Best Stretched Out Poems
I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
With clear access to writing that was mature and bold.
I thought I could go roaming beside the foaming sea
And watch the seagulls gliding to give a show for free.
I thought I was a poet who walked along the beach
In awe I stood and wondered, my hand stretched out to reach
The silver thread dividing the water from the sky
And traced Selena’s features as slowly she went by.
I thought I was a poet who knew what joy could be
On hearing water roaring cascading down with glee.
I looked for inspiration, experienced utmost thrill
When climbing down the valley or up the verdant hill.
I thought I was a poet in charge of heat and cold
But lost my true emotions when I was duped and told
I had to reach perfection to please my heart and mind
By means of imitation. My soul I left behind.
I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
But now all of a sudden I’m weary, frail and old.
I thought I was a poet. My pen is of no use.
With teary eyes I whisper to my dejected muse.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Contest: First Place Only
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placed 1st ~ 18th June 2016
Contest: Any Poem #36
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st ~ 13th March 2016
Contest: Million Dollar Poem
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st ~ 13th June 2015
Chosen Poem of the day ~ 8th May 2015
There was change, an odd pulse,
a new cadence and tone, in the place I grew up
where my mother had been...
Where white fences stretched out to cradle our home
but where zones, unfamiliar, were on now on the cusp
On a make-shift bed, I was lying awake
Windows cracked open,
a wind coming in, ....
Intangible nights, in the familiar old room,
alone with my thoughts, while sorting out things...
There was a strange, jaundice glow, from the porch light, left on,
and my pillow felt cold, where the moon used to go
The sound of a moth, batting wings against glass,
was begging for warmth, while seeking to ask, a place that made sense
And a place to fit in
My father was sleeping, with his newlywed bride
in the same maple bed, where my mother had died
And a new child was dreaming in the soft yellow room
where I spent all those nights, ... just me and the moon
I was happy for him, and for the child that he gained.
I was there at his side,
when the changes became.. a part of his life, ...... a part of mine too
but was lost in the amber, like a moth batting wings
Eventually, I would grow with a fresh point of view,
but the child that I was, still waits for the moon
I'm older and wiser, maybe stronger than then
but, the moth will look in, escaping the moon
ramming the screen
seeking the flame...
batting its wings,
while resisting the change, ...again, and again
11/3/14
My sister says
my father was a good man --
but, how should I,
who never "knew" him
(except as a far-from-good man)
buy her stories?
Am I, the last child
of that union,
too, too judgmental?
Too far removed in time from
what she knew
and now recalls?
My memory is of a different man,
who died when I was twenty-two:
one rarely present, never talking,
often jailed,
unsupportive --
someone I really never knew.
He was no bearer of familial tales,
no imparter of the history
now I only wish I'd heard...
Obviously, I differ from my sister
about what constitutes a good man.
He never seemed to feel that he
needed to provide basics --
food, shelter, clothing, health care --
to his offspring -- and he almost never did......
I do remember how he staggered
on the street,
fell off of curbs,
sought shelter
and often could be found
asleep -- or at least
stretched out unconscious --
in some vacant lot;
how he foraged
frenziedly
about for beer,
or only Gallo muscatel
(thirty-five cents for the flask).
Should I not ask
what makes my sister think
I could remember him as does she?
In such a different light?
As victim,
and maligned
by inlaws or by circumstance?
All I know is what I do remember,
what I survived
when she and others,
grown, were gone.
I do not think
that I can accept
or change
(nor in absentia, forgive) --
and, no, I do not yet
believe
what my sister says.
CHRYSALIS
Sitting in silent reverence
I gaze upward towards your galaxy...
The endless canopy stretched out
Before all eyes...
An infinite splendor of
Light, energy, portals, stars
Mysterious unknown spaces
Silent notes fill my soul
Playing my heartstrings
Reminding me of ancient memories
Memories of...
Our journey together
Inside the chrysalis
I embrace you...
Growing together
Intertwined in color and form and design
We breathe as one
We expand and sprout into life
Preparing to fly
Birthing at the same moment
I reach my moist orange wing
Out into the calling air
As my outer shell falls away
Your wings move slowly
Drying in the breeze
Twins we are
Twin butterflies embarking on
Our journey upward
Rising and turning we ride
The warm air funnels
In joy and delight
We laugh in our own language
As moondust beckons us further
We melt into darkness
In an instant light is eclipsed
I can only see the glow
Of your eyes
Color is absent
Glow...Glitter...Reflection...Shine
Orbs of light and time above us
Blue Black transparent silk
With a million pinholes of light
Shining through
A nod to the Creator
How grand you are
How magnificent
Everything as it is...
Perfect intention and magnitude
With alignment of essence
To swim in the stars
To dive into the Milky Way
To ride a comet until its
Last breath of light dies
There is no greater gift
My heart sings and rejoices
For the consciousness of
This moment in time
Looking down on Mother Earth
I see her and I love her
I see her Creator hold her gently
Glittering webs of tears and light
Connect us
Galaxy and stars and earth...
We pulse together
We exhale together
We bleed together
We are one
1/18/2021
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (44)
any form any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Brian Strand
First Place (1 of 3)
When I think of what to write
often the ocean comes to mind
Endless sea of pretty blue
and stretched out horizon lines,
impossibly flat
Yet when I actually arrive
it isn't the sea that my eyes
take a liking too
Rather it's just below the waves
my mind does go...
...to the little trinkets
beside my toes
Fossils of sea creatures,
alive one - and now, even in death -
you can see the beauty of their features
Seashells of every shape and hue
(even if they're familiar,
somehow they're always new)
Some are inky black or cobalt blue,
creamy whites and nutty browns
(pretty oranges, too!)
Some are hefty like a throwing stone,
others quite miniscule,
blending in with the sand
Some are fragile -breaking easier
than the waves-
others are like a hardened sunrise
Their well defined rays,
my fingers always finds themselves,
unbidden as an eye-blink
(as unthinking as a smile)
I like the clanky sound they make
when lightly shook in a mason jar
I shake them like dice in cupped hands
(loaded, in my case...
I don't gamble with a good time)
Yeah, when it comes to the beach
I'm like a kid at a candy store
My treats aren't in bins,
but glisten on the sandy shore
I scoop them in my hands,
still wet with the sea
Stick them in my pockets,
if the case need be
(and you know it always does
if I'm being honest)
Where it gets me, I don't know,
but, please,
just one more keepsake!
(this simple joy I try to harness)
I pick up a second then a third
while still admiring the first
A dozen or two, is only of mild concern
(a wagon-full is even worse)
Yes
It is an obsession through and through
I could be just as happy with one
as with a thousand
(maybe happiness isn't something
you can attach a number too)
And I don't know why I do it,
treasure to me (but not for thee)
And even rarity isn't an excuse
You can pick them up by the shovel,
they aren't difficult to find
You can count a hundred alone
within arms reach
(maybe joy doesn't have to be rare,
but can be as common as clouds...
maybe it's not something "out there",
but somewhere near,
even to the ground)
Near as an object
lying beside your feet
Near as a thought that came to you...
...while walking on the beach
I remember the tree verdant in spring
Those years stretched out could be filled with anything
I had dreams of strong limbs and plenitude
Thoughtfully give limbs for nest and bedewed
I saw you change in fall to colors rare
The frost touched your leaves and limbs unaware
I saw winds swoop from the north stripping pride
Then run its course, your fears you tried to hide
I wonder what will happen to the tree
Though life issues idiosyncrasy
Written: 8-26-22
Contest: Dot Your i's and Cross Your t's
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
The Clown
a living metaphor
of what you see
and who it is
Still learning
to make a funny face
to walk differently
to perform
before an audience
A juggling fool
with worn out socks
in waiting for an applause
to satisfy a world
of melanchony
delirium,and expectations
Wearing the big black shoes
bigger than it's being
Keeping balance
of the imbalance
to nurture hungry mouths
that survive on half a planet
or what is left
To feed human shadows
which await the big blushed nose
and stretched out lips
Which await the mask
that veils turmoil and pain
The Clown
with a spirit to live
and a heart to die
is back in full circus
Splashing colours
on shades of grey
The Clown
a living metaphor
A tear away
from its ownself
The heterozygote twin
in the mirror
of a mortal smile
is back in town
and coming out to play.
I look in your eyes
what do I see
A shell of myself
who I used to be
A minuscule fragment
of who I was before
When red carpet
stretched out across my floor
A day and time
opportunities, abundant
Long before I became
hopelessly redundant
I see an array of patches
from my many mistakes
My eyes tell a story
of painful heartaches
A veil across my skin
of wrinkles and cellulite
Shards from the past
when my future was bright
Bags under my eyes
from restless nights
Not dead, but a disgrace
I've become a blight
My once white teeth
Now a yellowish tint
Thanks to years of smoking
to relax and vent
I despise you
for what you reveal to me
You show me ugly
and how it feels to be
Unheeding of the causes
for my bruises and scars
You show only the top layer
worn and charred
You are so vain
with your spotless surface
Come to think of it
you really serve no purpose
You make people conceited
More often, depressed
It doesn't effect you at all
you feel no distress
You hold your head high
As if your invincible
No one dare break you
Superstition or principal
But I can see through
As clear as glass
You have no soul
Just useless mass
You're a thief of identities
Because you haven't, your own
No personality to claim
An ever changing clone
Not a person or a place
Just a thing
With nothing to give
Nothing to bring
There will come a day
You will shatter to pieces
Your frame will fall apart
At the perfectly painted creases
There will be no memorial
They will trash your remains
No one will miss you
A thing without a name
Elevating Heart
Sweat of Life
Piercing pain of Sorrow
Pendulum of gratitude in motion
How fortunate to experience
To Feel
To delight in the depths of emotion
I burst knowing I am capable of such workings of the
Heart, mind and soul
I am you
You are me
We are we
We are one with each other, with nature,
With the sky, the stars, the moon,
With the creatures of the ocean blue depths,
With the feather tips of ancient falcons,
With the wind whistling through the towering singing trees,
With the lonely roads stretched out on the horizon,
With the melting icicles of change
I am a teardrop on the petal of your eternal flower
I feel the whisper of your breath
Graze across my lips
A gentle imprint left behind
A kiss on my eyelashes
And I am yours
I am honored to be a part of you
Of us
Of now
Of distant past lives
And of
Unrevealed futures
I wear you like my favorite oversized cotton shirt
Threadbare at the elbows
You inhabit my body
Tracing the shapes of my ankles
With your fingertips
Massaging my toes
Following the curves of my hips
Kissing my eyes
And cupping my heart gently
I am in flight ... I am your messenger.
We are one. The radiant glow follows us
Light energy, a tribal dance,
A halo of flickering beauty
Blazing
A flame
Let us be beacons of light together
Fingertips touching, melding
Becoming one beating heart together
For all eternity
Elevating others around us in gratitude
From above in the silent air
I see a fire flickering in the darkness below
Shadows sway on the towering rock walls
A steady drumming in the distance
A drum of ancient hide
Thrumb - thrumb - thrumb
A father watching his newborn suckle at
Its Mother’s breast
A peace resides within
How glorious to be a piece, a part of, a fiber, a color
In this magnificent tapestry of life
That we have all woven together
I fly to the highest snow-covered peak with you and
Dive to the darkness on the ocean floor as
Mysteries reveal themselves
My tears are sweet with magic
And salty with memories
Of time gone by
You are my gift
My hands are warm
My heart is full
A silent smile fills my soul
And wraps me in its embrace
Because you’re a poet, that’s why
Behind the thick crimson and gold thread curtains
he stands listening to the din of the audience
searching their seats for popcorn crumbs
while roaming hands brush against the legs
of those sitting closest
The young girls get the winks
and free drinks as the old men
vie for position, straightening their hair
and flashing thick wallets
from stretched out back pockets
He peeks through the slit in the
fancy brocade drapes to find a full house,
everyone is here, the self imposed mayor
wearing a handmade campaign button
shakes hands and seeks signatures
Mrs. Broadmore assigns seats in her row
as the little people gather around, telling her
how beautiful she is while hoping for a glimpse
of the diamond crusted gin filled flask she keeps
tucked away in her left garter
The lights dim as the depressed sulk to their seats in the balcony,
broken hearts fill the back rows closest to the bar,
cheerleaders in pink lipstick and short skirts, the football team
all stoned out of their minds and the debate club collect in the center
while the pretty people, the wealthy pose in the front rows
He gets the signal as the curtain slowly lifts
to the ceiling on well oiled pulleys
There is not a sound as he makes his way
to the microphone at center stage, dead silence
but he reads his poem anyway
It is obvious he is no Leonard Cohen
but he does his best as he recites the verses
he has penned especially for this evening
Upon finishing he stares out as two people
clap their approval and the others whisper and look away
His shoulders drop as he leaves the stage,
head hung low, crumbling the paper he had read from
and tossing it in the trash as he wonders aloud, “Why, why do I do it?”
A janitor sweeping near the exit door hears him
and shaking his head replies, “Because you’re a poet, that’s why”
I reposted this poem because……..I like this one. : )
Stretched out on wing of weariness,
The total collapse of the flesh.
Arms and legs, limp and pitiless.
The world’s escarpments hurt..enmesh.
Come to me, says the one buried…
Who rose from the grave. Likewise grim,
With heaviness, her soul carried
To the foot of the cross…to Him.
The death bed’s a feather, so white.
Her guardian angel plucked from
her largesse…quintessence takes flight.
To heavy hearted, He says Come.
Decomposing in shallow grave,
But not so the soul…it is brave.
The mist swirls through the deep vale
shifting slowly and giving glimpses
of the lush vegetation and flowers.
Slowly it dissipates in dawn's sunlight.
Teasing as it lazily drifts
showing for a brief second
a colourful bank rife with flowers.
Then blankets it from sight.
As the day warms up
it appears to thicken
then yield oh so slowly.
Wisps of mist now fading.
Before our eyes lies
startling beauty.
Nature's riches displayed
a wealth of orange and yellow.
Pinks, purples and blues vie
each more beautiful
and lavish green trees
gently shade the saplings.
The Treasure of Nature's Canvas
is now stretched out before us
while the birds happily sing
as they rush to build their nests.
Insects buzz with joy as they collect
the pollen and nectar from flowers.
In this new spring day
life itself is reaffirmed.
(Even If You Are A Cat Person This Applies To You)
Dear Dogs,
When I say to move it means go someplace else, not switch positions with each other so there are still two dogs in the way.
The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food.
The other dishes are mine and contain my food.
Please note placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and my food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.
The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a race track.
Beating me to the bottom is not the object.
Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.
I cannot buy anything bigger than a king size bed.
I'm very sorry about this but do not think that I will continue to sleep on the couch to ensure your comfort.
Look at videos of dogs sleeping. They can actually curl up into a ball.
It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out with tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space used is nothing but doggie sarcasm.
My compact discs are not miniature frisbees.
For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom.
If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut it is not necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open.
I must exit through the same door I entered.
In addition, I have been using bathrooms for years;
canine attendance is not mandatory.
Lastly, the proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dogs butt.
I cannot stress this enough.
It would be such a simple change for you.
With Love,
Mom
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
never passed.
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
I Committed Suicide
I stretched out weary hands.
Melisa, who considered me
like a big brother, quickly ran away from me.
My heart writhed unto me;
I longed for a swig of water.
Noise danced, rumbled inside me in thunder.
But the whirlwind heard
the swoosh of the knife as my eyes blushed.
But why didn’t I die instead?
I placed the knife back
in my rusty pocket.
I recalled she told me,
“No, don’t kill yourself.”
“Stress is like chess;
either you play it, or it plays you.”
Vinegar boiled my blood,
though my bones
were hit by the daily rocks I ate.
My suicidal act was lured with its bait.
But why didn’t I die instead?
Swarms of flies consumed the skin of my throat.
My fleshes were allotted to stresses atop a fire.
My fur was tumbleweed and chaff before the wind blew.
My mouth became a thirsty land.
I turned blue. I cried sandy tears.
My ivory screams were smokes.
But why didn’t I die instead?
“Christo,” I heard as I reconsidered.
“Melisa bloodily committed suicide,”
an old man vociferated.
I fell to my knees.
The blood in my head was a rolling sea.
Reconsideration ebbed away.
I was a zebra running away from a lion’s teeth,
but in the lake, caught by the crocodile’s jaws of death.
My muscles fainted in decay.
My soul ran away from a fowler’s snare.
Wails went higher than an eagle’s wings.
But why didn’t I die instead?