Best Tine Poems
He stands against the old barn door
relaxed not a confrontational bone,
thin as a pitchfork's tine.
Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter,
the lens flatters him.
A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse
halo to his lantern-jaw.
Loose fitting pants rumple
just right atop his kick ass boots.
He stands against an old barn door
who held up who the real question—
a bit of James Dean in pocket pressed hands,
Paul Newman in his eyes.
Flannel hugs him. (When the woman aren’t.)
Capped by a bent brimmed hat,
he's rolled to perfection.
I’m sure the name tag on his shirt
didn’t do him justice—
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Raging, inviting. Inscrutable ice
King Neptune's daughter, her moods are water
You won't dive into the same ocean twice
She'll make you think it's your net that has caught her
Catch and release is her patent device
Wives tales have brought her whales to the slaughter
You'll receive notice of your sacrifice
on paper she folds into boats at high tide
Each kiss that she blows grows to gale at shoreline
She weighs on the scale that you chose to define
She's the grate of the sand. She's the dock. She's the bank
She will wait on dry land and watch you walk the plank
In their wake, sharks leave trails with their fins in the brine
but the trident that pins you makes marks you can't find
and impaled, you give in to each heartbreaking tine
yet forget every time that you sank
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Lagn mhanje kay asat? Tyachya manatil vicharanche, tichya cheharyavarch pratibimb asat!
Tichya prashna adhi tyach uttar tayar asat!"
"Lagan mhanje kay asat? Tine chaha kela tari tyala sarbat hav asat, tyane gajra anala ki, nemke tila phul hav asat!"
"Lagna mhanje kay asat? Tyachya befikirikarita tichya janivanch kondan asat, tyachya chukana tichya padaranch panghrun asat!"
"Lagna mhanje kay asat? Kadhi samzota tar kadhi bhandan asat, toh chidla tari tine shant rahaych asat, cupatlya vadalala chahasobat sampavaych asat!"
"Lagna mhanje kay asat? Premach te bandhan asat, kadhi doan mananch milan asat, tar kadhi doan jivanch bhandan asat!"
"Lagna mhanje kay asat? Gharach gharpan asat, ekane viskatle tarihi dusryane te savraych asat,vidhyatyla padlele te ek sunder swapn asat ........!"
The glitter of everlasting Adamantine the tower of sunlight does
not exceed its grandeur of brilliance.
One of a variety immovable monument of stones thus stands its
ability radiating from a white throne within the city of God.
We shall see streets of gold as a city, a bride, adorned for her husband.
Through twelve gates, we shall trod, on twelve foundations so holds
four square, forty and four cubits, city streets of pure gold…
liken to clear glass.
The appeal is ethics natural beauty beyond measure, a Father’s desire
to relate to the children of his pasture, the brilliance of a Son’s love.
O` Adamantine of pure virgin, thy heart’s activity, bestow on me think
again, with love’s brilliant character.
For no glitter, of worldly adaptations of parasitic ego shall exceed the
fixed sparkle of thy legal resources. Come hither, Thy holy glory, Thy
Adamantine supreme, beam across the earthly machine, to the human
minds of the gutter, so confident thy chaste outshining glitter.
O` Adamantine, O Creator thy seed distinguished may I take a walk
upon streets of gold in my new home. Manifest unto open eyes as to
thy principles of press exposed new consciousness in the area in which
I live. Apply appropriate align, outshine thus the rays of the sun for
adamantine forever is author, develop a replenish.
==============================
Sponsor Nette Onclaud Contest Name GLOW OF GLITTER
By John Moses Freeman
ad·a·man·tine
Definition of ADAMANTINE
: rigidly firm : unyielding
These are scientifically proven and believed to be the very microscopic
building blocks of all mass. God particles are paranormal physical
evidence of God’s body of Spirit. One’s natural eyes can see
the glitter of these particles everywhere in masses of trillions
once one’s eyes are trained to see them.
FOR SUSANNE
I came in search of skill and I found virtue
In your climb up the stairs you were neat and clear
Making no excuse for the way he hurt you
But you cling to reality with a straight and peer-
Less eye. On lined paper you have set your mark
What could you deviate from, if not from right
And knowing you is quite enough to park
Truth on the lines, the tine your birthright.
In this dark house Jews lived and hoped and dreamed
Of a land where their strangeness was a claim
To universal justice. How in the dark they teemed
Until hope ran like melted butter on the name
They must excise. Born in a country that did them wrong
You forbid yourself the luxury of song.
(c) Rosemarie Rowley
From IN MEMORY OF HER
(2008)
Life Is Like A Maypole
As elegantly as it weaves
Over and under, curtsie if you please
Life is like a Maypole
It sometimes brings you to your knees
As the tine recantar
Emotions as the breeze
In life you've got to remember
Our lives stand true and tall
There is only one direction
And then destiny lends its call
Fate whispers as she collects all of her fees
Bending slightly over as the men have the ball
Then you have to remember
The flavor of their malt
Screams of absurd laughter
The game begins to hault
The error is their fault
We forgot to put the roof on
And now the error is called
7th
The light is fading, evening breaks
Between the oaken woods and lake,
It's time to finish with the row
And homeward bound, the trail to take.
With rake in hand I turn to go
To find my pick axe and the hoe,
When from the trail there ran a buck
And right behind him came two doe.
At first I thought, what rotten luck!
I left my rifle in the truck,
Then, as he stopped to look my way
He gave his tail a flip and tuck.
And then he spun and bounced away
The doe behind him sleek and grey,
Crashing through the brush and vine
Into the woods and welcomed shade.
He must have sported twenty tine
I thought as Shadow starts to whine,
Asking, should he give him chase?
I pat his head in soft decline.
The sun is gone upon my face
To lose the buck is no disgrace,
Although today I've been undone
There'll be another time and place.
Today the buck has rightly won
The hunters gone, the season done,
Perhaps we'll meet again next year
Before the season's had it's run.
The buck was ancient, and I fear
He may not see another year,
But then, another year is seldom clear
For man, or dog, or antlered deer.
Timothy I. Brumley
A crow of excitement,
"This saw is divine!"
He examines each blade
one tine at a time.
Serrated and sharp,
The metal, it glistens.
"Look at this motor!
Babe, are ya listenin'?"
Then from his deep slumber,
The builder awakes.
Opening confused eyes,
His hands start to shake.
Consciousness beckons-
It was only a dream-
He goes back to sleep
To start sawing the beams.
This is an older write that I restructured to play with alternating syllabic counts of 5656 and 6565. The old brain needed a challenge today.
Nylon blue, nylon blue cloth dangles on the line,
Ordinary people dine over wine and droop over the line to the tine
Nylon blue, nylon blue there sings the children,
Their song and hope riven and driven down the glen
Nylon blue, nylon blue their friends cry in torture,
Their prefecture nature can’t nurture their future
Nylon blue, nylon blue the old wonder how can’t they,
Without the sun tumble dry their grey hey
Nylon blue, nylon blue is there hope for the people?
The people that grapple with a supple struggle
Like nylon blue cloth hanged to dry but not crushed
Blown by the wind but not dashed
Like nylon blue cloth shining in utter despair
The ordinary people’s hope repair
Like nylon blue cloth dangling in full of colour
The children’s future in splendour
Said the little Girl
Dear God,
do hear me?
I close my eye and I pray.
Forgive me for this tine -weenie little lie.
I could not help it.
Mom baked
those luscious guava cookies,
I had to sneak one.
I ate it,
washed my mouth,
crossed my heart
and continue my fast
pretending like nothing happened.
So God,
if I do this another time will you forgive me?
I am so little
and cookies looks and smell so good,
I think even You will sneak one.
Bye God until next time,
but remember this is our secret.
© Al. Juman The "said" Poet 6/24/2016
Sweet little lies...
Such a pain it is to know not what feels—
Once this ruined heart knew how to gravitate.
But beauty’s malignant: it plots and it steals,
So damned unconcerned to alienate.
Don’t flatter yourself, don’t be inurbane!
Don’t pretend there’s a scapegoat to slaughter.
If my love was a sin, my presence a stain,
Then my own soul must cause me to totter.
Must I learn to adapt and live as you do—
To dissipate all but selfish design?
Should I feign to forget that life is untrue,
When transitory loves pierce me like a tine?
So capricious, the ones who know how to play.
Perspicuous, yet they have nothing to say.
7 September 2016
Written for “Ten Word Challenge” Poetry Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
Each
chiselled
line
enamel
images
to float
upon
sounds
sans
rime
staccato
syntax
align
symmetry
as
iambics
beat
the
drum
of
vers
liber...
....tine
Murmur no things
or strings of sounds...
Could not care less
more-ish whispers
were Wicked
Whips of Words-
Weighted.
Tongue- lashing sharp
fork- tine Torture.
Cat-0-nine-one-one-tales...
Thirty-nine...
Forty-less-one
thrashing...
thrashing...
Thrashing...!
P
l
u
m
b
l
i
Cut, then
Spliced
r
a
m
aught - 0 - matic -ally
u
t
t
e
s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d and s-t-r-u-n-g out
taut ~O~ill~O~gee~call
sayings S-P-L-A-Y-E-D out.
Taught NO one
any thing
new
Knew hear-say-
Say! Did you hear THAT???
(Did YOU know...?)
? :-0 ? :-o ? :-0 ?
Oh Oh...
Tongues plaited and tied
Gutless intentions
Implied
Allied...
Bound between mongers
pitted
unpitying
Pitbulls against distraught,
double-bind on-slaughter
pale-faced pugilism
mimics
Mummery and mimed thoughts
~acted~out~
played O-U-T
OUCH!
Bought into
Hearts wrung out
bloodless
Bloody hands wringing
in Delight-
Delighted!
de-lighted...
Delight-Full?
Murmur nothing
need less>>>>>>
Need less to say
" it" @ All.
Hot of the press,
hot air blows
seeds of doubts
s-OW-n n-OW!
Profuse Grrrrr- OW-th
Hot-head heed-less
not Grrrrr- OW-n up.
Groans are unmouthed
sounds
sown shut :-
No more hurt
Feelings
Hidden
Humiliation's humus
Not humorous.
Hideous "justice"
bids
Blurts be bought
at a price-
Caught out
Pulled-up-Pule
short-circuits
short-changed
~my~O~my
~chained~
~thrashing~it~out.
thrashed...thrashed....Thrashed!
within an inch
~~ ~~~'~ ~~~~...
nihil -is-tic
parsitic
Tick-Tacky-Town
Game of noughts.
Game of cross thoughts..x-O
Game's off-
Colour two- tone
Voice
Not "giving lip"-
Zipped~~~
:-O gains nil
By Mouth.
:- naught -:
nada
null
X
void
O
14-07-2017~Aqua Marine.
Your words, which seem to be my words,
are but footprints on the fen floor of
the white page, echoes of wand'ring lyric loping.
And if, perhaps, the P's that B have blessed,
they click, they crunch, they sweetly rot underlip.
Tearing words from mind, squeezing through that jealous heartspace.
Tearing follows, wetting page after page, piling into a formless stream.
They clatter upon the mocking whiteness, an array in disarray.
A shattered and graphic mythography, mud clots on tile
after a hike. Why do not my hot words summon Leidenfrost?
I love words, no...I love meaning.
I love meaning, I don't love
the promise of words' bringing of
meaning.
It is National Poetry Month and Shakespeare.
died today.* The first time he died today was
four hundred years ago. I am set to write and read
'publicly' (which spellcheck insists and my heart
does not insist is better writ as 'public ally') some
'poetry' while dancers carve the air, in response to,
in love with, in relation to, hand/heart drawn trees
which have drawn, well-
wishers to wine 'n cheese' 'n chit 'n chat
an opening. A gallery.
But Prince died last night.
The artist formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson,
and formerly known as a symbol,
and now formerly known as Prince. He died.
The symbol has gone and I don't know what it means.
The words are here behind my teeth, within my fingertips,
astride my heart, tickling that lump in my throat.
It is Earth Day, too. I'm supposed to say some words and make
them meaningful. And make them sing. And ring in the hearts as though
my ditherings are one tine of a tuning fork and the other is the spirits
of those dearly beloved, gathered here. Our coils unshuffled, for in our
sleep of life what dreams may come. But we stand upon, today, both
the funeral's grounds and the corpse to be. The Earth. We are meant
to celebrate her life as she withers. Strangled, starved, and trampled. And I?
I can't.
I just...
cant.
-ShhDragon
*He died today but every day we don't give birth to him with our tongue, on the stages of our heart, he remains a fetid, rotting, beautiful corpse. ’Lo four hundred years ago he died, but every day he isn't summoned, isn't animated, he remains dead. The fact of anniversary is our failing, our repeated failings, to bring forth what might be dead.
The white rabbit died,
it was suicide,
his work had failed,
his aging tale unwound,
unbound and lost,
winter frost dreams covered,
he’d learnt his lesson,
but from his teacher’s end,
severed.
He warned of watches,
watching watches to discover,
time uncovered,
exposed and closed,
hands intombed in gold,
the pocket watch,
Pandora’s box,
now everyone has several;
and they’re still all late.
They’re late in thought,
of latent thought,
once held in ignorance,
they can’t ignore hands,
the turning tine stabs deep inside,
infecting hearts,
all turning parts,
man made of cogs,
with cogs.
At war with sunset,
refusing sunrise,
natural cycles forgotten,
of greedy madness begotten,
flawed and false;
they wither to the void of innumerable cloned tick-tocks...
©David Nickle Read 2015