that darkened trail.
I'll be there when your bell tolls
and we'll see who goes to hell...