Best Tucking Poems
Silent, she slips from her stronghold’s security,
safely tucked high on the cliff in her nest.
Cautious, she stays in the shadows afforded her,
sorrowful, hesitant, missing the rest.
Her parents and siblings had sought out the sunshine,
flying the open air, learning their craft.
Soaring and diving, they basked in the currents;
she, feeling poorly, by chance, had stayed back.
Sounds like a cannon had rung out above her;
shrieking and screaming, she watched the first fall.
Caught in the open with no chance for cover,
savagely, swiftly, death came for them all.
Hugging the hillside, she used the thick foliage,
bobbing and weaving, avoiding the limbs,
calling on instincts she knew not inside her,
fine-tuned adjustments through flexes and trims.
Cover was ending; the ocean awaited her.
Her heart was racing, her mind strangely clear.
Mother had taught her to seek out the currents;
a warm water pocket meant updrafts were near.
Tucking, she dove as she flew in the open,
a bullet herself, towards shiny blue glass.
Braking so subtly, just at the last moment,
she shot across wave tops, dizzily fast.
There! A small change in the water beneath her.
Pulling up hard, she flapped skyward and soared.
Where she was headed lay unknown before her,
on past the sunset to some distant shore.
While resting in my nook, breaths grip
As lampshade marks edges of leaves;
That I wander into the scene
On pages afloat, a tale weaves .
Listening to my restless sighs,
The hero wins a maiden fair
Under the rim of jeweled clouds…
Yet one dark villain lurks, beware!
Though moonlight hides its varnished face
My eyes pursue this raging quest;
And though caught in flamed paradise
Late hour ushers a sleep’s request .
Tucking the book, whispers I hear
Unto rivers of my vivid dream,
Awaiting for morn to touch its ray
To finish lines from a tale, supreme.
Brian's Select 2
The satin blanket of night
With it's silky silence
Wrapping whispers around
My head
Tucking in my dreams
Clicking out the light
Of reality
To reveal the depth of desire
The soon to be forgotten future
Cosy with the pervasive past
In the twisted landscape
Of perception
Where unicorns dance
Where unseen monsters lurk
A place where lost love blossoms
And fears manifest
Under the rainbow of dreamland
Real people escape
Until the monochrome blue
Bleeds back into the bedroom
The beautiful blanket
Of comfort becomes
The shadowy shroud of silence
For the midnight meandering heart
Out here,
where time forgets its name
and distance wears no shoes,
a single atom dreams
of being seen.
A nebula breathes in slow creation—
a phosphorous wound
stitched by light,
spilling stars like secrets
never meant for mouths.
What lilt remains in the voice of the void?
Even silence has shape here—
serpentine,
a slither of ancient radiation
wrapping the bones of galaxies,
like a mother tucking in
what she cannot keep.
We call it space,
but it’s more:
a cascade of almosts,
of might-have-beens and never-weres,
falling endlessly
through a gravity
that remembers everything
but forgives nothing.
The lunar dust knows—
how soft it is to vanish,
how even your footprints
can outlive your breath.
And Earth, blue with burden,
floats like a question
we’ve stopped trying to answer—
spinning myths into maths,
naming fire with numbers,
hoping to out-code
the ache.
There is a myriad of ways to be alone.
But here,
in this tender, terrible expanse,
we are together
in our unknowing.
And maybe that
is enough
to make us stars.
Your dad, a Dachshund once stuck in Chihuahua.
The best of both in you, with that expectant
Confusing carpets for the lawn enigma.
I know….the raining….getting wet….you can’t.
As coldness chills the room, a sheet for you.
The perfect tucking of in, but you moved!
I ponder, just how crazy is my Boo?
The sheet’s thread count too low to be approved?
Your dance in circles, spinning on the floor.
Rewards and treasures known upon the racks.
Induced by meals and that one pantry door.
In such a fury, choking on the snacks.
I know what God’s book says, I’ve searched it whole.
But still, I hope you have a little soul.
11.14.14
MY SPIRIT SINGS
Almond eyes speak: "Take me home please--
bonnie green fields where I may wander,
chasing butterflies and darting dragonflies
dearly gazing to blue and orange streak skies.
Everyday, I will find some daffodils
fixing and tucking one to my ear,
grin painted on my face as I look
hungrily to praise and thank you, God!
Interred two years ago by mistake,
justice and joy, I yearn to feel,
kneeling everyday, praying unto God:
"Listen to me O tender God and don't leave"
Merciful Father heard, He blessed me saying:
"Now Son, be fruitful and multiply", I amble--
obedient me to sunny walks down winding roads,
persistent to bear the given loads,
quicker to maneuver from danger's path,
reflexive instincts working double time!
Seeking God's wisdom to always guide me,
taking time to read the Bible everyday,
understanding: "Man shall not live on bread alone...
Vexed and pressed by a truckload of trials but
whom shall I fear when God is my light and salvation.
Xenacious I, excited, wanting to do it in an instant!
Yes Lord! Yes Lord! Yes! Yes, Lord, Amen.
Zealous is my heart and spirit as I sing!
_______________________________________________________
***xenacious means filled with yearning for change..
Abecedarian - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
~~8th place~~
10:49 pm, July 06, 2015
What will be will be
No pitter-patter of tiny, wee feet
No building castles on a sandy beach
No tiny hands for to lead and to hold
No dressing up as maidens or knights bold.
No kisses upon sweet soft downy heads
No tucking up into warm cosy beds
No nursery rhymes or stories to read
No little one's hungry tummy to feed.
No wounded soldiers with bruised or grazed knees
No teaching how to say thank you or please
No guiding girl to woman, boy to man
No joys of grandchildren joining the clan.
No one to be addressing me as mom
No precious, much longed for daughter or son.
She waits in traffic while running her errands
singing along to the car radio,
then waits in lines at various places
smiling at faces she doesn’t know.
Evenings, she waits for her husband
cooking dinners she knows he will love.
Later, inside a room made for waiting,
she writes poetry prior to the appointment that alters her life.
She next finds herself waiting week after week
for the chemo to take its effect -
waiting and puking night after night,
but still always tucking her children in bed,
Bible stories read and nightly prayers said.
Soon her strength wanes, but she waits for good news.
It’s not in her nature to wait for the bad.
She waits, and her strength never wavers.
In the end, her husband is waiting on her -
hand and foot, like she’d waited on him.
They’ve laid her to rest, and her family all know
where she’s gone, she waits there for them.
Written Jan. 27, 2016
for the Becca's Inspiration "Waiting" Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen, unfurled
and carried aloft in chilly air.
The flickering street lamp understood
as long shadows on a cobbled walk
slow danced in the warming glow.
But the music was not for them tonight.
The musician’s voice transformed
and angry staccato flares broke.
Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree!
He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick.
Snapping of limbs and morality
but the tree was just a thug anyway.
Indignant “Quiet downs!”
rained from high-rise windows
mingling in the blood of the fallen;
and tears…so few tears.
Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight.
Yet they could not escape the song,
that guileless voice in the darkness,
which once again transformed.
Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass
amplifying every tremble of the lip.
Pitiful notes, harsh on either end
and broken by uneven vibrato,
yet piercing in their rawness,
turned away the wrathful storm.
Tremulous begging it seemed,
accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn,
which lulled to sleep the very stars above.
The moon halted to listen as well,
before tucking itself in, cathartic,
as the pitiful busker concluded his song
of remorse for un-lived dreams
and unspoken things
The music wasn't for them tonight.
10/18/15
At the beach in your bikini
blowing off those also-rans
you posture in your playful way
with Gucci sunshades and
the latest Grisham novel.
At the gala you're exquisite
in your slinky cocktail dress.
Simple, black, short and sexy,
you shimmer like a morning mist,
the chandeliers are dancing in your eyes.
At the condo in your nightgown,
(the antithesis of sex),
tucking in the kids
and softly singing them to sleep,
you're Wonder Woman in your plastic curlers.
I know I have the best,
without a doubt, it's true,
whatever outfit you put on,
my 'winner' still is you!
We fondly strolled through languid ways
And rambled on without goodbyes;
On cool and moonlit autumn days
That held a glimpse of paradise .
Bewitched by evening's lucent beams
He told me I was ever fair--
That mirrors all our lifetime dreams
While tucking ribbons in my hair.
Time lit love's candle in my heart,
Although I vaguely heard his sighs
Enkindling flames that we won't part;
Retracing oceans in my eyes :
Yet journeys he had known, afar
Unsure of betrothed vows, our plan:
This oath circling on his lone star
But wait I must, dear pilot man.
.....................................
Premiere I - Open: Rob Carmack's Contest
Resubmitted 12/26/ 2016
Inspired by the Line 'Vapor Trail Dreams, From Paper Airplanes'
Title Of Poem Shortened--- Pic included
Don't say you love me with a rose, your generic lines of poetry reading off like a gift card from the dollar store, your hurried scrambled lines of apology jotted down with a dying pen, Promises of going out for a treat later the next morning. Don't say you love me with a rose.
If you loved me you would know, that being greeted with my favorite flowers was a first, and the smell would be so sweet tears would spring into my garden eyes, you would know that five minutes of careful thought, written on a plain piece of paper would be cherished more than a dollar fifty seven card, and your changing actions and regret filled eyes would speak more words than your scribbled apology of meaningless words.
You would know I would rather be greeted in bed with a kiss good morning beautiful, and the ability to curl up warm against your body again, than risen from my sleep to get a seven dollar breakfast meal at a diner, coffee never sweet enough and a five dollar tip to our waitress, who can't seem to take her eyes off you.
You would know that the way you wash my hair and run your soaped hands over my body beneath the warm water would slip me into a heaven so heated I would not feel when the shower went cold, and that your gentle touch and the growl in your throat would distract me from all earthly things. You would know I'd much rather that, in our cramped little shower, than spend a day at the spa for a treat.
You would know, lying asleep in your lap, my legs dangling from the couch, the overbearing heat of the blanket tucking me in to peaceful dreams, and the ability to kiss your brow and brush your cheek when you were haunted by your dreams, would be much preferred to me sleeping alone on the couch, and you on the floor looking to make me comfortable.
You would know, by my eyes, that I looked at you, like you were all the light in the universe, and without you, I was just an empty abyss. And that you couldn't possibly look down on someone you loved like that. You would know that I deserved more than a generic rose, and store bought card, an apology and a broken heart.
Warning - Don't read The Raven and Watch Hitchcock on the same night.
Once before my bedtime, nearing, which I dreaded, fazed and fearing,
Stories mother would read me before she closed and locked my bedroom door —
While I washed up in the water, could mom have drawn it any hotter?
Before me swam a rubber duckling, chuckling as my mother shut the door
“‘Tis some water fowl”, I muttered, “which mother bought me from the store.
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I can place it - the sad night Mother would misplace it;
Or entirely erase it; of her mind remaining nothing more.
I lay in bed, mother tucking, on feathers of mother’s plucking
Time for your book, said mother clucking, clucking as she locked the bedroom door —
I’ll read “Make Way for Ducklings” and then warm milk she began to pour -
all across the bedroom floor.
Assuredly, I felt no sorrow, as mother left me till the morrow
Sighing - buying time – which maybe I could only hope to borrow;
I heard my monstrous mother screaming, or maybe Tippi Hedren streaming
as Hitchcock’s “Birds” was beaming from the TV laying on the floor—
“’Tis just Hitchcock’s “Birds” beaming from the TV laying on the floor” -
This it is and nothing more.”
Inside that book peered at me smiling, a crazed duck that set me dialing
911 and protective services to frantically implore
The feeling in my stomach sinking, “I need a friend”, I was thinking
Staring wildly at this ghastly mallard who chilled me to the core
Then, at once, I saw it, heard it, this grinning duck needn’t chill me to the core
as he said, “I will be your friend forevermore”.
delicate lace linked by crochet
labyrinthine stitches a doily a day
counted by repetitious candlelight
motherly hands of preponderant foresight
twisting and surrender of silent threads
tucking each one into intricate spreads
lovingly lace reflects persistence of face
a warm cosseted Victorian embrace
from hands that stumbled with wrinkles
forlorn and gnarled knots, catastrophic crinkles
yet the warm, soft hand that comforts her ill
a kin that kindles the fire and spins with skill
she’s mastered the lessons rendered at the knee
of longsuffering love and mother’s humble marquee
They used to come only at night,
And hide way up under the bed,
Tucking their feet clear out of sight,
Ready to angrily pinch my pinky toes red,
D A D D Y! I’d holler, and scream.
M O M M Y! I would cry and yell.
S I S S Y! I’d shriek in my dream,
Heartbeat knowing I was about to be killed,
My own child picked up on this gloom
The first time he stayed in grandma’s house.
M O M M Y ! D A D D Y! He yelled, in full scared bloom.
I ran in, heart beating fast, expecting to see a little gray mouse.
What is it, Son? I asked my train-covered pajama wearing little man.
It’s the monsters he whispered, his amber and brown eyes as big as my head.
I nodded. “They’ll get you too, if you fall and land.”
So you’d better lay down right now, and stay in that bed.
3/28/2018