Best Straggly Poems
Nobody observes her leaving her room
wearing just her nightdress and red felt carpet slippers
Shuffling silently she slips out of the front door onto the street
Rivulets of rain start to soak her to the skin
Her straggly hair hangs down limply
It becomes so matted and twisted
Soon it looks like writhing snakes are alive on her skull
Her once pretty face is now lined and wrinkled
Rain drips off the crevices and onto her sagging breasts
Wandering off into the night she begins searching
Walking the empty streets with her arms outstretched
Searching, searching, desperately searching
Eventually she reaches the children’s playground
Sitting on a swing she rocks backwards and forwards
The rhythmic movement seems to calm her down
Tears form in her eyes and mingle with the raindrops
Strong arms hold her and she is powerless to resist
She hears voices telling her she must return home
‘We knew you’d eventually find your way here Maisie
It’s time to return to the sanatorium …
In future we will make sure the door alarm is activated’
10~19~15
N/A in previous contest
Submitted to screwed XI
Sponsored by Rob Carmack
Sponsor Nathan D
Title amended and submitted to ''P'' Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France
I recall a dirty sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home
You may see me out on the streets
Lying curled up in a foetal position my sleeping bag in a shop doorway
Trying to get a few hours sleep here in my latest home in cardboard city …
I never stay more than a few nights in one place
can never really settle; these streets aren’t safe
You may see me out on the streets
I’m sitting on the cold damp pavement with an empty coffee cup in my hand
Hoping for a coin or two so I can have some real food in my aching belly
Still you hurry past, trying to avoid making eye contact…
Believe me, it’s so degrading rummaging in the litter bins like a wild animal
But some days it’s the only way I can get any food to eat
The biting cold and wet weather is my worst enemy
I can never get warm even when the sun shines
This is no life, just a way of surviving another day
Guess you think I’m a waster, a dirty tramp
You walk on by; judge me without knowing what lead me to life on the streets
Bet you think I’m a druggie or an alcoholic
I guess most people seem to think that
They see my filthy clothes, straggly hair and grey beard
Just five years ago I was like many of you
I had a career, a beautiful wife, and two lovely children
Spent many months away from home fighting for my country
But then I got sent to Afghanistan…
I saw scenes no man should ever have to witness
I was traumatised
Forever suffering flashbacks of the faces of those innocent people
The children, oh those children – made me think of my two boys back at home
I couldn’t cope any more, had a total mental breakdown
I was a broken man …
My wife could no longer deal with the mood swings , the erratic behaviour
The Army did little to help –
discharged me on health grounds, then basically abandoned me
Now I’ve lost everything … my wife, family, my dignity
Many of the people you see on the streets are like me …
We all have a story to tell, but no one gives us the time of day
Passers-by avert their eyes and hurry past like we are invisible
Your eyes may tell you one thing… but please don’t judge me
Because you don’t know me
We strolled along deserted lanes
lined by straggly rubble walls,
adorned by yellow cowslips,
perfumed with early wild narcissus,
and music, a fine harmony,
performed by finches of all colours
Whilst blue **** and sparrow fly from tree to tree.
I lingered there, hoping I could get away
from the fathomless worries of the weary world,
or perhaps find rest in an eternal quietude.
We walked hand in hand, listening to the rill
Its clear waters zigzagging downwards.
She stared at the rivulet with wonderment.
I admired her composure, her interest
In all around her, a stoic tranquillity.
I invited her to sit besides me on a wooden bench.
Enjoy the vast silent panorama of the countryside.
No other human could be seen in the vicinity
Except far off, a farmer tilled his field.
She put her head against my shoulder.
We uttered not one word. It was pure bliss.
I realized love can be silent,
For utter silence is true love.
LOVE AGAIN
On this day, when tricky time
Has already turned love into wry rust,
When forgetting dominates
Bits- and -pieces remembering,
I forget you like I forget my red rose,
Standing alone , old and gnarled
At the far end of my yard,
Its leaves more blighted than green,
Its twigs more stunted than straggly,
Its butterflies more fitful than flit-ful.
But when I remember, it is like
Its rare , single bloom overpowering
Me with its same old fragrance
Into a spasm of fond recognition..
19 Jun 12
S.Jagathsimhan Nair
For SKAT's contest, 'Old romantic poems'
The Story Of The Cruel And Dark Queen That Feeds On Souls
She that exists to eat innocent souls and this world's vast wealth
A dark goddess, splaying her straggly long hair with wilted roses
Pretty, brazen, wickedly heartless and damn to hell soulless
Even far more beautiful, glowingly fair than is Lamia
Artists and poets seek words to describe her deep darkness
Souls of artists, painters and reprobates toiling for her glee
Thousands enslaved in the mirage of her horrible essence
She that holds me locked into her enticing horrid imagery
As I toil like Hercules to break these impregnable chains
Such that morning holds no beauty, sky is devoid of its blue
These many months pass and pass, O' my spirit is wilting
I seek the gold moon at night but find only darken shadows
And absolutely no human pleasures ever do I know or feel
I that exist in this raging true hellish world of deep evil pains
Pray for dearest release that I may one day die a free man
And if gifted our God's sweet mercy, shall enter the Pearly Gates.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
APRIL 11TH 1971
Old Note: Age 17, this is one of my early dark poems, no rhyming.
I rarely ever do just plain verse....
New Note: Well, I still rarely ever do just verse. May have have written 15 or 20 poems that were just verse.
I relax in the shade of the whitewashed porch
as my gnarled hands caress the arms
of the creaking rocking chair -
it was my late Gran’s favorite possession
I’ve been fortunate to be able to lease her cottage
the temperate climate here boosts my spirits
My once rosy complexion is pallid -
the doctor says my time is running out ...
soon I’ll be at eternal peace in heaven
I’m constantly tired ...
even the simplest chores exhaust me
I’ve neglected the cottage garden
it pains me to see the sweet honeysuckle
left untrimmed and straggly
yet, I wait patiently for its gold buds to burst open
releasing its stunning scent on the zephyr breeze
Required words :- temperate, buds, lease, possession, heaven, complexion, eternal, gold, untrimmed, shade.
A Summer's Day Redo Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Michelle Faulkner
8/12/19
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
Naked death
…the barred and sealed cattle wagons
disgorge
at the Konzentrazionslager
the faux pas relief
from urine mud faeces sweat and tears
unkempt armpits buttocks best wear
turned to damp rags
reduced to moaning cattle
nameless
even the heifer wan straggly limp
Alles! Raus!
…the last quick dab of face powder
the lipstick dried blood tan
the felt hat lying soggy stained
through bellowed haste
on the mudcaked barrack floor
the wampumpeag plucked by the helmeted claw
stabbing on sole-cold cutting cement platform
averting glances on sapped sagging busts
shoulders hunched buckled in
fingers reaching to scratch loins
nostrils quivering
whose the naughty stench
then the trooped Indian file
stray belongings dumped
in a wasteproduct pile
the once highheeled gait
slumping to a side
from the hips down to a jaggedknee limp
prodding the miasmal mist
the exposed varicose veins
the knotty pubis
the mons veneris
the intimate warts and moles
last year’s Ceasarian stitches
the rump twitched less
the lack lustre sentry gazes
the unmasked leer
the disdainful pursed lips
neither shame nor pudeur
and then the last gangway to nowhere
the Ave-Maria road to Himmelweg
a reprieve
From the privately pub. coll. (re-worked 2016): longhand notes ( a binding of poems), 1999, 115p.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1999/2016
Lose the straggly beard:
Hairy
Harry!
Apparantly, Mr. Ellison fell off the goofy tree and hit every branch on the way down..Grow up!:
Whacky
Jackie
Ms Wong, as per your recent trip I here-to-forth-now-and-forever dub thee:
Bonnie
Connie
(I BEG-YOUR-PARDON!...I'm a licensed dubber!...got papers to prove it)
Quite the cad aren't you, Mr. H?...The old lady's gonna wise up, then no more Hanky:
Panky,
Frankie
Ms Birch-Tree...let's go out and party DOWN!:
Ready,
Debbie?
And Ms Khan...If I ever had the pleasure of meeting you, I'm sure I'd detect the sweet aroma of:
Jasmine,
Yasmin
You continue to start these petty arguments with me! Why, Keith? You show your bad side when you:
Bicker,
Bicker
Frankly, I'd prefer having just a casual affair with Ms Richards, but I may have to bite my lip and:
Marry
Carrie
(Ow!...That HURT, Carrie!...Look, you left a mark and why didn't you TELL me you were married?...Now your hubby...well, I hate to even THINK about it)
The End...
The whole house was dim
Only the oven flames burning
We couldn't find you
Our blood began churning
We scoured each room
Our heartbeats are yelling
To find you alone
Deranged and repelling
You stink of poison
It seeps through your skin
An odor so potent
So easy to pin
I smell the resin
Of two day old sweat
Your eyes somehow open
With no signs of regret
A vision of a junkie
No more and no less
To weak to confront it
Just claim duress
Your cheeks sunken deeply
Thinned to the bone
Straggly haired
A look made of stone
Lips dried to crust
Feverishly dehydrated
Spoke like a child
Eyes blank and dilated
The sirens grew closer
You resisted the aid
I promised you solace
But you can’t be afraid
A few hours later
You were awake
I begged of you
To know what’s at stake
You created two angels
That will surely turn sour
Blame it all on yourself
Its their souls you’ll devour
When the urges arise
Remember the day
We found you alone
JUST A HEARTBEAT AWAY
There is a lone field before me
With sweet flowers that draws the eyes
Round the blooms, roams many a bee
There is a lone field before me
A nice sight all would love to see
Straggly clouds sail along the skies
There is a lone field before me
With sweet flowers that draws the eyes
August.23.2022
~ Placed First~
Triolet – Old or New Poetry Contest
Syllables checked with HMS
Sponsor- Joseph May
A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak
Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers
One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes
He was a well statured man I dated briefly, finding my way to the place where my Dad was born in the twenties and then crying for the foothills where I grew up such a short time later.
You know the writing world is a cruel place at times. Society can also be at times though I never really figured out why.
Many times I grew tired of it, until the day that I met Boney Fingers.
He was an old, Yellow, tiger striped alley cat.
This old Tom Cat had had a rough life I could see and I tried to be so gentle with the horribly thin, rugged looking creature. He had a huge calcium deposit on his right cheek bone from being kicked to the curb so much. A tear streamed down my face many, many times as I spoke to old Boney Fingers about life, and named him the name because of an old country song. The cat was merely trying to get a meal, doing all he could to survive and oh, how in society I could relate to being different and not accepted by my peers.
It seemed as every where I would travel to set out on yet another writing venture there was always some kind of scene or circle to bring me to my knees but its a good place to be to pray.
Funny the men I seldom dated, one in particular, who's name was John. A very handsome man, and all the women wanted his attention. How did I know this would be trouble for me? Again?
It's kind of ironic how that old cat Boney Fingers almost had perfect timing to my heart aches, as if he had some kind of radar on my emotional down falls. On my worst days, finding it hard to relate to anyone because of painful words said- here would come that old straggly cat walking up the side walk to see me.
I did all I could for the poor old cat, but oh as much compassion, and caring I could provide really could not help Boney Fingers.
I left out of that town, a mile from Huntington, West Virginia with two heartbreaks. A man named John, and a cat that worked his fingers to the bones and all he got was boney fingers, yes, just trying to get a meal, trying to survive in a human's world. No he didn't have fingers. He had my heart.
A weed that’s known as Queen Anne’s Lace
Is here and there and everyplace –
Along the highway, in the fields,
Deaf to every sneeze it yields.
Tall and straggly, it’s beguiled
Flies and bugs where it grows wild,
Lured not by its scent outstanding
But its flat top, great for landing.
Humans, though, don’t like it much
For like dandelions and such,
Its profusion proves, indeed,
That it’s just a lowly weed.
Oft, I rush to weeds’ defense;
This time, though, I’m on the fence
For swaths of land might lose the race
Against the spread of Queen Anne’s lace.