Best Texture Poems
Pebbles in the stream
water carves their jagged skins
grinding them to smooth
time's current erodes all forms
each grain spilled feeds entropy
Age carves us rougher—
wrinkles, fissures, furrows spread,
chaos marks the skin;
it knurls the gnarled into grips
that drags daylight into night
For a rock, a tree
disorder unfolds; same way
each form cracked to dust
on path worn to final ash
as time decays, all texture
Laying on the floor beneath the window,
staring up at the painted plaster,
little cracks run
through the goosebumps in the paint.
I can read where the wall is hollow
where it is brick,
by running the tips of my nails across its gibberish braille.
In certain spots, the paint is almost smooth
and slightly darker,
polished by years of rough feet,
the action of the mattress
trying to remove the braille.
To the left there is a stain running down the wall.
It is easy to imagine a tomato slammed there
like a bird flying into a pane of glass,
and not breaking through, slid to the floor,
but the truth is, it was a can of soup,
the kind with a pop top,
unheated,
drunk straight from the can, that spilled and would not come clean.
It’s a topographical nightmare.
The terrain rises and slopes over small mountain ranges I wish everyday were freckles.
The landforms, shifting and rising with every glance in the mirror, they’re rough from years of scrubbing and
cleansing and
picking and
medication more destructive than effective. The landscape is mottled, it’s patchwork--
Lakes of oil next to avalanches of dead skin that flake to the floor. I leave a trail behind me. It’s ugly.
And I knew that from a young age.
Every “have you ever thought about popping them?” whispered in English class every “what’s on your face?” from my fellow seven-year-olds every “let’s go back to the doctor” softly demanded by my mother every “try another medication she still looks bad” that my grandmother knew I could hear.
They made sure I understood how repulsive I was.
They didn’t want me to forget.
Don’t get a big head. Then we’d have to see even more of you.
Stop thinking that
Pretty
is what you’re designed to be.
Snow-capped peaks stretch long shadows,
cropping the corners of lamp-lit valleys,
Stage to child-like haunts
and witness to forsaken cries;
They speak, as dreams, do
to the hidden, protected soul,
uncovering horrors unsecured
and fears realized, in solitude,
Dripping omniscient truth
frozen by day, light's serf,
but, in the master's absence,
rouses the ritual witch-dance,
which tickles my guilt,
boils my stew thoughts,
allowing demons to be affectionate.
Into myself, I welcome the dance.
Snow-capped peaks dim into shadows
as my lamp-lit nightmare ends
forsaken sobs are still like dreams
sleep cannot kill child-like haunts
A floor of dead rusted leaves rustle and crackle
Crunching their crisp skins dancing under my feet
Shuffling with sodden soil thick with grit - I grapple
With sticky dew grass and spongy peat
Alligatored tree bark grabs my hands then bites as I shamble
Holding on for balance on uneven chards of scalloped stone
Dazed by the cool dark mist in this early morning amble
I am rough shod but heart happy right down to my bones!
Age gnarls, weather beats skin to flaky dryness.
Wrinkles and lines, furrows, knots and blotches
Twist and contort the skin of babies and youths
to a knurled, rough, compliant easy to grip surface.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
Despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls and grumbles,
Can be gripped, manipulated and convinced to comply and yield.
For now there is little else to lose, little else to try anew.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to yield.
One day in my dream garden---behold bitter wires eating twisted snakes.
Of Scripture!
Oh! The blind text, Sire!
Leave it far
Stay free in this bar,
In living treasure.
Come and love frankly
Everyone and everything
For the sake of God
This world for you and for me
God created equally.
-October 14, 2018 Chittagong
Texture comes in ways
In paints, food, clouds or vocals
Seeing layer pays.
Taste truth
Prize proof
Charm curls
Head hurls
Heart hopes
Sculpts scope
Soul sights
Fond flight
Fond feel
Heart heals
Hear hurts
Bless birth
Sift still
Wise will
Last laugh
Sweet stuff
Face fear
Heart hears
Leon Enriquez
15 September 2019
Singapore
Nano nil glitch, stroke; flow lubed leach.'
Synch rich, stichless seamed.. interlocutional smooth streamed'
Formed by in-flow, tronic sensed
Fluid deep texture, by each slide'
No stroke denied, draw and thrust.'
Inspiration (less dust) sidling idling'
To form in a texture, of influx overflow.'
Slick up my sentances; an arrest-less go.'
A new tapestry, out-grows.)
A smorgasbord of tasty cheeses.
Different colours, textures and flavours to entice.
They're all so artfully displayed.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
The texture of those black out curtains,
a whistle that ruffles your hair.
Tickling all of your senses
with a shoulder massage.
Tossing and turning
rolling with the
cotton ghosts
through the
night.
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She told him she really loved him
and she knew he'd be an excellent partner
she worried about the bonds she shared between friends
one's she'd lose by them not wanting to be in the way
the one's who felt comfortable with and relied on
She from her own feelings was also scared that people would simply say
that those uncertainties in relationships
would cause gossip and were meant to unravel she and her partner.
Things spoken like she should have known better
like people have hindsight
or they wanted to marry like there are other
options. Married minded people marry: those how can get by without
commitment are fortunate.
People often wish these two types of people never meet,
due to the carelessness of creating an understanding were it's
perfectly find as long as were together. Without a commitment this is a foolish and unreal understanding.
An understanding that many people day to day have.
Ya'll know I aint leaving my wife for this.
He cool but I love my husband.
It is what it is and my Lover knows me.
It take two to Tango: but the band leader is something specials, this jives with the perfection of committed minded people.
We gonna go til we're through, I aint got no words to break-up a good thing.
From: The Bruised Ego
By: Writer Contempo
What a Lover Should Say
By: Writer Contempo
It's time means it's already past time
one day a babe in white satin cage
then, crow's feet and mahogany cane.
It's a two-hued day
within a Claude Monet sky
a little puff of gray
diamonds sitting softly
just beneath the clay.
Circles woven tighter
within each pulsing day.
They're fleeing us in clusters now
embers of this realm burn to powder
silver-haired orphans pushed to pray.
It's a two-textured day
amidst the robin's egg sky
little puffs of gray...
Diamonds whispering
just beneath the clay....
"weave me into your heart
before I drift away".