Best Squirming Poems
Enroling you a worm (cumbersome and)
hairy, you- scimitar of leaves
Knows the pain ,writhing pupae
Abandoned and convicted
Constricted hanging straightjacket
Squirming like a jackrabbit
Gagged nocturnally - blindfold humility
Rejected by those mocking moths
and jealously believing left the key
Both found our grace on bended knees
..left there dangling from a tree..
Unhinge now those spinakers of glory
Pretty - flaky- flinder
Streaked in splatters paint
Dust of the fairies
Gaze at me with criss-cross eyes
Innocent beauty oh ye butterfly
Spiny antennae, stretching out transmitters
Taking flight so easily
Flitting off with no goodbyes
To a newer afternoon over there
Dashing in the sun
Kneeding and gouging all those zinnias
Joy! Slurping up the nectar
Whisky! Tequila! Brandy and Champagne!
Swops them for a chorus of pansies
Dancing blooming flowers
Crazy blessed colours
Bouncing delight.- erratic in flight
Dodging in between the bees
O enchanted mystic butterfly
Only pausing for a while
Hold me in your spell
For you walked that crooked mile
Linger in this dream
So seldom comes to see
Just as you, my timepiece too
Is coiled in spring
A dustpuff within the wind
Specked all over pollen confetti
Envied now by every moth
Suicidal circle - one kamikaze candle
Seared and singed and slowly fried
Getting what theyre vetted for
But the sun his laughing in his sky
Beseeching all the yet to open flowers
Awake !Awake!
An angel is coming by
The staticky-stars climax under intense blanket of Winter glow.
Your spouse can’t see your spirited green eyes that burn slow.
The friction of campfire sticks, the satiny slipperiness of moon.
Flames of blue, orange and red won’t be overcome too soon.
Pert rose petals, that once were goosebumpy and ice cold,
scintillate like fireworks until the grand finale’s loosed, uncontrolled.
Warm breath in a cold Winter’s steamy and a restless beast.
Lips lavish over late night feast, matches singe, sate increased.
Squirming under the leisurely complement of coals, coalescing,
Coolness of a blue lake vaingloriously countering, distressing.
A long midnight’s thrashing, sans pillory; the high beams foray.
Pillow talk, a sensuous squeeze, a high-diving elixir bouquet.
Ah those stars brilliantly glowing on a long Winter’s night!
Those limbs blush, rose petals crush, with unfettered light.
Do come, my love, for I insist!
Within the darkest crevices of time, we fight, we cry, I die
As vision gives us knowledge, we descend farther into the grime
Curiouser and curiouser, we fall in dark crevices of time
Molded by imagination’s ink, the tentacles stretch outward
Singed from top to bottom, see the glorious coals sparkle
Yes, even before their completion into diamonds never comparable,
It is the very time in between the transformation that enchants the very soul
For in this time, I see the very worst of you,
How it shines without shame, aching to be tempered,
Crushing to prevail over its creators,
The tentacles squirming in hollow defense,
Ink spreading in the dark blue waters of deepest sorrow and agony
How your beak ever pecks upon its prey,
Dashingly exquisite, its sharpness—petulant in its purpose
And I say to you, as you destroy—come, for I shall not back away
When the weapons you hold fall upon my budding flesh
Growing despite the damages you have made
Come, my love, come!
See how my wounds have me, exalt me, trust me…
Into a reality I deeply fall, forcing you upon your knees
For how I know, through your destructing ways,
That together I will always make us be
Come, my love, for I die,
Heavy in the ecstasy of grief,
See how the fairy trees dance upon woes and lift hearts like plucked flowers
How demons with tempting eyes move as squealing moths crawl toward our fires
Wishing the burn of the coals, yet never touching such change
How the light floods through and through, to every dark corner and fissure
Licking the bonding surfaces with perfumed oils crackling
The black tentacles scatter outwards, forming a wall around the growing blaze
My eyes close—from those very eyes you came
Descending to ascend, my love you crave
Trusting the time I have tamed in last feat,
You rise into the everlasting restoration of our name
I raise my voice and rage a fight
for little children trashed and thrown.
Sweet little coos and burps never heard,
the printed mittens never sewn.
These tiny children wanted to play,
and be held and cradled so near.
To hear Mommy say,” I cherish you”,
and lullabies to wipe dark night’s fear.
Their marble eyes never touched the sun,
never touched a rubber ducky in soapy arms.
Never had a chance to shriek those circus smiles,
or twiddle Grandpa’s warm violin thumbs .
Their tiny breaths chopped in a moment,
with pierce of the sharp metal they expired.
Were they able to shout silent screams?
Or trapped in a cocoon where they can’t hide.
Their pink little fingers stopped squirming,
Heart beats blocked fading black and blue,
The luster of many decades of unlived joy gone.
Is this the most convenient thing to do?
And there go more of abrupt conceptions,
Unborn babies are gifts from God to behold.
The love for children has no need for shame, for guilt
As news of birth is the greatest wonder ever told.
...... ........ .
Contest of Scribe Marlon: Unborn Babies Dream
By nette onclaud
Kittens In The Barn
He stops and removes his boots before opening the door. He enters the kitchen and smells the familiar aroma of morning coffee.
"Breakfast's ready, have a seat. How're the kittens" his wife asks.
"Damn cat" he says. "Should have run her off when she showed up last year". "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted". "Nothing but a nuisance is all she is". "Now got all those little ones running around". "I hate cats".
She gives him his plate and pours him a cup of coffee. He hungrily digs in, sopping up
his eggs with a warm biscuit. He tips his cup and pours some coffee in his saucer,
blowing on it to cool it off. "Damn cat" he mumbles.
When finished, he carries his dishes to the sink, rinsing them and setting them aside.
When her back is turned he quickly grabs the saucer and stuffs it in the pocket of his
bibs. "I'm going to milk the cows he says". "Take care" she calls, pretending not to
notice. In another moment he is gone.
He grabs his stool and bucket and sets to milking, the warm liquid quickly consuming the
container. He rises and walks into a distant stall. Bending down, he pulls out the
purloined saucer and fills it from the bucket in his hand. He places it beside the
squirming litter and watches as they stagger to its brim.
"Damn cat" he mutters. "Don't know why she stays where she ain't wanted".
Poetry will not keep you warm
Not like a cat nestled between legs
But, it hunts down manic thoughts
Gnashes the static till the mind gives
Chases a thought till claws are bloody
Keeps you drenched in sweat
Yes, she mews for attention
Till its cries grate every nerve
Till I feed it words & want
Poetry keeps me squirming
Caught in a net skimming a deluge
Waiting for words to be hauled
The big catch ever escaping
Keeps me checking the line
Insisting I jump into cold waters
Foolishly like Ahab chasing a tail
Sadness is my white whale
Mad with promises holey
Poetry is a leaky bucket
Catching the rain of words
Within depression's storm
Coming like a cat with a pail
Impossible and torrential
Ensnaring me for an hour
Keeps me back for seconds
Promising an easy catch
Cold and slippery
Intravenous therapy,
She's watching over me.
Grasping my hand,
She whispers, "please dear, count to ten."
Six... piercing paralysis,
Her hand cold as the air.
She lets go, leaving me there.
Alone, squirming, for just one prayer.
Yelling, and screaming.
Kicking, twisting, and questioning.
Nothing happens, its all in my head.
Frozen, welded to my metal death bed.
Minutes and hours tick away,
Slow, painful psychological decay.
I try to think of hating her,
But those thoughts just blur,
her pretty face.
Then I realize why I'm actually here.
Amidst the psychotic silence,
she walks in, and smiles.
She says, "Darling, this won't take a while."
Okay I say, dismissing the horror of the situation.
Her angelic voice, sedating all sensations.
I see the scalpels, forceps,
retractors, and clamps.
Completely trusting, blinded by the hanging lamp.
It won't hurt, so doctor please just cut.
Bloody plasmic mess,
Pressure to suppress,
Wide open arteries, surgical misery.
No anesthetics. Painless, no distress.
She carves a circle in my chest.
I don't contest, just attest.
Let her carve into me, at my own request.
Just promise, no cardiac arrest.
She pulls out my heart.
Leaving my entire chest hollow.
No more emotions,
the hardest pill to swallow.
But it is why I'm here.
No reason to fear.
Doctor, all I ask is you don't hurt it anymore.
You do what you want with it, it's completely yours.
Now I'm heartless, and only function with my brain.
Emotionless logic was the only way to sustain.
My future seems brighter,
All my loves spent, cut from the source.
I feel so much lighter, of course.
It was the heart.
Thank you doctor, for pulling me apart,
making me feel so alive.
The love, the emotions, the surgery,
my new will to survive.
Thats when she said,
"Darling, it's all in your head. You've been dead since we first met."
Today, meandering through the clutter of the local antique store,
I almost tripped and fell over an object partially hidden on the floor!
My hands came to rest on an old-fashioned school desk sitting there.
It reminded me of the one I occupied in my school days, I do declare!
My thoughts drifted back through the misty past to reminisce and ponder.
As I caressed its oaken surface with my fingers, I began to wonder.
Did it once grace a simple one-room prairie schoolhouse in Indiana?
Might it have come from a rustic schoolroom in the state of Montana?
The slanting top of the old desk was scratched and with ink was stained.
I saw faint initials carved by an idle lad whose attention span had waned!
The varnish was worn off the folding seat by many a squirming kid.
Wads of chewing gum still adorned the underside of the folding lid!
I recalled sitting at one of those uncomfortable desks trying to stay awake!
As Miss Ruth droned on and on, all I could think of was the recess break!
The room reeked of oranges and fried egg sandwiches we'd bring to munch.
Kids of means paid a dime to eat finer fare in the lunchroom for their lunch!
I recalled the thwack on my knuckles of Miss Ruth's ruler to get my attention,
And what awaited me at home for misbehavior with growing apprehension!
(A clerk noting my glazed eyes asked, "May I help you sir? Is anything amiss?"
"Nah", I replied. "If you please, I'd like to stand here awhile and reminisce!")
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Fear Of The Unknown
That sudden unknown, so unrevealing,
it's the tell-tale trademark of the one in question
as it sets off nerves in every-which-way,
plainly creeping aimlessly neath our epidermis.
Shock-waves traipse, recruiting ghostly minions to crawl hither,
steeping the fleshy folds with squirming eels marinade,
forever slithering downward and chilling our brittle bones,
while simultaneously causing us to gnash our pearly whites.
Until we came upon the realization,
that what had truly manifested itself,
was a self-induced fear that was so absorbing,
it had overwhelmed the mind in consuming anxiety,
losing control of our mental faculties,
proffering it free-will to buildup theoretical obsessions,
and alternate concessions.
2019 November 25
*1st Place*
Goosebumps
~~Delilah Ventura
The Good Harvest
Years ago I was a farmer,
And my neighbor had a field.
But he let it go to briars,
He was not concerned with yield.
As I passed his field one evening,
In my pocket there I found,
Four tiny seeds left over.
From those I'd planted in the ground.
So I tossed them in his garden,
Not so mindful what would be.
If they sprouted with the briars
Mid the chaos what we'd see
Summer rains and hot sun blasted.
Wind and snow upon the ground.
In the spring I gladly noted,
When there among the weeds I found.
Little plants with leaves uplifted,
Burst through the cluttered sod.
Like the Saints on Sunday morning.
Hands uplifted praising God.
Four dirty unkempt siblings
Wiggling squirming in their chairs.
No one watching no one caring,
How or why we found them there.
Rowdy, lively always talking
They put my patience to the test.
But I found that they were hungry
So I did my very best.
Jesus loved the little children
Each one precious in his eyes.
Long years passed and I am grateful.
For I found a sweet surprise
In the field where I had labored.
The word of God as best I could.
I found four happy Christians planted
Strong and faithful, that is good.
I rose not like flower or like tree
Not like eagle's hubris in the sun
Old skin shed in the divided city
Last clone of a manhood almost done
And so I tasted the salt that lingered in blood
When the sea was pushed to the edge
And the land was wet and squirming in mud
I was in the litter of its self-knowledge
I know my city better now, where met
The passions of my birth, life is beautiful
But shallow here, much to regret and forget
But I will exhume me from the bountiful
Shallowness and litter, I will my heart
To the silent stars and write my life
In words of truth. Montego Bay, let me start
In you, the doldrums where the fear was rife.
It was not the wind, but the fire that sent
My mother descending through smoke of tears
Along the pavement hard without lament
And her three children pined at crowded stairs
My brother was swallowed by the city's mire
My sister's drug was her desire, she called
Eight from her flesh to mother's feast of prayer
Thank you God for your mercies that enthralled
That's context now, while I bleat my life
From the ghetto's battlefield to stable and school
Something provoked my hunger and strife
Something led like a pen along the edge of a rule
For I have smelled the cordite fumes of death
And the magic scent of ganja on slum night air
I from school have fled and gasped for breath
Along a street where splintered blood appeared
So I dispense this news for you struggling child
Wriggling sand to walk out of my burning shoes
Soon I shall strip away the mask pile by pile
Promise you will dance, dance slowly to my blues
I give you more than wax feathers for the sun
For old Sisyphus by labor endless was worn down
And did not see the rise sinking to the run
In each man's failure another man's victory abound.
Side by side we lay,
She breathes shallowly
and I feel her chest rise
slowly, gently against my body
her breasts press against my side
And I quiver, electricity shoots through my nerves
quickening my heart and melting me into warmth
i watch her peaceful in her sleep
at rest, safe and unflinching beside me
I touch her silken hair, so soft
she is the image of beauty
An angel without mercy
Flawless creature - lips calling quietly
To be captured and enthralled
I am a prisoner of her spell
I brush her skin with my fingertips
It is so hard not to touch her
But I keep my hands back
refraining from roaming where they long to go
drawing circles down her belly and lips
aching to kiss every line of her skin
her breasts warm beneath my hands
squeezed and nipples flicked
and then brought against hungry lips
Where I would suck on them,
softly and then harder until she were squirming
whimpering as Id drag my lips down her body
over every curve licking the honey from her skin
Until reaching that luscious spot between her thighs
and gently spreading her to her surprise
my tongue dancing a million ways
diving deep to surface quickly for air
and dive down, down into her taste
kissing her thighs and nibbling her softness
and the taste of her skin makes me high
I do everything not to let myself get carried away
And yet watching her sleep is sexy to me
I lie beside her, wet and warm
aching to touch her, aching down below
where I want her to touch me
And make love with her for the first time
I'm squirming more every second I look at her
The need to love her ever growing
The need to leave and step away from this insanity
And yet I already know I wont leave her side
I'd suffer for eternity if it meant keeping this right
Veritas Vincit
the elusive goddess of the mind and soul couplet
a revelation of who we are, what we believe,
all that we imagine is or should be conceived;
born on the rising of the sun
holding moon glow in its captivity run
a complex menagerie of starlight within the cosmos dominion,
universal relinquishing of fictionalized wordings and opinions,
a hope, desirous dream, endless entity of fact from fiction
formalized false narratives of time and space interval diction;
it struggles, writhes in the turning and tossing window
foaming ocean waves of misinformation, lie, innuendo
there is no escape of twist or twitch spoof
squirming, wriggling the pathways of lie and truth
obsessive view in the eye of the beholder's solidarity,
is there hope, is there the possibility of a new reality
it truly is, as it really exists in a hidden state?
in the end, history will write what we dictate
someone's vision, another's reality
the hope and dreams of a future giving life and liberty
and freedom will take sail
only if
the truth prevails.
Sparked by Margarita Lilico's Latin Lessons
1/10/2022
Inner cities churn like a dark raging sea
Where fear stalks the rusty broken unchained door
where people wear masks of hunger plastered to skulls
they walk the cold cracked sidewalks of bewildering darkness
and never languish around the corners of shadowed evil
where heat from the streets rise like squirming dragons
as cars packed like rats pass men selling drugs
to the forgotten, some who sleep in wet cardboard boxes
surrounded by shattered glass and tossed empty cans
that lay scattered in the alley's where death moans
despair comes to steal
even the hopelessness held
leaving nothing to be found
in their empty hand
as it becomes a clenched fist
to a world, that doesn't care
10/9/21 contest Let's Mix it Up-"Life"
sponsor Constance La France
As I listen to the lark’s surreal melody to her mate.
I wonder does she ever feel there’s too much on her plate?
Ever beside him juggling, tediously feathering the nest,
in her discomfort struggling, incubating without rest.
I wonder if in her daydreams does she laze as her mind lingers
in bygone days pursued by teams, of young and gallant singers?
Or does she occupy her days with tending her small brood
not entertaining winsome ways as gaping nibs crave food?
Does he while out a’gathering, squirming tidbits for their young,
ever give way to lathering ‘cause his work is never done?
Does his keen eye ever wander over lighter creamy breasts
allowing himself to ponder his days of youthful quests,
or does his steadfast honor seek but to gather and bring home
supper for each tiny beak never thinking once to roam?
As I hear the song bird warble, with expectancy to her mate
I’m thankful for each morsel placed in love upon my plate.
And listening to the lark refrain his bride’s devoted call,
I find being called a birdbrain the best compliment of all.