Best Tinfoil Poems
A paper man
Under paper clouds
The sky is falling
and he doesn’t know why
His edges are folded
He feels he’s undone
There isn’t any warmth
from a paper sun
Cellophane grass
Cardboard under feet
He has a paper girlfriend
With a paper heartbeat
His feelings feel flat
Just a few wrinkles
Paper snow is falling
A tinfoil star twinkles
A world of my creation
I just want to feel
Hoping my sky won’t fall
Nothing feels real
I’m three dimensional
Under a real sky
There’s hope beyond clouds
When my mind tries to lie
So I grasp for happy
A bit of pleasure too
Even when it’s not easy
It’s just what I do.
Inspired by a friend.
As men we are taught to keep our feelings to ourselves and suffer in silence. In 2012 I went through depression and it took me a long time to look for help. When our feelings are flat and the world feels two dimensional, seek help and reach out to a friend. There are people who love us. There is no reason to suffer in silence. Colour returned to my world and I am thankful. The sky didn’t fall even though in the moment it felt so real.
Categories:
tinfoil, angst, anxiety, depression, emotions,
Form:
Quatrain
A bunch of dry lime leaves like schoolkids runs
across the street. Be careful, do not slip
on crispy morning frost. I see someone’s
bike on its side, its owner rubs his hip.
Are you okay? He is okay. A crow
pecks out a crumpled tinfoil. What's inside?
Alas, inedible. I’d like to know
what cars parked off the road dream of at night.
Oh, these wet dreams that make their windows sweat,
you’re definitely better, to misquote
Poe, than reality. A young brunette
next door walks her old dachshund in the coat.
That's how a pen of poet turns sometimes
a routine morning walk into the rhymes.
21.10.2019
Your Best Sonnet July-December 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Categories:
tinfoil, morning, poetry,
Form:
Sonnet
"Dia de Los Muertos", the Spanish name it. Eve
of All Saints, saw we of the church of blessed assurance
of an observance ushering in fall while easing
our multilingual obsession with death. The sun shines
on unmarked graves, and, "Come winter the same
snow falls, dusting us all," so it is said, and so
honored at The Dollar Tree Store.
Weeks before Halloween, when punctilious roadside tents
fill with demonic orange grins, when what the French
call The Season of Color with its 'sturm und drang' roars
in, I push past the doors of The Dollar Tree. No
automatic entry ushers us in, no Pearly Gates swing
wide to celestial Muzak. We come to purchase the needs
of the living-- tinfoil, plastic bags, detergent: a limpid purple
liquid with its cautionary "Do Not Drink," its "Fragrancia
Duradera." Longevity, one dollar a bottle.
Shelves of seasonal gimcracks stack up at the entrance.
"Adornes" in your face, useless for extending time:
crows with real feathers, spectral spider webs, glittery
black skulls, mockup tombstones inscribed "Rest in
Pieces"--Do Not Disturb-- Don't Laugh, You're Next.
I laugh, anyway. Comics know reality is funny.
All Hallows Eve a year ago, our parish priest
stood in cemetery darkness at a rude stone altar,
celebrating Mass at Bosque Bello, our Beautiful Forest
of flashlights and luminaries. There among graves
of the known and unknown, we broke bread and
shared the cup of blood, there, where the blessed dead
settle deep in their shoe-boxes, and the not-yet-
unmasked confront certain demise.
Categories:
tinfoil, death,
Form:
Blank verse
Thailand,
Or Kensington?
Tinfoil from a Kit-Kat,
Tells you that there’s no difference,
Outside,
Cocaine,
Ammonia,
Old Martell miniature,
A Bic lighter; a mound of ash,
Bangkok?
Fly south
Like Garuda,
Drift off to Koh Samui,
A Beach house, Or Council estate?
Who cares?
Wake up,
Burnt down candles,
Landlord on the doorstep
‘Last weeks rent?’ ‘Giro on Thursday…
…Get lost…’
Categories:
tinfoil, life,
Form:
Cinquain
They all came by our house each day,
The milkman with his horse and dray.
two tinfoil topped bottles on the step he lay.
They all came by our house each day,
The postman with his heavy load would come,
Christmas and Birthday cards for us and Mum.
They all came by our house each day
The coalman with his heavy black sack,
Dropped in the cellar, No nutty slack!
They all came by our house each day,
The ice cream man, his hand-bell would peal
A big bowl of ice cream for after our meal.
They all came by our house each day,
The rag-man blowing his bugle as if to say,
Have you any old rags for me today?
Yes they all came by our house each day,
Then time moved on and they went away,
No one selling their wares in the street today.
Inspired by Judith Angell Meyer.
© Dave Timperley May 2015
Categories:
tinfoil, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
waltz blazing sirens from shores of the frosted tomorrow
just look around and behold everything that makes our souls distant
l’existence est ailleurs! my negatively dear Clementine
in this omnipotent Babylon of boredom whoredom
where our shapes slowly turn shadowless
turning in their dreamless sleep
glide around our glacier home
and we follow the fireflies among the languorous joshua trees
into the land of dandy lions and burning monks
into the tinfoil country of cowboys riding the giant amoebas
feverish orchids on the horizon where the fire alarm is always on
so run & hop on the railroad to false paradise
where we will dance alone and leave footprints in the garden
leave footprints on every rooftop
then walk up the clock tower to the ghost of a friendly lamp-lighter
who will help us from within to banish the darkening
and light up our own dungeons of blood candy splendour
as multiple painted phantoms of Van Gogh’s ear
listen to the foghorn music of pallid depths
in our much adored papier-maché sea shell mansion
our lovely cul-de-sac, stellar and crystalline, vanishing on a rota basis
standing in still life as a crescent groom, as graves on the Moon
opening the frontiers for a cosmis octopus, a zealot, a hypocrite
headless and worshipping the order of the howling iris
which makes our nosebleed grow longer like shadows do at dusk
and that’s when I love to unwind that brass hair
of your golden-haired psyche
Categories:
tinfoil, imagery, surreal,
Form:
Free verse
Just for the Holidays so sweet
It is the perfect Christmas treat
To make this special cake so fine
Just use this recipe of mine
Unbleached flour pure and white
About eight ounces is just right
A little butter, a six ounce stick
Four large eggs then stir it quick
An ounce of almonds blanched and split
Then add some currants in with it
Add some raisins both dark and white
With baking powder to keep it tight
Some extra cherries if you should feel
Then add an ounce of pure mixed peel
One whole lemon both pulp and rind
Get condensed milk, the sweetened kind
To make your guests a little frisky
Add a dash of good scotch whiskey
Grease a pan with Pam so nifty
And heat the oven up to three fifty
Stir your mixture ‘til it’s nice and thick
Spread it in a pan so smooth and quick
Then take tinfoil and seal the dough
And bake it for an hour or so
Take it out and open it up
And pour your milk into a cup
Brush the milk so smooth and sweet
On top of your delicious treat
Then bake it for ten minutes more
And use a toothpick to check it for
The perfect “doneness”, that’s the rule
Then take it out and let it cool
And after it has cooled a while
The smell of it will make you smile
For Holidays you just can’t beat it
So cut a big ole slice and eat it
Categories:
tinfoil, food
Form:
Rhyme
“Stampede: The Bitumen Blooms”
All the promises under the Sun
could never buy time, and
all that glistens on a wrist in a heartbeat succombs
peels away the romance
like tinfoil scraps, wrapped and cutting like razors
into the skin of what matters most
liked barbed wire
around a wrist bleeding
glistening golden brands like some kind of reigning crown
the so-called pulse of keeping up with the J’s
will never deliver the most precious intangible,
it burns inside out unseen
underneath the bitumen
the buried truth blooms
strange journeys crawl
and their animals released
from the cage,
eventually,
stampede;
sacrifices are made.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Categories:
tinfoil, humanity,
Form:
Narrative
A bright star shines
To the exalted constellations
May I present this debutant?
A poor man sleeping
Wrapped in golden tinfoil
In a doorway
It’s so cold tonight, outside at least
Beneath the splendid sky
I wonder is he dreaming
While I walk by
©dbyrne dec 25th 2013
Categories:
tinfoil, christmas,
Form:
Free verse
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
Categories:
tinfoil, age,
Form:
Free verse
It was just like every other year
Trimming trees with holiday cheer.
Like practiced dancers, we went around
Knowing by heart every carols sound.
There were smells so sweet, but I knew them all
From the cooking of ham to Grandmother’s shawl.
I sang like the others while popcorn was strung
Not really noticing when the door-bell was rung.
We were easily absorbed in familiar footpaths
Following traditions from generations past.
No one had noticed what it had become
Something we did for the sake of having been done.
From a small box another ornament came free
A candy-cane heart was placed on the tree.
It was a strange thing to see him come through the door
With a cheerful smile and something much more.
I don’t understand why he came to me
Huddled shyly behind the tree.
There were words about merriment and spreading the cheer
And; “For you, my dear, I have something here.”
A little box wrapped in a red bow
Catching the lights with an enchanting glow.
I looked to him with pleading eyes
Wondering what was beneath this tinfoil disguise.
I should wait until Christmas, I was sure he would say
But the look in his eyes gave him away.
With a nod of his head I gave a light tug
Feeling it loosen that was tied with love.
I slid the paper away just a crack
Enchanted by the shimmer that greeted me back.
Inside a glass box with a frosted design
A round green ornament sat with a shine.
I marveled and awed at the glittering shade
Of a woman, a lamb, and a bundled up babe.
There was confusion at first at the image it held
Nothing alike our reindeers and bells.
But I smiled at it and the comfort it brought
And the spell of wandering, happy thoughts.
I was too young to know what it meant
But that giving man lent more than he sent.
The spirit of Christmas wrapped in red love
Of all of my ornaments it still hangs above.
There’s more to Christmas than we often see
But that Christmas Eve insight was given to me.
It isn’t the food or the gifts that we give
But the spirit of love by which we live.
Given to us by a man that once was
Born to be killed because he loved.
Categories:
tinfoil, holiday, love, religionchristmas, heart,
Form:
Rhyme
I seem to have forgotten
the purpose of civilization
we are to animals
as animals are to a basket of forks
C.J. Jung as the UFO pilot
in "Freud Attacks" a talkie
a flaming romp through the hubs of hell
hI kids it’s time for potty training
let's rent a car and take refuge
on the runaway truck ramp
I reached for the emergency brake
got a box of cigars instead
one of the 7 Psychological Wonders
the six others are too hideous to mention
I think we'll need subtitles for this movie
10,000 years of metaphysical illumination
and it's still all work and no play
Where might we find the Way of Fun
although when the black and white keys
all sound at once it still makes me wonder
like tearing your clothes off
at a funeral and jumping on the casket
screaming I've always been ready
OK that's death wish Wonder number 2
apparently life is not a symbol for something else
sponge my brow nurse this is delicate
but is it a subset of something else
as a catalyst to sensation
that's the appetite monster Wonder 3
mom made voodoo dolls from my ****
art is the candle in the skull
I have the power of death she moaned
where language is used to annihilate language
using words as an accusing narcotic
in the holy 4th Wonder of guilt for all things
a lot of ifs in there searching for what's next
tinfoil helmets will be issued
for the car bomb inferno
of the internal saboteur Wonder 5
next a blank diploma emeritus
from the Wewelsburg Engram University
a knife in the Oedipal eye Wonder 6
needless to say the Clinic of Doom
quickly ran out of volunteers
needless to say my chromosomes
cringe under their bed
awaiting a wonderful martyrdom
how did we become radio transparent
and make bargains with man-beasts
I guess a person is as smart
as they want to be
rather than as they need to be
the aid of uncopied ideas never hurts
the act of abstraction is child's play
I feel it my duty to tell you
you can do it in your sleep
but yesterday is gone for good
mourning and loss leave behind
a bed of fragments from Wonder 7
a person incapable of introspection
is a total failure as a human
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Categories:
tinfoil, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
"When I stand with this silence
between us all, we are still never here --
and then I move and your whole world
shifts, and there you are. We were."
-- Tom Mars
and he had told her that he loved her, out here
between the valley of the shadow of dead twin
suns and the petrified web of the tinfoil
rocketship's silver scaffold, here, with the
wind snapping into the cult and bolt of them
and they were lead, precious pewter parachuted
across the little lakes of mercury like so many
silvered fishes smeared on sound Going
their own separate ways together The
wind weaved a momentary pyramid of sometimes over
them They breathed like partime pharaohs
disfigured as so many lovely paradoxes, holding
back the frenchblue gaseous
night with the infamous electric lights of
there own selfish suckled selves, especially
right here in this nubended yellow room of
a world, jaundiced by the naked raw bulbs
of stars and the disappointment of crushed
cigarette lives A kind of Autumn came for them and
the cadmium ground was lost leaves of foreign sands, out
here between the last light and their starship,
their thoughts caterwauling into
the limestone dusk of an alien world's
amphitheatre of the sensual, licked in its
familiar percussions, she had walked laughing
away.
Categories:
tinfoil, lost love, autumn,
Form:
Free verse
What kind of gobbledegulp,
holiday mess,
are you stuffing down your jaw giblets —
one day early ...
you human turkey
Cubicle farm-raised patsy policies
is what your top executive, tinfoil hat fool handlers
are serving you
lower oven rack pooping ninnies
Conspiracy stew —
Genetically modified organism mush squalls
are swimming thru
that grey matter inner tube drain,
you red meat clucky cheeks call a brain
Corporate pecking order is on the
menu packaging downsize
Gobble Raiders of the hallowed profit
sweet yam takeover Arc,
have split pea parceled your succulent
office promotion wish bone
Cooking the books ... green bean stringing
you dumb dinner table birds along
Cellular talk to the boss HR department chick,
if you don’t buttery believe little ol’ poultry me
Now don’t go getting cutlery stir crazy,
put that carving knife down, celery baste boy ...
Are you rooster gone out of your rotisserie mind?!
Coming at me with those carnivore eyes,
watch yourself, now
I heard thru the henpeck grapevine,
that it’s your neck on the chopping block
in two days merger time
Sho’ nuff on Black Friday,
it’s gobble dupe you
that gonna be
in the return merchandise soup line
Now ain’t that some bad Scroogie news ...
holiday tummy ache blues
It’s enough to make a cool, jive turkey like me
start dressing up fo’
yo’ pink slip fowl roast early retirement party
Categories:
tinfoil, character, humor, satire, word
Form:
Light Verse
in the back of the bus they sit akwardly across from each
other. the smell of pabst and pall mall cigerettes magnetically repells against strawberry
revlon lipgloss and hairspary. he is trying not to hear her headphones blaring fergy and she
is trying not notice the stains on his shirt.
he is thinking of neon exit signs and fishnet stockings on roominghouse madrigals who walk
gently in the street under the red lights like cranes on a concrete pond. she wants more
watermelon flavored chewing gum and to write endless pages about
vanishing teddybear boyfriends and fluffy heart shaped clouds.
the bus driver looks in her mirror at the pair and instantly thinks of rust on tinfoil. after that
the bus pulls slowly to the next stop at the community library, charles crookedly raises from
his seat and dissapears into the night... the end..
'it takes more than time to live to long' bukowski
Categories:
tinfoil,
Form: