Best Tight Lipped Poems
Hall of Silent Women
in valhala
in a far corner
of this martial paradise
is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy iron door
these words are faintly inscribed
“ the war department
regrets to inform you
that your son……
has been killed
in action, in defence of……”
women
silent
row upon row
straight backed, tight lipped, blank eyed
their amputated anger melting hearts
while words swift shot pierces soul
women
from life first stirrings
through vaulted cave to clapboard ranch
crouched sweating over birthing pit
to numbed white linen labour
in their pain and joy shudders steel shod feet
march through the womb.
women
ancient cauldrons
endless source of armoury
kept tongueless
then given tongue to teach
man made words
toy soldiers bleed rust.
in valhala
indeed in every martial paradise
there is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy door
words are faintly inscribed…
Staring in the mirror when I'm down with these scissors I found.
With my wrists out and prescription lids littered around.
I've scribbled out a bitter letter in wicked accounts and written down twisted sentences in crimson.
I drown in no bounds it got me tripping out grouchy for outlets.
Now my hound pulls at my trousers.
When I'm face down drowsy with a mouth full of downers.
I'm pale looking clownish.
I ain't clowning around, see my self esteem floundering.
Out for the count as hells demons seen prowling around me proudly twisting and dancing entrancing.
Slipping away fast last vision left glancing enhanced with a mixture of doubt.
Knowing there's no one to laugh with and be found here alone with a sinister frown.
I've got to get out.
Haunted in this mysterious house that time forgot.
A place where damp rises and shrouded in all types of moss and lichen, rotting with the slime from condensation.
A sodden formed Forrest where I'm under sedation.
A clock work decision I watch myself gazing transfixed on my mission across amazing mazes.
As dreams fade into sight I stay silently praying.
Embracing the night watching day light escaping.
Remain in this safe haven I'm taken away safely remaining unshaken, grey and unshaven, eight shades of my aura shadows the ravens.
The creature with talons and the beak of eagle seen clutching a talisman to defeat it's evil.
I see through people. Phycic and tight lipped.
Leaving hindsight to guide you through life is wisest.
Am I dying or buying my time in this crises like I'm finally deep in abyss.
Analysing my past thinking did I even exist.
Forever with bliss since I slipped away tearful
Surviving myself I won't ever be fearfully trapped in this labyrinth with Pan and he knows me ghostly he came close cosey and held me closely through apocalypse start dropping atom bombs not stopping Babylon.
God got him banished like exhiled angels deep into faranheit heat like my minds a scotch bonnet.
The child of the scorch trials in the maze at night.
Was made strict then was bitten by count
Dracula.
Come the blood sucker parasite cancerous spanning round my brain like the legs of a tarantula.
Tendrils gargantuan.
Attaching the canula straight from the ambulance.
Inserting the catheter.
Wired like capacitors.
Body kept alive with 240 volt adaptors.
The base camp was my youth
I stood alone, ill-equipped, looking up.
The challenge before me, gullies filled with tangled unknowns
and sharp lessons.
My guides had abandoned me, left, tight lipped
no map, no promise
little hope
and so I started my ascent,
faltering, stumbling, tightly gripping
any friendships I could find,
skinning my knees on setbacks as ages passed
until I found myself peering over the summit,
elated.
But in the distance
oh God.................
another mountain
and at its base
another me
For contest 'Mountains', sponsor Julia Ward
The children that played
On the stairwell that night
Were giggling and laughing
At their little friend’s fright
For while they were jumping
And playing on beds
She walked down the stairwell
Alone; then she fled.
She knew that she heard it.
The sound was quite clear.
Only she on the stairs
Along with her fears –
No one believed her.
They laughed; and she sighed.
Then, ran to their mother.
And told her wide-eyed.
The mother said softly.
There’s no need to fear.
The ghosts in this house
Are not real, little dear.
When at last she was calm
And went back up to play.
The children were ready
There were pranks on that day.
Upstairs in their bedroom
The lamplight was on
The window was open.
The breezes wafted by.
A Barbie doll taped
In the lamp by her hips –
The other girls giggled
Each one smirked tight-lipped.
When back with the others
They were jumping on beds.
Soon huddled together,
They pointed with dread.
The curtains were moving.
Subtle puffs of the wind.
Shadows on sheers swaying,
“We saw a ghost, there!”
She swore as she screamed,
I’ll never come back!”
“This place is haunted
And that is a fact.
No adult reassuring
Could undo her fright.
She stayed awake and watched
To the other girls’ delight –
When the party was over,
The children went home.
The others still laughing
About the joke of the night –
It was three years later
In the darkness of night,
I walked down the steps
And had the same fright!
Shhhhh!
Happy Halloween.
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
October 24, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest Ghost Stories
Sponsor Kelly Deschler
Grandpa was a Bowie.
A tight-lipped protestant Ulsterman
who drifted into the Poblacht na hÉireann
in search of a cure for his cold heart.
His thin lips wed a soft Catholic girl.
He joined the Garda Síochána settling down
to breed Kerry Blue’s. After he retired, he still
wore his uniform, his neck as stiff as ever.
Grandma wrote letters to the Pope
begging for Papal forgiveness
for her heathen husband.
I have not been to Hidalgo County,
but if I were one day to go, I might try
to convince the Daughters of the Alamo
of my credentials to be worshiped
in a mild, concessionary way.
A complimentary burger, a free pass
to the museum, a photograph
of myself brandishing a big knife
at a picture of Generalissimo Santa Anna
that would suffice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poblacht na hÉireann" = Republic of Ireland (Éire).
"Ulster' (Northern Ireland).
"Garda Síochána" Is the Police Force of the Republic of Ireland.
Walking on eggshells
Tight lipped
Uncertain of every word spoken
Least the tempest
Will be released
Roaring
Waves splashing
Wind storm blowing
Boat rocking
Turquoise water falling
Aimed for shore
Making no headway
Two feet forward
Three feet back
Capsizing imminent
Apocalyptical
Which way will it end
Will there be a future
If I wrangle in emotions
And keep a chain on tongue
Nothing can harm
Wherein there lies
The Holy Spirit
Who my strength
Provides
Always remember
Like in the song of old
Peace, be still
Peace, be still
Peace, peace be still!
finis'
Steely-eyed
tight-lipped
she mouthed the words
'It's over'
twice,
so they'd sink in all the way
no tear in her eye
nor gulp in her throat
guarding her pounding heart
as she cleaved his
in two
Through tinted glass, I see cars have lined up outside, like a java-thirsty snake who waits to strike at the employee working the drive-through window.
I take a last dreg of coffee, then vacate the table for another caffeine addict to indulge in some dark-roast creation, while reaching into my purse for keys. Someone touches my shoulder and I turn.
Out of aromatic filled haze, her soft voice speaks into my ear, using my maiden name, which seems foreign to my own ears. It comes as a riddle, with question mark at the end, as if it were floating inside a bubble.
dust motes mingle with
the steam of French roast coffee....
someone drops a spoon
She slips into the empty place across from me, and I see familiar, but strikingly older, hazelnut eyes. They hold something unsettling, sad and seem peppered with weight. But she shows me a wan smile buried in a sea of nerves. She was an old friend, a good chum. How long has it been?
Just as I am about suggest a plan, a date to meet for lunch, she's running late, and must hurry, and has started closing the gate again.
espresso ripples
with element of surprise ....
an old acquaintance
We walk out together, ... I open the door for her, while she carries two capped coffees, and starts to head across the lot. We say a quick goodbye, I take care not to spill her load, as I gently hug her goodbye. She walks away in a rush, climbing into faded red truck. An unsmiling tight-lipped man , reaches over to the inside latch to open the door, that seems to be missing a handle on the outside. I hear a harsh, husky voice ask "What took so long?",.. loud enough that a few people glance their way. She smiles weakly, and doesn't look back to say goodbye.
under old tires
leaves are crushed into small bits...
a whirlwind of dust
my cell phone vibrates
someone misses me from home ....
sun breaks through the clouds
_________________
11/2/15 For Contest: Creative Haibuns
Sponsor Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Night!
Midnight!
Dark midnight!
My world, tight-lipped,
awed by your tightness;
stars, blind in the clouds,
creatures crept, no footfalls.
Hushed, I craned: will I see the
morrow? Crawl past the burrow?
Will my fond desires eye the light,
new dawn? I winced from the pang,
shoulders hunched, head on sweaty
palms, gazing at space for an insight,
groping for a ray of light to think right;
to pry into my future. But for the pain!
Then, trees stirred, branches swayed
awake sleeping leaves; they winked,
the leaves waved while wind sighed.
I jerked, my eyes popped up at a
distant dot. A ray of white light
peeped from the dark folds.
I stared as a ball formed,
growing, blurred halo,
like stained glass of
a clerestory window.
A midnight rainbow!
I heard myself: Light! ...
Then, a bang: A new dawn
smiled, nestling in my bosom.
© 2014
MOUNTAINSIDE
Always, there would be darkness hovering through-
out the bushes and trees, massive sky and earthen ground
he tiptoed upon in shoeless stealth, machine gun slung
over one shoulder and, strapped across the other,
a leather pouch holding coded messages he delivered
encampment to encampment, their locations razor-sharp
in his 11 year old brain, in a body tall enough to be
mistaken for older. Tall enough to be made a Partisan —
a courier, and down the road, likely qualifying as
a full-blown saboteur targeting Germans and the war
machinery they were transporting through Yugoslavia’s
Mosor mountain villages.
(German soldiers, who, if they’d caught him, a Jew,
& partisan, to boot, would surely have beaten him
to death extracting every bit of information they could.)
Upon each return to his farmhouse refuge, the
communications he’d been charged with having been
delivered hours before and miles away,
the fear he’d braved began melting away. And,
in the moments it took him to hang up his courier bag
and machine gun, he felt ready for the evening meal
of pit-roasted mutton and stone-ground bread
washed down with goat’s milk. Then, a foot soak
(weekly, a full-body scrub), followed by deep sleep,
in a basement below a trap door — a peasant woman’s
woven blankets softening the wooden floor boards
and his heart. And when that heart rejoiced with freedom
in ’45, at 13 years old, is truly when he understood why
he detested the taste of lamb, no matter how gourmet
the preparation offered the boy he once was —
the boy who’d put meat back on his bones in Brooklyn,
and the gastronome he’s become — a content 82 year old
grateful for his hero Tito and the fact that he’s managed
to keep his Hitler-torn past safely locked away
in a tight-lipped box, he rarely chooses to open.
the seahorses grazed in a field undersea
the jellyfish wobbled at the party
the starfish in their constellations went
the clams secretive tight lipped and silent
the hammerhead sharks did the DIY
the clown fish entertained as they swam by
the plankton ruled undersea in their gangs
the octopuses spent too long shaking hands
the crabs on the side their day they spent
the lobsters approached in a pincer movement
the sea urchins loitered dishevelled and poor
while the oysters enjoyed everything and all
A lonely forlorn figure stands, shoulders slumped, life's energy sapped. A Face much older than the years, looks up at the arrival board, delayed not coming, lost walks in a daze, a mind crash too! Called to a meeting they all file in, media in a frenzy.
A zillion cameras flash, she hears the words the flight is missing, thinks of the pain when he was born, and the joy as she first held him to her breast. A room full of love, he grew so quick from infant to toddler, and high school student. She watched over him as only a mother can do. It was only a holiday trip, his dream.
Now the lites of the cameras flash, experts talk of this and that, transponders turned off, plane way off course. She holds the feeling with in, stands with hand in air, every one looks at her silent dignified despair. The Prime Minister says, "Yes, Mam!" The room so silent now, a voice only a child could know filled the room every one taken a back. "Please Sir, do you best, remember me today he is only nineteen and all that I have not a passenger or member of the crew, and for all mothers I speak, not passengers or crew but some one loved, just like your mother loves you!"
With that she turned as a zillion camera lights flashed, as she slowly made her way from the room, no answer expected in her heart she knew, never to see the smile squeal of toddler delight all that makes a mothers life.
Aircraft missing, transponders turned off, media circus now in flight, questions to her from left and right, tight lipped she remained, walks slowly on, thinks five or ten years from now, yesterday's headlines forgotten and gone, but in her mind only nineteen and gone...
On drowsy hamlets mobile hordes descend,
From tight-lipped forests rises a babel.
Wanderlust is to distant wonders sent,
As fleets of long-haul birds skyward rumble.
Where massed footprints to virgin lands extend,
And sights are packaged for all to sample,
Coy beauties in nature’s bosom held dear
From between heaven and earth disappear.
I was once misfortuned with being called a tool
by a man who believed I was most often the fool.
By a soul who only ever acted on his own behalf
I was told that I'm often used, simply do the math.
I played along with his insult as it was meant to be
by showing mock indignation at this thing he said to me.
I gave him then a ponderous look, and then I dully said...
"yes, but am I a useful tool? or am I broken then instead?"
He huffed and gave me a look, "you know what I meant"
Responded I, "I bet I'm new. not broken, worn or bent!"
He ignored me for the moment, his annoyance was clear.
"maybe I'm a cracker for nuts! A bottle opener for beer!?"
"Or yes! a wrench used for nuts, bolts, pipe fittings or more..."
He glared at my next words, "hopefully not from a dollar store"
I nudged him then, smiled some, "oh don't get all mud stuck"
"Hey! what if I'm chains or a tow-rope.. pull you out with any luck."
In his impatience, he yelled, "STOP!" He was looking rather mad.
I left it alone, got tight lipped, but oh what fun I just had.
Stop myself? "Ha!" I blurted then "I'm wily in my crafts"
"If I'm a tool then so are you, I'm using you for laughs"
ive been quiet to long i need to be vocal
need a magic telescope i can see hope thru
while i remain drug free and teetotal
a blade is sumthin i need to be close to
self harmin since bein a teenager
ill never let my dreams fade
people stare at my scarres like there lookin at there favourite screensaver
put my heart in every lyric on each page
i know its as bad as my moms drinkin and brothers drug taking
but when you go home you have a hug watin
i never expected no one to luv me
sumtimes i wish sumone would hug me
they say home is where the heart is
alone is where the dark is
if i had a better childhood would i be able to trust more openly
would i speak my mind without first puttin it in a book of poetry
would i push more hopfully
look for love more vocally
more ups and downs than a light switch
why should i be tight lipped
ive been searchin and not findin
workin and still climbin
i dont need an advocate
this is real talk call me the white fabolous
im cleanin out my closet
like my idol eminem
paintin a paicture u should screen it out and watch it
ill share my views before i give my pen 2 them
they will try and paint me as the bad guy
but aint seen the world thru my eyes
2 months after my dad died
my best friend commited suicide
6 months ago was the last time i self harmed
and it seems like a life time
instead of usin a blade i pick up a pen
and follow my dream of bein a rapper so i write rhymes
behind every dark cloud theres a silver linin
you have to have the will 2 find it
lifes short u need a passion or dream to fill the time in
2 get to the top it may take a while
be strong and dont let anyone break your smile