Best Straps Poems
Sealing eyes of sky,
Descend upon straps of light,
Dusk…now dreams the night...
The Writer's Book Bag
When I looked done,
The bags were all around.
Scattered on the floor,
Obviously bought at a secondhand store.
Writers came in and sat down,
Claiming most of the bags that were around.
Except for one.
Leaning against the chair leg,
Slumping with exhaustion.
Faded from the wash,
Ground stains on the bottom.
Sweating metal flask,
Hidden in the side.
Leaving a moist imprint,
That almost comes alive.
Stuffed to the gills,
Tiny wisps of paper sticking out.
Torn slightly from being tossed about.
Straps all askew.
It has been everywhere,
Continuously added to,
Strata to be mined,
When you have the time.
Cupped softly,
Hopes,
Dreams,
Fears,
Treasures left of
All that is left of you.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” - Khalil Gibran
I am a delicate deck of cards,
alabaster roots, tossed
across time’s yard
from foolish patterns
of poker promises,
like the days
when scorching summer
was an ace of solstices.
You’ll find my name
in numbers where
the perfumed forget-me-nots
in pressed pages slumber;
defined as the black hearted
queen of blood diamonds,
soaked in vintage
murdered lies-
fallen angels, singing
solitaire’s sorrowful sirens.
For I have long earned
the straps
within mystical corners,
crumpled, placed
to breathe in a crystal coffin
with no escape,
and no mourners.
Yet the moon subtly smiles-
at our sin, through
rose-colored everything.
And I swim
in my own darkness, wading
through wet waves
of black spades,
washing wounds
in the nothingness,
crashing unto gates
as heavy as
a raven’s wing,
whilst I’m clawed
and transformed
under betrayal’s sting.
So take my scars
as an offering,
feeding the knotty cracks
in our foundation, paper thin;
there’s nothing left
to take, or give in
this facade we maintain
of this kingdom
of an immortal harlequin.
Colorful flowers and spaghetti straps
And my flabby arms from seams overlap
But the sundress still beckons
It’s diet time, I reckon
Girdle needed, my tummy to entrap
Seeking new ways for calories to burn
To wear that sundress, I’ll let famine churn
Want to look provocative
Avoid stares accusative
Hunger overwhelms, for ice cream I yearn
Sign up for Biggest Loser on TV
So Jillian Michaels can torture me
Pushing boulders up steep hills
To accentuate the frills
Of a small sundress designed for Twiggy
Jillian cracks the whip with no remorse
I drag tired bones through the exercise course
Now slim, I sleep peacefully
Blessed with deep serenity
While friends say, “She makes a beautiful corpse.”
*Entry for “The Sundress,” a contest sponsored by Constance La France ~A
Rambling Poet~
by Carolyn Devonshire
A single red, heart-shaped balloon isn’t enough
So I splurge and buy fourteen adorned by cupid
I tie them to the chair of my beloved “Hot Stuff”
To think mere balloons might please him would be stupid
So I search and search for the grandest tea roses
His favorite warm colors are all blended in each
His desk they decorate in striking poses
Hope these will do the trick and his passion beseech
But then I remember his strong chocolate craving
Godiva treats I purchase and spare no expense
Set beside roses, surely he’ll be raving
He’ll be home in an hour; I can’t bear the suspense
When the door opens, I am wearing a teddy
The Valentine card he takes with a gloomy look
When he sees his desk, he wails, “Enough already!”
And he doesn’t even try my straps to unhook
How puzzled I feel when he says, “We have to talk”
No, he hadn’t forgotten this lovers’ holiday
Into his small closet he suggests we should walk
He seems so depressed; I’d expected a hooray
Piled high in the closet are all occasion gifts
Gaudy Christmas sweaters and tons of chocolate hearts
He can’t find his clothes and between us grows a rift
To sort through this maze, he would need a detailed chart
“Take all this stuff with you and please just leave my home
In fact, I’ll pay your expenses to relocate
And be sure to take that hideous garden gnome
Make it snappy, will you? I have a date at eight!”
*For Joyce’s “Emotional Response” contest
I would like to spill,
What is harbored in my soul.
I would like to say,
Things that no one really knows.
·
I’d apologize to you,
In a measurement beyond the stars.
For not being there with you,
Has left my soul this scar.
·
I’m reminded of the heartache,
From that dreadful day.
Of an ordinary time,
When God took you away.
·
I would’ve quickly taken,
The fate that you have faced.
Than to see your children suffer,
Savoring sorrows aftertaste.
·
If I had straps on my shoulders,
Attached to an antique plow.
You’d see deep ruts in the earth,
From the weight I carry now.
·
I’m harvesting my burdens,
In my open fields of pain.
In the drought of happiness,
Awaiting a smiling rain.
·
I’ve cultivated memories,
From the 3 years you’ve been gone.
Laying on glistening blades of grass,
That I cried on sorrow’s lawn.
·
I reminisce on the tears,
That only my heart knows.
Waiting for bouquets of smiles,
From the seeds I just now sowed.
·
I’m sorry you faced such madness,
Without me along your side.
And things could have been better,
Perhaps you would have survived.
·
I’m sorry I didn’t call you,
To distract your vivid mind.
But I replay those what if’s,
All the freakin’ time.
·
No one knows my heartache,
Of not biding my goodbye.
These are things I’ve harbored,
Way down, deep inside.
·
It feels like you’d still be here,
If I’d used my earthly power.
I’m sorry for not distracting you,
From your darkest hour.
·
This is a poem I had to write,
To regain my inner control.
And release my encumbers,
To unburden my soul.
·
You will always be my best friend,
A notion I’ll never condone.
You know I’ll await your answer,
When God calls me home.
_________________________
For Christie and Sharon's
"I'm Sorry" Contest
Upon a fragile thread
Hangs the soldiers dream
Of surviving another day
On the battlefield of death
While on the other side
A young man straps on a bomb
Saying goodbye to his mother
With no fear of death
He heads out to take his life, as well as, the lives of others
In the name of his God
Led blindly down the path of deception
By perhaps the most famous man in the world
Bin Laden believes so strongly in his faith
That he will sacrifice any life necessary
Any life but his own that is
While hiding like a coward in the dark
Nothing more than a rat
Scurrying between caverns of nowhere
Posting his video’s to prove
That brave souls die for the glory of a coward
Bin Laden has no personal belief in his own teachings
His followers see him as a “Prophet of Allah”
They proudly give their lives for him
Believing in glory all the way to hell
What meaning can be found in this?
As my own son prepares to go to Afghanistan
Not long after returning from Iraq
Just a boy who has been thrust into the responsibility of killing
So our dreams may come true
I do have a dream
I dream that hero’s will be honored
Even those who are misled and suicidal
For in their hearts they believe
Strongly enough to give their lives
I do have a dream
I dream that cowards will die in their caves of refuge
And be eaten by the rats with which they dwell
I do have a dream
I dream that one day all men will realize
That through the “Blood of Christ”
All dreams can be answered!
For Carol's contest.
a dizain
Admire her casting, lines of silky floss;
survey as artist drafts her masterpiece.
Enclosing space invisibly across,
then single-handedly, she will increase
the center parts to form unseen valise.
A purse of unsuspected, vicious taint -
its straps in hand, she naps - a wily feint.
Artistic beauty flows, but will soon ebb,
when tender insects clutter her restraint.
Artiste awakes to wealth within her web.
Nov. 17, 2010
All that time will do
is install you
in comfortable stockings.
The wind howls away the years.
Foxes hunt even while we sleep.
The binding is broken.
The straps are disconnected.
Wind carries away
even massive objects.
It is the tornado of life.
Chunk chunk
Clink clink
The mind keeps puffing
like a steamer.
Even pine trees are inspired
by the wind.
Shadow Rock hides the eyes
of children.
Their eyes grow heavy with sleep,
and they groan.
The bad dream progresses;
a story unfolds.
There can be no talking
during this time of storms,
this time of hiding behind rocks.
There is nothing left
worth stealing.
Running, running, get away,
move aside! I can't stay!
Time is gone and I must go
hurry now, move too slow.
Heart is racing, pounding loud
press myself against the crowd.
Watching others hurry on,
ticking clock, move along.
Can't stop now I smell the fear
of those that stop and linger near.
Quickly, quickly, time to leave,
Father Time there's no reprieve.
Running, running, get away,
from my mind I cannot stray!
Eager thoughts that haunt my head,
every moment turned to dread.
From this prison, must escape
or leave to time my soul to rape!
Running rampant, eager thought
red streaked vision, can't be caught!
Heart is racing pounding loud
emotions seething, darkened shroud.
Mind will falter soon I know
melting dreams that ebb and flow.
Running, running, get away,
can't break free, must obey!
Vicious needs draw ever near,
fight I must against the fear.
Hands on me, the straps draw tighter
motionless I fight the niter.
Tightened crowd drawing closer
Leave me now, you saintly poser!
Help me not, no need to linger
take from me your putrid finger!
I can hear you softly speaking,
honey venom from lips leaking.
----------
"No outburst today Doctor, completely catatonic, although his eyes have begun to twitch rapidly like when he had the last one."
"Thank you, Nurse. I'll be careful."
"What do you think goes on in his sick little mind?"
"He has no regular or discernible brain waves, probably nothing at all... Broccoli."
"What?"
"He's a vegetable."
----------
Let me out, anger growing,
veins are pulsing, head exploding!
09/20/15
Dark & Twisted Contest-HM
Nathan D.
10/16/2015
What is it to hear a poem?
Ears ajar.
Eyes focused.
Mouth shut.
I struggle to listen when such words cut open
my head and try to make a nest out of my brain.
I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR A POEM!
My body jolts under these straps of limitation,
tightened by my ability to hear.
Why must one be limited to hear a poem?
I cast out stones towards those who care to listen.
Why don’t we be the poem?
Climb inside the mouth of a poem and
understand it’s true voice.
Be the pen kicking fiercely at the paper,
leaving behind marks of genius and creativity.
Rip open the heart of a poem and suck its
blood dry.
Feel a poem.
Be a poem.
Live a poem.
See words rise from the paper,
as they dance between the strings
of your heart.
Grab a hand of the message and twirl
it around your mind and smother its
meaning with praise.
Curl up inside the dot of an ‘i’.
Slide across an ‘l’ and mold it into a ‘t’.
Travel across an empty plain were stubborn
boulders cry.
Attack black and white ideas with shades
of blue and green.
Drive a sword through their hearts and leave
them dead to what is known.
Fight a poem.
Hurt a poem.
Heal a poem.
Turn the waste of sound into
vibrant waves of belief and inspiration.
Let yourself be swept away by
imagination and surrealism.
Find your soul inside of a poem and
claim it as your own.
Bring down the fortress of structure and
make its remains into martyrs of lost cause.
Open the doors of a poem and remodel
what’s inside.
NO! I do not want to hear a poem!
It sends pain through my soul to see the
voice of a poem silenced by the ignorant
dangers of sound.
Help yourself and plug your ears.
Visualize the words through serene images of
beauty cultured by unmatchable craft.
See a poem.
Grab a poem.
Know a poem.
Be influenced by a poem.
Learn a poem and all of its meanings.
Threaten a poem.
Scare a poem.
Stab a poem.
Teach it how to live amongst a world of vultures,
hungry for mistakes and misinterpretations.
Guide a poem into a building filled
with a million little fingers.
Like a poem.
Be touched by a poem.
Love a poem.
Show the world your insides.
Show them the words to your poem.
She was all that and much more
The child with the smiles and the braids
White dresses, friendly nods and compliancy
Muddy shoes, trees and cursing
Sent away from school and frowns
Cycling on one wheel only
Plastered with band aids
Quick glances in the mirror
Lip-gloss, eye-liner, brushed hair
Strapless dress and high heels
Stolen kisses in the dark of the alley
With that boy or that girl
Clumsily fumbling with straps
Or zippers
Hungrily searching not finding
Running away faster and faster
At the running track
Through the woods.
The girl with the curls and cap, and blowing hair
From her eyes
Refusing to look in the mirror
Refusing to face, face to face
Denying.
Multi-faceted and beautiful
The girl that didn’t dare to decide
And therefore decided to swim
Folded her clothes
Next to her shoes
Swam till her lungs were empty
And her heart full
And her eyes swam
Only when her body felt like loose pebbles
Held together by skin
She felt for the first time
She is all that and much more
She is beautiful, her head high
Sometimes she uses lip-gloss
Sometimes she climbs trees
She laughs soft, loud, teary-eyed, and often
She hugs tight and warm and infinitely loving
She gives love to him, her, and herself
Love her back, all of her
With gusto
***
Repost from September 2016
© Darren White
She takes her wand a sugar cane long
And waves it in the air singing a song
She likes to make her heroic cape
From collard green leaves that she crochet
She makes her brazier from coconuts
With licorice straps sticky to touch
Her bald head blessed with a crown
from grapevines with grapes hanging down
Her skin is thin from all the chemo
She is stronger than superman in her soul-food soul
She uses cotton candy to make her socks
Shoes so fancy by Goldilocks
Bet you never again will see
A skirt made of dried fruit candy
Yellow sun rays shine on her face
Fighting cancer with food in more than one way
6/14/22
Written for A MERGER WITH FOOD POETRY CONTEST
Sponsor Natasha L Scragg
There once was a Chick from the sea
whose two buxom breasts were set free.
Twin seaweed straps snapped
as thunder clouds clapped
and the sailors drown ecstatically.
The lamp outside my lodgings cut through fog of dirty grey,
I donned my coat and hat ready to start another day.
The sound of hooves on cobbles meant my transport was at hand
I stepped onto the pavement as it pulled up at the stand.
Quick turn of the brass handle, creaky door swung open wide,
a short leap to the footplate and I clambered up inside.
The bench seat buttoned velour, colours fading, rather frayed,
long scratches on the rosewood round the Marquetry inlaid.
We bounced and swung on straps and springs and galloped through the streets,
Side window broken in one corner, letting out the heat.
Outside the Quad I paid my fare and stepped into the cold,
and thought 'how many other Derby cabs are quite that old?'
Inspired by an article in today's local paper regarding the age
and appalling state of some of our local Taxi cabs.