Best Too Large Poems
Frothy waves stretch to kiss toes
Hikers plodding sandy coasts
Leaving imprints on the shore
Who journeyed here, perhaps this morn
As the orange orb created dawn
Summoning sun worshipers
Footprints far too large to fill
Descended down the shell-strewn hill
Then hugged the waves low tide
The retirement community
Sends scouts here daily just to see
If the sands of time still wait
Alas, they do, imprints remain
Sacrificed to sea again
When evening tide returns
Their legacies erased each day
Another scout, another age
Will surely cast its prints anew
As he slept in tranquil dream,
Suddenly he flew, it seemed.
Thrown and landing on the floor,
Shaking walls and splintered doors.
Just as quick, the room grew still.
Distant tremors he could feel.
Out the door, and up the rock,
There he stood in sleepy shock.
How could oceans disappear.
Then a hissing he could hear
And a trembling, heavy roar
Headed for an empty shore.
Sunrise turned a greenish hue,
As he climbed, a better view.
Seeming far too large, he saw
What must be a water wall.
Thought of ancient stories told
Of a wrath that could unfold;
Sucking oceans with a breath,
Spewing endless waves of death.
Instinct quickly cleared his mind.
Panic now, he clawed and climbed.
Up, despite the screams he hears,
As a village disappears.
Once an evil came to call,
Scooped them up and took them all.
Now he's old, his stories wane,
Of the morning Satan came.
Gene Bourne
08-18-14
.
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You got a duff gift from your ‘mate’
Too large, in a colour you hate
It simply won’t fit
You’ll never wear it
No nookie mate now you can wait!
12~28~14
A Quintain Christmas - Andrea Dietrich
~awarded 3rd place~
The oncoming truck swerved into my lane
And there was not enough time for veering
But I was suddenly relieved from the pain
By a golden horse with hind legs rearing
We galloped straight down the road for apace
And then turned onto a large green expanse
I hung on tightly, not used to a race
Though I was willing to give it a chance
My dull senses were roused on the fresh field
And my pale skin warmed from the sun outside
I slowly loosened my grip and revealed
That I could never fall off if I tried
I shouted out with a vivacious voice
Unlike the one that was used to hiding
With newfound feelings that made me rejoice
Due to the golden horse I was riding
In an instant we reached the tall mountains
That I’d only seen in big picture books
The kind with dreamlike waterfall fountains
That we climbed up without a second look
There were no hurdles too large in our way
Or tough boulders too slippery or coarse
That could in the slightest ever delay
Or stop the progress of my golden horse
We moved as swift as if running downhill
Giving me motive to close my own eyes
But once at the top got an awful chill
When the brave stallion leaped into the skies
This time I shouted out “Why in god’s name
Must I be saddled on this golden horse!?”
For a deed like this is truly insane
Until knowing my death, fulfilled its course
David Fisher-posted on 2/10/2015-For Structured Forms-Iambic Verse Contest
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
The day is dark but the sun shines
The house is cold but the fire is on
The stars are out but you don’t see them
This is what loneliness is
The book is a best seller but you can’t read the words
The story is good but you can tell no-one
You made a fantastic meal but there’s no-one to share it
This is what loneliness is
The bed is too large you have to much space
The joke is funny but who do you tell
You are in a crowded room but you are alone
This is what loneliness is.
© 11/09/2013
Contest Entry: Loneliness.
To the girl with strawberry earrings, cupcake eyelids and a confetti lined body.
You are beautiful,
but not in the way your first lover told you.
Not in the way of demand action.
To the girl with strawberry earrings, you are so beautiful.
More so than skin deep. More so than in your jeans deep.
Worth more than a pile of meat, you are beautiful
So much more than your "thank you" could ever respond to compliments with.
Beautiful girl, at age twelve you will realize your chest was too small and your stomach too large.
Beautiful girl, he called you. His beautiful girl.
When he left you questioned everything.
A living mystery in young adolescence.
Beautiful girl, with a song in her heart and a story in her eyes.
Wake up.
The strawberry meadows of your mind too quickly became jam; jammed with the other voices.
Entering high school like the gates of Hell.
Burning your body with embers of days your criminals long forgot about.
Beautiful girl, whose apple red cheeks were stained with tears.
Beautiful girl, who forgot how to eat out of fear.
Beautiful girl, who did her makeup charismatically.
Who wore her smile like a pendent upon her chest.
Beautiful girl, you knew better than to open the dam of your mind, for you knew oceans could flood out.
That mind of yours, strangling you in the size of your waist in a dressing room.
Suffocating your chest, no, stuffing your chest to create empty and lumpy illusions.
Making you feel as though you always had something to prove.
Beautiful girl, stop, beautiful girl
Not every room is a battlefield.
Not every mirror a warfront.
The grenade of your mind is pinned to your lips, all you have to do is not pull it.
Beautiful girl, you are a fresh April dew.
You are the alluring scent of rose petals.
You are a star-lit night and a beaming sun rise.
To the girl with strawberry earrings, there is no one chasing you anymore.
You are free
You are as free as the birds up above.
You are untamed and wind blown like the formless shifting cotton of the Heavens.
You are unarmed.
No more pistol to your tongue for the imaginary friends of standard.
Beautiful girl, you are beauty.
To the girl with strawberry earrings, to the girl reading this, you are a beautiful girl.
We stood silent
in the cold wind,
snug in the wrapped warmth
of our grandmothers thick coat,
my sister and I,
staring into the mystery
of a freshly cut and polished
marble headstone, the letters
spelling my grandfathers name
sounding out in our heads
as if recited in a reading class
at school. J - A - M - E -S,
H - E - N - R - Y.
Away at sea
for most of the time, he died
when we were too young
to have him set firm
in the then thickening
slurry of our lives. He lived
painted in the spoken words
of my grandmother, animated
in stories and short clips cut
from his life. Soldier, sailor,
adventurer, he was too large
to fit an ordinary name
walled within our childhood home
or chiseled in stone.
He lived on the wild outskirts
of an imagined, unwritten world.
Health ruined by the horrors
of the first world war,
he found relief from his pain
in the swells and gale driven
waves pummeling ships
on the Tasmanian run.
I still carry a picture of him
printed in my mind,
smoking a cigarette,
standing on deck with the sun
going down, alone,
looking out into the sad distances
of the southern ocean,
lost in his thoughts,
far away from home.
They were able to see the sun at last, to look
all around, finally breathe without burqas
begin a new chapter.
Their words held more confidence.
Is respect too large a word, perhaps not when
whispered with laughter.
Wearing smiles and proud faces, their
daughters went to school like the boys,
was their future assured?
Was learning numbers and their alphabet
fulfilling their dreams, or just making
them more obscured?
Women could greet each other on the street
not be beaten with a pole, but never look in the
eyes of a man.
They could have paying jobs, wear sharp clothes, let
lovely faces be exposed, never once looking back
before freedom began.
That all went away on a terrible day
when planes left and men bled out of hills
with rage
to rule again with knife-sharpened hands
and women once again destined to hide inside
their dark cage.
So, what was accomplished: a taste of
freedom
that rested on whims of people living
far away?
Is it perhaps worse to have known and
then lose
or never to have known--
who can say?
As life uncertainly shifts backward again
to religious rule and sin
will minds and lives be what's left
blowing in the wind
in Afghanistan...
He runs to another world to seek comfort for his weeping soul
He cannot find a place to hide except inside the oracle of his mind
The world is getting too large for him and he cannot find a place to live
The streets are bare and empty and the lamp posts are dangling in the wind and something tells him that heaven is watching and the mountains are listening
He traveled from the Middle East to appease his mind but the thoughts he entertained are sometimes strong enough to drive him insane and when the music starts to play courage stands up right in his way and his spirit began to sing. How much I have tried desperately to help him but he continue to follow his own foolish ways and my heart began to pound with a profound message from the sky with a choice for him to live or die.
Sometimes I watched him goes off into a daze as if he had a mission
to travel in space and I watched him relive the moment, gliding like a missile through the clouds and his purpose kept steadfast to the ground and he locked inside a world that is reserved for the dead and a pillow of clouds stand up exactly over his head. It is a strange world that is spinning around in his head. it is the world that deprived him of his daily bread.
The world beneath the ground is cold empty and brown
The corners are sealed and the middle is covered with a shield and its core is stuffed with seeds, I can hear the daily counting and shouting and the barrows around the ant nest will take you into the inner depth
Just follow the lines wherever it leads and you will find his world
Wrapped up in a seal.
I wear a hat because I've lost my hair
Folk would laugh out loud at my head so bare
Long ago my hair was thick and wavy
It was the colour of mother's gravy.
Her gravy was dark as the lumps of coal
She would light a fire with, when it was cold
If short of cash, then us kids had to sit
In the disastrous sweaters she would knit.
Often they’d be too clingy or too large
Though knitted with love for those in her charge
Mother said if we were cosy and warm
It did not matter at all what was worn.
The years have passed by, hair has disappeared
The worst of it is, it's cold on the ears
But my mother, bless her, before she left
Knitted a draw full of hats, socks and vests.
I
Veins blue as death but they flow,
tributaries in a returning system.
They fork only when the mind
rides a lightly sleeping cycle
to a venous river
and there sinks within seeking a source
for it must be replenished, made to
travel on richer currents of air.
In such a reverie
blue threads splay, spread themselves
traveling to a nexus of stars on byways
stripped of any anatomy.
II
The girls and boys ride to school
ever faster,
a teacher fills blue inkwells
from a drip in his arm.
The children peddle swiftly along;
for on every desk
there's an apple for each of them.
In that fruit
a slow wriggling hex, a pishogue
sheds one desiccated skin after another
expanding its continuance,
but not so soon, not so fast,
not as speedily as the blue river runs
for it is the stream that feeds into itself.
III
That indigo atlas furrows a mounting gravity
through a chambered pump
for it has miles yet to cycle,
it surges and swells unhindered,
it crests and syphons
through transforming bellows,
around it pounds
unless that dark spell grows too large
and dams its onward course
then it may cease upon the morrow
or worse.
The chitinous mechanics
of head, thorax, and abdomen,
clicking exoskeletons,
the chirring of dry whispers.
We admire the purposeful
simplicity of the heedless.
Houses crumble as evidence.
Trees rot and give witness.
Caves crawl
with their evidential passing -
they command the locomotion and menu,
of the inevitable.
We who must be consumed,
know that as prey we are not too large,
and so, we lumber on as elephants will,
on their way
to long prepared graveyards.
Words are thin and often crack under weight
They were never meant to be load bearing
A feeling rises…
Raw and electric
Too large for the venue of conversation
Joy bursts open like the sun you can’t look at
Yet we refer to it as happy
A word so pale it feels like an apology
Grief is worse
It floods the ribs and drowns breath
All everyday language offers us is the word sad
As if sadness were a puddle and not an ocean
Love
The word which betrays us the most
Forced into four letters unable to hold
Fire
Ache
And Impossible depth
We keep trying though
We stack syllables like shaky ladders
Climbing towards the truth
Knowing words will fall short
But we use words to reach anyway
Because sometimes the attempt is the closest thing to honesty we have
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
I reject
in the face
of it all
Aestheticism
true beauty
is found in the
ugliness of it all
peaking out
under coverlets
of mud
throwing
spit balls
of pulchitrude
wrapped up
time bombs
that stick
to the banal
unexpected beauty …
of it all,
ambitious
edges and curves
open and inviting
accompanied by caveats
there will be
splendid over-ripe
gardens of Eden
followed teasingly
in close pursuit, by the
madhatters’ tea parties
and Hugos' balls
rooms too large,
and rooms too small
it’s all
rather
simple
underneath
the dirt
of it all
precious
and most expensive
jewels are found
smudged kisses
mascara stained
cheeks of Cinderellas
holding spaces
for roses are red
and violets are blue
daisy chains
of love me
love me knots
tightly
tied
small victories
virtues held
and lost, conquests
stroking glass slippers
drinking in the gins
and espousing
their 3 wishes
looking for
long lost Kings
failing that,
settling for
paupers, not
princes
their crystal balls
over brave and
missing the mark
shattering
then later
lying unclaimed
under the sun
melting
through the
flaws
Dear dada
add an “ist”
to it all
escapist
artist
tourist
minimalist
extremist
illusionist
fatalist
but never
realist
escape artist
mud wrestling naked
in poetic jello, at the
Cabaret Voltaire
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Dadaist.