Best Turpentine Poems
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
There was a time.
There was a time
When your fabled dreams
Seemed honest
A time when
Your open arms
Coated in dented silver and tainted dreams
Understood my Size 12 shoes
When the world seemed to be against you
Yet, still,
Your blunt eloquence welcomed me home
Then, your “rainbow”…
…shat
t
er
ed
Your heartbeat became an arrhythmia of petulant theatrics.
Your topaz coated spit
Released from refilled white-out bottles,
Brushing away quartered moons of an iridescent shame
A copycat of robotic muses
Infringing upon your pedestal,
Turned loud mouth, afflicting broken tongue
The “Stalin” of a messenger’s wit,
You raised your voice to a poignant sky!!!
And, as if Yahweh cured your muted disorders,
EVERYBODY HEARD YOU!!!
Including me
That was your goal…
…excluding me
From incipient edge, I witnessed you,
A turpentine puddle in front of a confessional booth
On a melancholic Thursday morn,
With ripened glares to avoid your hallways
Tangled, dangling pacifiers as your doorbell
...
There will come a time.
There will come a time
When social feeds will deprive your vexing smile
Of validation
Where ignorant heartbeats will awaken
Through lyrical epiphanies
To see your “rainbow”
As a faded, stolen crayon
Where flirtatious dialect from withered accomplice
Licks cubic zirconium’s aftertaste
Forgetting that karma doesn’t tolerate one-night stands
For me, that time is now.
Then, I knew who you were.
Now, I know who you are.
You are not what you say.
A false advertisement in Sunday’s illiterate paper…
…with erased verbatim amongst your mirrored peers
Remembering how you falsified truth’s smile
Dire requests for empathetic warmth of our yesterdays
Yet, my Agnostic coat could never be thick enough
For your saturated, dual face
©Drake J. Eszes
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …
"What's your story?"
she questions,
"you seem interesting."
wildflower
in eyes
I reply, "NOW."
often people become confused
by such a unique response
not this one
she's a beauty
shiny minded stone
lives warm under veins
lacks definition of alone
alone she stands
tallest green blade
unscathed
each time the oily blade passes above
erect
she stays the same
tingling pulses exhale her pores
she'd rather sink
than have to think the way of worldly whores
still...
malice skips her
no ripples in the lake
dripping from her face
sunshine slips across tangerine cheeks
gold flows throughout waves
streaming locks
sky clear eyes surprise those
choosing to be consumed
by her entice
hands free of envy
no webs to spin
hips unmolested
thighs slick
turpentine
be warned
she will divide you
no voodoo
or silly twisted games
though safe may escape you
blemish-less
untangled...
the girl
she
Goddess
baby of zero maybes
KNOWS
how?
she knows
as clarity lent us its giant umbrella
her lipstick smacked my tongue
from there
we never looked back
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
___________________________________
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
Giving's being charitable;
Giving openhanded;
Generous and benevolent;
Just and generous;
Bountiful, mean;
Giving's
That's just;
What bout' us
That what is gleaned;
Giving moment in times;
Whining up clocks on walls of turpentine;
Giving's all that you have, having all that you give;
Giving's coats and a rag, what a life to live;
So you hold your feet up, drinking from the cup, you sup. . .
Giving you throw down hands down;
Giving's Cadillac mousses shavings off;
Honda Civic dreams you know what I mean;
And I want to give my life;
Life worth living, giving to my, give up my life to Jesus Christ;
Giving's nails upon the walls;
Virtual reality duck calls;
Giving now I eat my ice cream and cake;
With a full tooth garden rake;
WRITTEN BY JAMES EDWARD LEE SR.
02/24/14
All of this for mankind's sake
GIVING
Drop cloth dreams
It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and watercolor fault lines
semi gloss replaced by flat
Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants
speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden
Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years
melting clocks keep time with his idiocy
Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots
one size fits all
This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination
and nothing but drop cloth dreams
6/1/17
For the JUNE PREMIERE CONTEST Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
MY GIANT WAS THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS POEM
It's very intriguing how life's test is
Unpredictable hurdles like a Lecturer's quiz
One giant in life I so tremble and fear
Especially, when the cliff-hanger draws near
Yet, I'll never stop believing in myself
O yes! Never stop believing in yourself
Through thick and thin I'll prevail
There's no way I'll fail
I'll keep moving towards the promised land
I'll keep moving and not stand
I'll attack and crush my giant apart
O yes! There's so much power in my heart
I'll tear him apart, I'll pull him down
I'll scatter him upon the ground
I'll give him my best 'Gargo' shot
And blow him at his blind spot
I'll strike his eyes and wash it with turpentine
I'll cut of his tongue and his intestine
I'll break him down and cut of his head
I'll crush this giant and finish him like bread
I'll play hard from beginning to end, I'll go on
Though the cliff may be tedious and long
I'll go on to achieve my quest
O yes! I'll go out to be the best
"What's your story?"
she questions,
"you seem interesting."
wildflower eyes
~SIDE-NOTE:
I reply, "NOW." (Kwan$aba! Ha! Really,
often people become confused
by such a unique response
not this one...
she's a beauty
shiny minded stone
lives warm under veins
lacks definition of alone
tho solo she stands
tallest green blade
unscathed
each time the oily blade passes above
erect
she stays the same
tingling pulses exhale her pores
she'd rather sink
than have to think the way of worldly whores
still...
malice skips her
no ripples in the lake
dripping from her face
sunshine slips across tangerine cheeks
gold flows throughout waves
streaming locks
sky clear eyes surprise those
choosing to be consumed
by her entice
hands free of envy
no webs to spin
hips unmolested
thighs slick
turpentine
be warned
she will divide you
no voodoo
or silly twisted games
though safe may escape you
blemish-less
untangled...
the girl
she
Goddess
baby of zero maybes
KNOWS....
how?
she knows
as clarity lent us its giant umbrella
her lipstick smacked my tongue
from there
we never looked back
~JSLaM
As peepholes windows rattled on over pot holes,
In the inner sanctum, dim-light show darkly,
As prolific pickpockets glimpsed full fat purses;
With stealthy filty paws to fiddle and fondle inside hot
pies
Where hustling market's women chests underwear pouches,
Raucous kerfuffle flew after razor slashed deep pockets;
Like the flight of Flamengos
Dropping on motion, the golden stolen wallet assailant
vamoose;
And here, disgraceful disguise faces of nourished notorious
beggars,
Glib salesman eulogize marble chalk tablets and
turpentine,
To singe one thousand and one sickness,
And lifeless crowd spilled and shrouded lapsed on the parts
of poison ivy;
Thrust-thronged, defacing the emerging showcase of faceless
skyscrappers,
Better forgot in the museum of pyramid antiquity,
And rot on the garbage of yawning-gap memory,
Dark films smoke caked on drooping ill-faded fountain
Hibiscus,
Tree-lined traveling barb-wire amid
Toxic sludge plaster grass on muddy carpeted borderline,
The prowling beast trailing, triggering machine-gun
shrapnels and blasts;
Screaming smoking tires scattered shimmering lights on wet
avenue,
Turning bank of orchard blooming in red pomegranate into
cemetery bay.
My vacuum cleaner’s broken,
sits in the garage gathering dust
Beside dad’s old green car,
oxidising an orangey rust
I tried washing it last week,
and the water turned to wine
Well the colour miraculously looks,
venetian turpentine
World weary in a dusty brain,
contemplating null dividends
Doubtful the universe grew from zero,
to mere accidental existence
I’m never sure of anything,
other than opening up my eyes
When intelligence outsmarts evolution,
worlds of meaninglessness arrives
Nothing ventured everything gained,
the cosmos just gave and came
Dust clumped together,
galaxies burst forth into flame
No blueprint just chaos,
serendipity’s our only friend
Instructions out the window,
laws of physics can’t comprehend
Anyway God created us,
a few millennia after we made him
Mankind needed order,
to rid an infernal world of sin
I mean who’d hold faith in dust,
when all is said and done
Well some of us actually do,
on the mantlepiece in an urn
Yeah I’m full of bull, this
agnostic needs little imagination
I’m wasting space on the fence,
making these observations
I watch dust versus crosses,
and a universe going bust
Neurons keep me company,
as my brain churns out mush
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
King-Size Bull Crap Poetry Contest
01/12/22 rhyme form
"History doesn't repeat itself,
but it does rhyme"*
like the whine of swine
all drunk on wine
this viscous valentine
vents turbid turpentine
volcanic tectonics
of violent landmines
such slovenly, serpentine,
slips of sand
at end of time
as tears weeping
tsunamic sweeping
cesium creeping
the we rereading sky braille unseeing
signs and portents
content with contents
insistant attempts
at repealing events
and blindly concealing
our rifts and our rents
we prefer our unfeeling
and selfish intents
*from a quote of Samuel Clemens
In Jan, nineteen thirty-three, there was man called Mick Malloy
At the time he was an alcoholic and a poor homeless boy.
A young Irish fire-fighter out of work
He left his home in Donegal - to find some in New York.
He fell in with five real bad men
Who wanted to cause murder back then.
Poor Mick they had him in their sights
An insurance fraud, they brought to light.
They signed three life policies on Mick
Now they had to kill him quick.
Unlimited credit in a speakeasy, they gave him
To drink himself to death-they went out on a limb.
Although he drank all day long
His life it just seemed to prolong
They switched to antifreeze instead
Expecting Mick to wake up dead.
With turpentine they then did tempt
But no success, so they switched to horse liniment.
Finally a drink of rat poison, they gave the poor lad
But Mick never ever seemed to get bad.
They tried oysters, then methanol.
Bad sardines, poison and carpet tacks
But poor old Mick swallowed the lot,
And still poor Mick kept coming back.
The five would be murderers were baffled
Poor Mick just would not die
The murder trust then knew,
something else they would have to try.
One night poor Mick unconscious, they stripped him and carried him out
In minus fourteen degrees,naked, not wearing a single clout.
Threw five gallons of water on him, to make sure that he would freeze
Poor Mick returned the next without even a cough or sneeze.
Mick returned the next day to order himself a drink
The men were getting desperate they really had to think.
Next they hit him with a taxi and broke lots of poor Mick’s bones
But he had three weeks in hospital, then they sent him home.
The gang had thought that Mick was dead
But when they tried to claim, poor Mick returned once more
And kept on his drinking game.
In desperation in February, in fact on the twenty second
They waited for Mick to collapse, then gassed him in a second
A pipe they pushed into his throat and now poor Mick was gone.
The gang did not win even then, no not a single one.
They squabbled and were caught and to Sing Sing them they did send
Four to be fried on the electric chair what a sizzling end
The fifth was sent to prison, which didn’t seem quite fair.
He somehow managed to escape, Sing Sings electric chair
Poor Mick Malloy has been long gone, but will not be forgotten
Just remember to watch your friends though; you never know who’s rotten.
Sex Advice For Men
Wear double rubbers 24 hours a day
Don’t have sex in boxer shorts
If your woman is pretty, do it in the light
If she is ugly, do it in the dark
If she is so so, dim the lights and pray that it’s ok
Bazookas are too tight for a vagina
Dynamite is dangerous
Never open up an umbrella inside of her
It is bad luck
Erotica has a time and place
We all know that salty but not unpleasant taste
So remember to brush your teeth and gargle
And say grace before and after every meal
Use butter in bed but never margarine
Peanut butter and whipped cream are allowed
Turpentine is prohibited
Never ride your wife like she’s a horse
Unless you saddle her first of course, to avoid divorce
The best advice to give in these holey matters is
Check for all the right body parts
If there’s too much apparatus down under
In the lower extremities
She’s a he
Never have sex with animals with or without your zoo shots
Sex with one woman at a time is advised
You don’t always have to wear a tie
Unless you intend to marry
When you take her on a date you have to wait
When she turns red, push the green button, (cash)
If that doesn't work, use the jumper cables or cable TV
Take her dancing, spin her around
It’s like rotating the tires on your car
Women with athletic skills and acrobatics are the best
Stay away from girls without a pulse
It’s the same as having sex alone or something worse
..My Name Is Pete..
Up beat down to earth feet planted but not yet on them, my name is Pete...Eh Hem
...i am hopeless romantically driven, living a walking day dream of things gave and given forgave and forgiven, pride stricken but uplifting...mind made from the street my name is Pete, short for Peter, kind hearted but now to the point where if you don't care...I won't care either...improvisioned mind strong that words escape from wrong...my words are mine...written sloppy but revised to be perfectly neat...
my name is Pete...I am poetic artistically gifted me...
it's not clear to see cause I hide it for a bit for my self composed reflection...
my words are mine...they are my sunshine...my turpentine....my intoxicating mind destructive weapon, never letting....
my pen get a break from the constant fast circle motioned shake,
I write words 'til pens break...
up beat down to earth feet planted but not yet on them...eh hem...my name is Pete. my poems are written down to be discrete, I show the chosen few to read the real Pete...the passioned compassionate...hopeless romantically driven...pride stricken...up beat artistically gifted down to earth planting my feet to be on them...eh hem...my name is Pete
By: Peter T. DeSpirito