Best Thumbnail Poems
Midfall and nearly all the trees
Stand brown as broken sticks
Against a sky impossibly blue,
I in shirtsleeves a walking go
With love and longings as my companions
Kicking through the drifts of colored shards
Fallen with another Summer's stealthy fading
Feeling, marveling at this piece of heat
That dropped unnoticed from Her pocket.
I could believe today
In America untamed,
A place full of wild things and untamed peoples
A place where Spirit spreads
To ride the clouds
To sing its songs unhindered.
Nature has let down her locks today;
Who will look on her
To let themselves be consumed, entranced
By the beauty that lives on in spite of all our assaults -
Who will be distracted by the miracles we move through,
Feel the surge of the sea of life all around us,
Hear the whispered prayers
In the windsigh of the sleeping trees
Watch the sacred night come on
Announced by the rose glow behind the thumbnail moon -
Who will stand amid such things,
Yet not put aside for the moment
Those little cares we circumscribe our lives with,
To stand amazed to be here breathing,
Alive to feel how loving-close
Infinity holds us, claims us for its own;
Surely, not I alone.
I rest a hand on my sleeping child's chest;
Feel the heart fluttering beneath the skin;
I can sense a great wheel turning.
I wander out in the still warm darkness
That follows this day,
To look up at the starstrewn sky
See that great wheel begin its turning,
Stand amazed to be here breathing.
Stand, amazed to be.
it comes upon me
like the invasion of evening shadows
when silence surrounds me
and i realize i am alone with myself
and know i am poor company indeed
it comes as winds knife
through the ribs of mountain rocks
bringing the tall grasses to shiver
like the departure of lost souls
beneath the faint thumbnail moon
it comes with the misty breath of frost
closing the world beyond my window
teaching me of isolation
from the distant glow of lamps and candles
where lovers speak in gasps and whispers
from the distant creek comes the sound of water
rattling against stones like kittens lapping
and it comes upon me once again
this consuming sense that has no name
so i think i’ll call it “you”
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Should I crawl
Craven with some filigree foot
Hidden forever
In the shadows of my own
Innocuous phantom
To spend the hours
Amongst the esteem of cement and parchment
Courting the grains of sand
Clinging to the befuddled moss
And wondering on the prisms caught
In dew drops
The dust I think
This nighttime reminds me of
Once the stars were made of
And but for dreams
Would scratch onto rock
All that I was
Every smile
Every love
Nailed into this crumbling stalwart
And crunched on teeth
The stones of its food
Who
The light flickers
Who
As nothing answers
Save the rattle flicker
Of celluloid theatre
And on the image depicted
This vast and written me
In all those technicolours
Of a dream
Who
There on this silver pixel screen
It was a life
Now etched in thumbnail scrapes
Counting the seconds in
The years
The days
And but for dreams
Would I be scratched into brick
All that made me
That which I was
Every smile
Every love
Nailed with the sleepwalking palms
Stalwart crunching ever on the tooth
The stones
Of its food
Who
Who
Who there tiptoed through the ranks
Of sleeping angels
I know not the paint of your face nor the slang of your name
I know not the acoustic of your voice nor the creed before your knees
I know not the double of helixes taut beneath your skin
Nor do I know the furnace that keeps you earthen
But...
I know the hoofs in the sound of your heart
I know the miles in your stride
I know the walk you walk, the step you step.
I know the despairing blue of the waters you sail
The sea is songful and your sails spatter malevolence
Trauma picks her strings in the orchestral chime of your haggard vessel
Your efforts are a ripple that dies before lying head at shore
Canaries, squirrels and all; sip from the succulence of your effort
Your fruit rots, and falls devoid of ripe.
Your will is wilting; your gravity is shredding,
and worms of serene are dragging their bellies out of your field.
Your heart is a soulless harbour of tears; bereft of laughter
Where ships of despair lay anchor upon the lifeless hazel sands
And those of hope toddle away
The trolls living in caves of your cochlea whisper to you
And make believe the world can go on without you
Your heart is a tuber that pockets sugar, blood and vitriol
And fear glooms throughout its girth
Shuttlecocks fly, stars burn, flowers bloom, honeybees dance, birds sing, but humans---smile
Yet your lips are a two ply elastic, numb to stretch, plyed to wretch.
The waters of choice breathe and fins of hopelessness cast shadow upon the mollies of happiness
Choose life, choose happiness, choose to be human---live---smile
Your heart is muscle but a muzzle
Unstoppable, a thousand swords not
Iron your fist; leather your palm and let fingers kiss caress unto the trigger
Load your glock---cock; choose to be human---live
Should the wells of ammunition run barren---RELOAD!
Fit to screen the thumbnail and see the bigger picture
Sieve out the coarse of your options and remain with a universe more
Choose happiness, choose life, choose to be human---smile
Walk away from the frozen harbour of tears---live on
And catch up with the fleet of hope
In an uncertain half time
The sky spread silence
In drops of eternity where
Every cloud
Carries thumbnail dreams
In children’s arms
Full of butterflies.
Hardware
to spare
Software
quite bare
Firmware
full glare
Upload
bug sowed
Download
smart code
Cursor
fervour
Cyber
fibre
Password
absurd
Hard disc
at risk
windows
hellos
Wide screen
green scene
Hotspot
jackpot
Screen shot
rogue bot
Desktop
nonstop
Thumbnail
all hail
Clipart
from heart
Browser
dowser
Broadband
grandstand
Toolbar
gold star
Macro
steals show
Micro
back row
Wizard
not hard
Rich text
what next?
Template
create
Pixel
oh well
Sharp hack
attack
Portal
mortal
Mail merge
we purge
Dot-com
random
Systems
victims
Viral
tidal
Net world
unfurled
*** A DAISY TALE ***
A single, wild, tiny daisy
Less than a thumbnail in size, swaying side to side
In the slight, burning whiffs of a summer’s breeze,
Growing out from next to the house,
From the corner where the front and side
gray, stone walls of the house meet.
She climbs her way on out fron beneath a thick, brambly
Weed-Bush that is quite hell-bent on strangling
Any beauty growing in its proximity, and between
Whose many snappy twigs, the wild daisy had grown, sprouting
Her skinny stem up from the gravelly dirt, to rise, threading
Through the Weed Bush’s many twig limbs, until she cleared
Out above it, to be now taller than the house’s front stoop, onto
Which it takes three steps to stand. And, bobbing close to
Which she now gloried — near no others of her kind — alone —
With only five leaves sticking out from her stem
And showing off her golden center, smaller
Than the nail of a newborn baby’s pinky finger; leaves and flower angled
To face the sun: their light…her direction, in that moment,
Noon-centered overhead in the cerelean blue, July sky. Tiny, stalwart
Wild daisy, without fragrance (except perhaps to bees);
With her several minute white petals, sized
Like the absolute tips of toothpicks. The eptome of dainty.
Delicate, delightful. Perfect for a child’s braided
Daisy chain, if only there were more there of her;
Or a lovely pick for a dining table bouquet centerpiece
If only she were very, very much larger…Still,
She’d reached her fated height, standing proudly straight,
Just beyond the shadows laying across the yard,
Showing the peaks of some nearby giant pines,
Who always joined with her to hum Mother Nature’s dusk lullabies
While the listening heavens smiled.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
This is a Narrative poem form, (with the daisy possibly
being a metaphor for someone you know?)
(c) sally young eslinger 6/19/2023
Thanks be to God
Eight weeks ago,
my daddy's sperm
connected with Mommy's egg.
A miracle explosion of living energy;
molecules merged,
cells divided, multiplied, took form.
My heart beats,
my limbs move,
and although I cannot yet see,
my ears hear, and I feel pain.
Smaller than my daddy's
thumbnail, is the size
of my perfectly formed little feet.
Someday, they will carry me
across green grass, through cool water
and over burning sand.
But only if I live to term.
© Faye Adams 1/20/2009
It’s been a while since I’ve had this feeling in my chest
Or had someone constantly on my mind.
Like a song you constantly sing
Because it helps you get through the day
I keep singing about what she did or said
That allowed her to somehow find her way into my heart.
Perhaps it’s her voice
She sounds like an angel that fell from heaven
Injured her vocal cords on impact
And is trying to find her voice.
Maybe it’s the way her cheeks curl up when she smiles?
Or the way she looks at me?
Seeing right through me leveling me with her eyes.
One thing is sure—god didn’t
Waste a single inch
When he made her.
She walked into the room,
And my hearts been stalling.
She took my hand and lead me
Back to a time when I was unbroken.
We danced in the night.
The loud music began to simmer
And it felt like time slowed.
Just kiss her
I told myself.
Our faces moved closer together
Her eyes starred into mine
Her cheeks began to curl as if she discovered
something special.
I put my thumbnail to the bottom
Of her chin,
She raised her heels off the ground.
A blissful kiss.
Finally, what I’ve been wanting was in my arms.
We both have been broken,
but when we were together
Our broken pieces seemed to fit together.
My hearts been broken
and it’s been whole.
Dreams of you and me
Constantly playing in my mind
Dirty dancing in the dark.
Traveling the world
There seemed nothing we couldn’t do.
She gave me attention
gave me hope.
I gave her all of me,
But she found something new…
See love is a game,
And like anything else in life it will end.
You will either win or lose.
When you lose, it will hurt.
A broken heart is one of the worst feelings in the world
Because something you wanted, loved, and invested time into
is no longer possible.
BUT
there’s always tomorrow.
There are always positives to take away.
Focus on them.
The right one will come
Just be patient.
Enjoy the game,
be grateful for the memories and the opportunity
because love is one complex mother f*****.
Trepidation
Meandering through parallel dreams
Sunlight reflecting off sheer cliff
Stonewalled direction of ever river
Flowing onward through time.
Thumbnail scrapes old paint
Where generations of varsol coffee cups
Loosen the hold easily
Bubble and peel
Ripped vinyl booth bench
Duct taped
In true Canadian style.
Grey. And blue.
You watched me
Raptor eyes caught every nuance
That rippled across
But I was never afraid to meet those eyes
Got some of my own
Flown to the sun and back
You did not lack character
Granite cliff
I’ll grant you that
Braids black enough still
Grey came late to you
Like wisdom
Same denim vest I remembered
Doesn’t button over fry bread belly anymore
But the smirk is the same
I dare you
That mouth said in silence.
And I wondered if it remembered the taste of me
All those years ago
When I took that dare.
Just passing through
Like I always am
I get up to leave
And am surprised
To see the disappointment on your face
And the answering echo in my own heart.
“You got a wife and kids now” I reminded you.
“I did back then too, just never told you.
I’m being honest now.”
Highway winds through rock cut
Blasted out of proportion
So the loggers
Could make it home safe.
4 lanes now in some places,
Making way for the tourists,
Like me
All I write is him
His eyes that bloom like April
As we print ourselves in sand
The serifs that trail from every word
Fallen feathers at our feet
The nights-
When we were more than naked
We were transparent
I could feel each rib against mine
See right into the core of his chest
A pulsating brass mirror
I write him
And I fold him into fiction
Furiously sharpen the seams
Thumbnail pushing paper
Just Nouns loving verbs, I say
Just nouns loving verbs.
A small cameo rests inside a velvet-lined chest
Its latch broken, there’s a faded picture inside,
A thumbnail-sized sketch of her handsome best
Has rested inside it since Great-Grandpa died.
Her cameo’s been treasured through the years
Passed through generations with loving care,
Which once was handled through flowing tears
Now is a shrine, revered with a lock of her hair.
Once it hung on a silver chain around her neck,
We occasionally saw her gently fondle it there
As she spoke of her lover, she gave it a peck,
Placing the lock of her braid with a loving flair.
Grandpa gave it to her on their wedding day
An extra special reminder of their marital bliss
It was something special, a family heirloom
Occasionally, I saw my mother give it a kiss.
The broken locket, a gift from a loving groom,
Merits a special honored place in my bedroom.
[The Broken Locket]
FOURTH PLACE WINNER
Written June 22, 2022
Submitted to “One of Five” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
amphibian
family ranidae
as tadpole dart&play
then losing gills& tail
metamorphosed
frog-thumbnail
one to our small
pond arrived
leaped& to the bottom
dived
so friendly so tame
Freddie
became his name
never sure why he
chose our place
to sejourn
his summer base
mornings sleeping
'neath the reeds
siesta in sublazed weeds
by night
dining on slugs&snails
by dawn
back without fail
when summer
drew to a close
hibernating
somewhere near
in dormant pose