Best Throttles Poems
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
~Marionette Master~
All my dreams evolve around my wooden floor
Candles and clowns the show must go on
~~~~
The Moon slowly moves its way into my room
Dust pushes through my window making shadow puppets on my walls
The talent on my walls dance, scaring my sweet dreams away
No cradle-songs tonight
Dangling artisans’ fingertips scratching down my core
Exquisite observation, an alley down “Death Street.”
Panic rattles my bone,
Stuttering a taste of ma' ma' ma' mama' off my lips
Grandfather clock ticks with every pull of the string
Invisible jellyfish puppets swaying their feelers that sting my site
A superior skill eating away at my fear
I can’t breathe,
I can’t move,
It dangles!
What can I do?
Carved Marionette figures locked in my head
A game in which trickery and deception are the main events
Staged with an evil sinister mask, sanctioning my nightmares.
No one to rescue me from the danger of this bedside playground.
The puppeteer engages to provoke me with my own dolls.
A dramatic performance throttles my mind …….
I cannot come out from under my blanket,
I cannot run,
My hands cannot reach the circus print lampshades!
A shadow show played in slow motion!!!
Realizing the moon can pull a world of strings with its own light
***
Suddenly, boney fingers from the sunrise show me the way…
I look down until my toes touch the cold wooden floor
I creep and creep,
Then I flick on my lamp.
The purple walls swallowed the orgy drawing inspired by the mooned night
A huge diversity of graphic illusions of puppetry in my room vanishes in one click
Mother please no more Pinocchio in my lullabies! ;-)
My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
......And he knows it.
His PJ's had that
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!
Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.
It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
.......A GREAT MORNING
John G. Lawless
2/15/2021
In the center of a fresh pageant,
she throttles like a mythical woman
quick to dance among open flowers,
whirling like a hundred stars
with curves round and breasts oyster pink
as the trees, ovules, candles in her eyes
open the fingertips of near April.
Wild tempo vibrates on wispy notes,
until eyes of fire melt nightfall's brew...
for primal and young is this Aries goddess
holding a voile skirt that lifts
into a twirl while the moon
hangs like a violin... eager to wing
this lady's reggae jigs
drifting on brocade of her springtime arms:
And if every detail of lace in a gown
can be sewn in the light touching her flesh ,
this she shall bring too... this near April debut.
Contest: Your best poem in the last year
Sponsor: Silent One
Written 3/6/2017 Re-submitted 2/5/2018
In froths of a sky never ever ending,
she throttles like a half—shelled woman
slow to prance in the midst
of obedient breeze,
her movement wrapped
like a hundred cider vines...
How orange are her nights.
This hue burnt by sways
of corrugated leaves ; a crown
adorned with pearlized sequins
turning tangerine in kaleidoscopic
swirls of atumnal hues, this drift of
charmed elegance only fall can muster.
Seasonal Bliss Contest, Regina Riddle
I listen to whimpers as duskfall nears
Finding a gangly waif rile from burnt skin;
My feet throttles along…his grin appears
With palm half-filled with dimes circling therein.
We talk warmly about this waif's despair
Of how prayers- heal abating such plight--
As he shares moist wheat-bread in hours that bear
A street child’s gentle spirit… on etch of night
Gazing far I see the boy wave his arm
As if to echo our words that console :
But from heart’s pit, he enkindles a charm
Restoring my sense of kindness… now whole.
*
3rd place
NA- Re-run 7 Contest of John Hamilton
Originally Written 6/9/2020
Judged 6/9/2020 Re-submitted 6/14/2020
The Big Race
I qualified for the big race in May; my odds to win were long,
They knew I couldn’t win, but I had to run strong.
By lap fifty, I’ve moved up to position ten,
It’s a very long race, but I still felt I could win.
I’m about out of gas, so it’s time to stop,
Quickly down pit row, to get every last drop.
A sip of water, only thirteen seconds in the pit,
I came back on the track, knowing I could win it.
I’m at lap 200 and have a good position,
This race has become a war of attrition.
Next up is number 88; I’ll take him in the turn,
Getting pass Jr. is something I’ll have to earn.
He throttles down, now we’re nose to nose,
I fly by on the inside as this battle really grows.
Into third place at the half way point,
I was so excited, I could feel it in every joint.
We all have to make a stop, so I head back to pit row,
A tremendous five car pile up has made the going slow.
We are under a caution flag as we circle this oval track,
This is an excellent time for me to get water and a little snack.
Gordon in the 24 car is next in line,
I must take him and Edwards in his 99.
At the 550 lap, I pass Gordon at last,
Then I got word from my crew, “You’re low on gas.”
At the 560 lap, Edwards is still the car to beat,
I told my crew “I can win this race, hang on to your seat.”
I came up behind Edwards and went high on the right,
When I came out the other side; I was number one, what a sight.
I drove like a madman the rest of the race,
The crew was calling me their number one ace.
Then I woke up and I really wondered,
Did I just win the Coca Cola 600?
©2008 Lynn B Glover
The weightless float of morn throttles
like a softly-bathed woman: white, tangy and bubbling
with a sprig of mint and dew;
petals’ chests opening a gate of chastity, undressed.
A path of upturned twigs rips free and slides along veils
of bridal mist; misty in a way leaves become pastel
strands ; where footprints of grasses become delicate
as it is daring , calling forth my name,Eos...Eos.
Brocades of lace robe my wind—a breaking moment
for these flushed arms to sprinkle the pour of studded foliage
cradling morning's wake...soon,new lovers play
the choral flute bearing freshly-wed fruits: the smell
of earthy breeze drifts upon my mantle of humid, winged caves.
Gently daylight wakes, as I, Goddess of light and dawn
open the first rose shimmering ' neath my tapestry
weightlessly white, no one dares to speak.
Who Are You Contest
Pearl, you are a diamond
I guess she always knew it.
A proper little helper,
helping through and through it.
She never gives a cheerio
or leaving like a plane.
She's always there to scatter sunshine
Even in the rain.
Pearl, you are a diamond
That no one can replace,
Chocking back the throttles
Just like a necker-lace.
Elmo Elmo was an elephant seller
He kept a white elephant in the cellar
He swigged all the bottles
Down a hundred throttles
And was turned into a big screw propeller
Elmo Elmo (C) rajat kanti chakrabarty
2014
A girl was raped in a bus that night
By six men, all drunk, who had lost their minds
Ambrosia was the elixir of gods, it is said
But godlike men in this age aren’t born or made
Alcohol wrecks judgment, makes beasts out of men
Deeds under its influence have put us men to shame
Shops abound in our nation where alcohol is sold
The government till overflows when the weather turns cold
A corrupt force is tasked to uphold the country’s law
Incidents occurring on a daily basis expose this basic flaw
Fear of law is no deterrent for miscreants and crooks
The police prefer to look away; with them, they are in cahoots
But a girl still battles death today aided by a ventilator
Skewered with an iron rod that night, unending was her horror
Demonstrations against this shame were met with brutal force
Citizens showing solidarity were bludgeoned without remorse
The hand that wields the baton to protect civil society
Is now the hand that throttles free voice and liberty
Bad governance, we know is the bane of any nation
Bad policing and lawlessness is responsible for any country’s degeneration
Instead of upholding law and maintaining order
Law enforcers are subdued by their political masters
Whose lack of will to rein in the force given selfish political aspirations
Stems from a sense of indebtedness for furthering their ambitions
Burning state fuel at night they stalk and chase prey
Fleecing shady truckers and wheeler-dealers who operate in markets grey
This extortion by night on city road and state highway
Robs the state of much needed revenue and is an add-on to their pay
Similar incidents happen each day of the year and night
In night’s anonymous darkness or blatantly by daylight
With the force preoccupied in matters so vital
Who will protect our girls and control the crime spiral
The government of the day is callous to people’s concerns
Callous to a daughter’s fate on whom men on a bus took turns
The motorcycle rooooooooared~~~~~
Like a ravenous lion
Over fresh kill, prancing, charging, pacing
It
Moved through the hoard
Of migrating tourists, frightening the tamer
More passive vagabonds
Lumbering
Forward
On cruise-control
The nameless helmeted driver
Melded with his machine,
Head down. Spine arched,
arms extended on the throttles~~
Blue-jeaned thighs embrace the chasse
A lovers grip..
His forward charge parted the air
A back draft peeled the Harley black T-shirt from
His winter-white skin.
Spring had arrived late to New England.
Better late than never,
The road hog squealed
Sex merely a throbbing growl away
As our lance less Lothario leaves
His own testosterone trail
In an asphalt hail
On the road north.
The lion hisses a roar in the farm,
as the chirps of the cat rents the air,
a hound slithers into den of the sheep,
the morning comes darkness is in the air,
The children work parents play in the garden
the goats are barking as the chicken are milked
the cows scatter as the farmer picks their eggs
For the farm is clean and the floor a mirrors reflection
The wolfs meow is heard from the distance
Tension rents the household as children's cluck about
The farmers hooves are heard as the cars heart throttles
Lions courage is felt in the chicken as he bows his shot gun
A chase ventures to the early morning of the evening
Brave hearts lead the wolf into the dark creepy farm of forest
Light fills the void the farmers see not what he wants in the darkness
Yet this is another day in the life of a farmers behavioral family habits
As she mounts a wagon with few treasures, my middle-aged aunt begins to paint sketches of fields running like her summer skirt, of lush grasses traipsing with autumnal breezes. Still elegant under a dying moon, her fingers reach out to a hum of mist, owning new dreams... her own solitary dreams for now.
alone and quiet
like chilled dew, she lies quiet---
watching new buds sprout
So I tug at her robe feeling the icy scent of a woman’s nostalgia, gently weaving through this moistened fabric. She throttles on with refreshed grace and vigor as we pass the city bridge, drowned by a luster of stars.
April greets new hours
ushering bright of springtime—
while old flakes depart
--------------
EARLY JULY PREMIERE CONTEST
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The calamity on the leaders of the dynasty was very heavy.
Drona, Bhishma, Arjuna, all faded, all getting sad,
A Suyodhana rose, speaking, 'Veer! Well done!'
He again challenged Parth (Arjun) for a duel,
The Guru hinted at Arjun to remain silent.
Kripacharya said- 'Listen, heroic unknown young man'
Arjuna is the child of Bharata-dynasty-Avatans Pandu.
'It is a Kshatriya, it is a Rajput, who will not fight like this,
How would one jump into the melee?
If you want to fight with Arjun, do not go silent in the gathering
Say something, tell me who are you? '
'Caste! Oh caste! Karna's heart throttles,
Looking at the enraged Sun, he spoke with heroic anger
'Caste-caste rites, whose capital is only heresy,
What should I know? These are my arms.
'Kanak-chhatra on the head above, black-within-black,
Don't be shy about asking people in the world.
I am a sutraputra, but who was father Parth?
Say courage, do not remain silent in guilt.
'You raise the head, you take the name of the caste,
But, with the power of unrighteous exploitation, you thrive in happiness.
Your soul trembled with the half-castes,
You ask for the donation of thumb by deception.