Best Wincing Poems
I stared into the mirror, wincing at my own reflection,
through eyes fogged by cataract.
Saw a black tint spreading around my eyes
and face like a wrinkled piece of linen
Where is the bubbly girl of seventeen?
I asked myself.
How flamboyant and flaunting I was,
now enveloped in silence.
Do anyone remember my younger version-
the little birdie that tweeted endless?
Beneath the shell of this withering cortex,
I still have a heart young as ever,
not yet shriveled, but succulent
full of love and warmth;
a sleeping guitar, capable of music,
if trained hands move over my taut strings.
So please don't take me as a wretched hag,
and push me into a state of silent non-being
or throw me like the chip of a broken mirror,
making me feel so inconsequential!
Categories:
wincing, age, angst, change,
Form:
Free verse
My heart has accepted every piece of furniture
you have brought in and hoarded, polished and stored,
for show or hidden in the attic of cerebral storage.
Cobwebs draped the entrances I walked through
without wincing, chasing extinguishing light…
gold tarnishing possibilities that I found invaluable.
Categories:
wincing, meaningful,
Form:
Free verse
Vase Dream - c'est la vie
White vase with no design
Dangling there - c'est la vie
I think somewhere in Center City
Apart from everything
In an apartment rising skyward
Lingering on the edge of ledge
Standing tall atop a railing raw
Languishing over the 20th Floor
Or there about
And more - c'est la vie
The balcony did its’ best of course
Displaying the fragile curves
Morning sun light danced approval
Around bouncing beams above the surface
But nothing could stop a soft breeze from…
Poof!.....And off it went… c'est la vie
An alert French man
Pastry smile and all
Happened along
With left handed nimble fingers caressing a Beaujolais 42
The other hand stretched out with stress
As if to field an errant football pass
And in that chance encounter…Catch!...
Tumbling to concrete boundaries down
Bottle released in a wincing crash
Ground favored his mortal urgency
Pottery saved - c'est la vie
Intact
French man’s head cracked
Let’s say opened
Something like an egg
A natural death ensued - c'est la vie
A passer-by seized the moment
Lifted vase and fled
Made off down and dirty
An ally
Another fate for vase awaits
Less encumbered
In a land far away
To dream of ledges - c'est la vie
If so inclined
Or so designed
Modified on 10/21/14 for - c'est la vie - Poetry Contest
Categories:
wincing, adventure, change, fun, happy,
Form:
Prose Poetry
War Heroes
Between black wheel tarmac
the crossing reflects a figure in polished paint
at the stagger of his old loose feet
crosses the barrier of traffic
with the beacons conversation meaning nothing
its flashing occupation signals his lolled neck stumbling
sucks the bottle for one last time
and forgets
Sighting on blurred reactions
sipping the spit of his dribble he stares at his daughter mannequin
wincing past his performance
begging her to listen
while her attention is fixed ahead
the traffic rolls slick full of monoxide toxic
breathes the waste of her distress
she ignores the principal wave of his bottle
releasing her breath with the clutch
the zebra smells like a mouse trap
the white ladder bars and black adder cars
bump pristine edges on his boots
he sways across
The market trolleys squeak echoes the ache
she steps on tender ankles
swollen while he eases her past the cardboard
the plastic bags of her life crammed to full
the tatters of memories
she thinks of china cups and lost children
on blazing streets that lived on rations
Some where in her mind he is a hero
medals adorning his battered uniform
the traffic roars as loud as the blitz
some where in his mind he sees her yellow skin
the gunpowder struggle and the munitions factory
have worn away her beauty but still her eyes are sweet and lovely
and the traffic blasts like the blitz
on the people they were before
Categories:
wincing, history
Form:
Free verse
Really, only five years have past
Since your son’s abandoned car was found,
No note,
Along side sea cliffs
North of Santa Cruz,
After failing with pills,
Too many times.
No body either,
Though at times I prayed for that.
Wincing now myself at your pain
As you hand beggars at streetlights
A few dollars, as you pray, heart broken,
Some empathetic soul is doing the same
For your son, should he still be alive,
Watching your head turn wistfully to search the face
Of distant beggars on the wrong side of the street,
Both of us feeling in our hearts that he is gone.
Rested, before dawn breaks,
I close the distance night has sanctioned,
Move closer,
Take you in my arms
Feel tension release
As sleep finds its meter,
Breath its rhyme.
The body’s warmth
Giving dreams new assurance.
The sweet sound of your sleeping
Now informs my answered prayer
Deft moves that fluff me into compliance
Help me to trust some needs at least are met,
My own sleep, pulls on my sleeve like a child,
As watchful still, I succumb to warmth of your heart,
That even in its half-full, depleted state,
Still has the power to make my sun rise.
Brian Johnston
December 5, 2015
Categories:
wincing, death,
Form:
Prose Poetry
She sent me a lol on wattsapp
Please pass the ketchup
Mothership gliding in silent space
Umbilically us padded in shiny foil
Her face deflected in a fish bowl
Leaves only guessing about her thoughts
Lets dock Lets talk
Little ingots and tiny orbs
Suspended in the fluid of my sight
Just us against the world
Through the crackling and the static noise
Wincing hard to hear her voice
Her words a soggy sandwich
Pleading as my waning battery
But my head wouldnt dock with my heart
And somehow we became unwed
She was my torment, I was her duty
Her virtue was the softer call
And that became her beauty
Ive become much softer now
But it doesnt work for me at all
A completed work a naughty boy
Indifferent now to watch me fall
Categories:
wincing, betrayal, divorce,
Form:
Free verse
Waking to sight of day
The ironic disorientation
bedroom ceiling moviescreen
fades out this dreams last scene
left looking dumbfounded at tiles
Sunrays shine splintered through bent blinds
casting illuminous entities into otherwise
darker turf
Blanket tangles limbs and ambition tight
traversing body and shielding one eye
guarding it from the illuminites
I draw higher to seek shelter for both
Life's rumble manifests in murmurs
builds gradual, head clears
Horns, tires, voices-reality appears
The window sings soundtrack for urban noise
the horn annoys-the voices noise-the bird song annoys
noise annoys noise and pisses me off!!!
Mind flips modes from hazy wander lust
To more acute senses... tune and adjust
The morning is a step ahead
we will assimilate soon-just before noon
Rise ...casting off covers takes convincing
face the day begrudging and wincing
See...this Evening's eve was very good to me
I reveled in debauchery-I tore the town down, you see?
I went to the school of bar-red knocks--and rocked
bellied up brasher shot for shot
As the sour mash showed effects
I drunk dialed my entire roladex
Jameson ,my Irish ego, whispered dares to me
I performed them to shocked stares, you See?!
We gloated stumbling in revelry
This is the price for the tab last night....
The noise pounds into my mind
Street noise, chirp annoys, pound in my head noise
noise annoys noise
Categories:
wincing, funny
Form:
Free verse
Held behind cold stone walls,
In silence, marched to work.
The shabby dressed walked prison halls,
Hell waits for those who shirk.
Breaking rocks or picking rope,
Naught to eat save gruel and bread,
Pointless toil, devoid of hope,
Here worked the living dead.
Mornings in the chapel praying,
The gathered wincing at the drops,
The hangman had the condemned swaying,
Yet more unworthy souls now cropped.
The chaplain looking down his nose,
He could better use his ministrations,
The faithless sat in squalid rows,
(As he prayed for a better station.)
Ne'er has a place been so bleak,
Nor seen more fear and woes,
If the Devil sought out company,
It would be here he chose.
Categories:
wincing, judgement, prison,
Form:
Rhyme
I’d been flat out writing poetry for nigh on near a week,
and I felt it’s time to try and clear me head,
so I put the dog upon the leash to walk down near the creek,
where I can feel a touch of nature here instead.
I sat down on a park bench and then let the dog run free,
and watched him scamper up and down the grass,
then I gave a subtle grin when he christened every tree,
as a pair of aging fellows walked on pass.
We gave our curt ‘hello’s before the pair of them sat down,
beside me on a bench to take a rest,
they said that they were living at a centre close to town,
for the invalid and aged they both confessed.
Now their names are Jack and Horry, and neither has a car,
their constitution is to walk here every day,
I asked them where they came from, and how old they are,
Jack was quick to cut in with his say.
Jack mentioned that he’s eighty-three but sprightly no he’s not,
he’s got arthritis, aching back; a touch of gout,
he finds it hard to sleep at night, and he feels he’s lost the plot,
Horry mentioned Jack is buggered without doubt.
So I turned and faced old Horry who is wincing just a mite
and asked him how he’s feeling just by chance,
Horry drawled, “I feel just like a baby”, so I added, “That’s all right” …
“Yep, I have no hair or teeth - and I just wet me pants”.
Categories:
wincing, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
My eyes are half closed for I fear to see
what worry and anxiety have made of me.
All day I have been twisted out of shape,
wincing at my disheveled appearance.
Life has taken a toll with its interference.
My mirrored face is a prism, a color spectrum,
frazzled reflections of the paths I've traveled.
It's no wonder I look completely unraveled
and seem to be moving in opposite directions.
I'm an abstract work of art, hastily brushed
with my own hand when I'm feeling rushed.
Blue when sadness tears my world in two,
Cadmium yellow on days when I feel mellow.
When anger tints darkness on my soul, my cheeks
are flushed with shades of pink. It's been weeks
since I've felt bold enough to paint with oils.
Misfortune leaves me feeling like used tin foil
or memories that should be buried in the soil.
I have need to gather all of my frazzled thoughts
and loosen them from the ropes that tether me.
Too many worries have wrinkled my facial parts
and from spying eyes that I despise, I need to be free.
Categories:
wincing, anxiety,
Form:
Rhyme
Estephania was the Spanish horse,
with a chestnut coat and mane
and a lighter long tail...and she ate
alfalfa for strong teeth and bones.
She was domesticated, losing her liberty
and neighing she showed keen ability:
to spot dangers on a perilous path...
Estefania even stopped for a stranded cat.
In summertime she fed mostly on grass,
but bees stung her many times to protest,
and struggling to get them off her tail...
she hit a shrilling raven in the head.
And feeling sorry for the dying bird wincing,
Estefania licked his semi-open eyes...giving
him a little comfort as he folded his wings;
and whinnying she wept a river of tears.
Categories:
wincing, animals, death, food, loss,
Form:
Quatrain
Famed gold crepuscular rays angling down
Knifing in between, through volcanic haze
Hualalai and Mauna Loa’s crowns
Fire Goddess Pele greets fresh island day
Fuchsia blooms explode, steal attention
Pollens mingle on zephyr coastal breeze
Hallowed entry, this tropic dimension
Surf thunder backdrop, soundtrack of the sea
Running shoes crunching the roadside lava
Kaleidoscopic blooms, soon to transmute
Mango, papaya, lilikoi, guava
Untended harvest of paradise fruit
Slow tempo set to the island perfume
Soul dances in the fragrant sensation
Unbridled speed would be this journey’s doom
Not to give in to the exultation
Entering town, the cast of characters
Pungent whiffs of spoiled fish atop stale rice
Green Shangri-La’s dingy inheritors
Tropical Bukowski's frayed paradise
Amphetamine native, drawn skin and bones
Wincing eyes, loose grasp, cigarette homespun
Tribal markings long burnt, faded blue tones
Completed journey, dark side of the sun
Manicured denizens clutter the way
Fair guests at the Royal Lik’a’Heini
Young surf seekers grimace to greet the day
Pakalolo Hostel, skunk-and-briny
Volta at the pier, Triathlon’s temple
Hallowed asphalt, footfalls of history
World’s smartest man living life so simple
Broom pushing, tune whistling, smiling at me
I should run faster; it's Ali’i Drive
Temple of Ironman’s Marathon pride
Vainglorious dreams have boiled alive
Burgeoning pace, a seaside suicide
Fair breeze has halted, sharp rays now reigning
Blanket of torpor fights progress forward
Through fragrant pillow, all fight is draining
A ballistic migraine arcing southward
Demons exorcised, sultry purgation,
Epic journey ends in clear sacred brine
Feet dive in wet sand, a bless’t sensation
Gaia’s ocean of sweat swallowing mine
4/28/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Categories:
wincing, beauty, flower, humanity, nature,
Form:
Quatrain
The telephone rang, I answered cheerily
When the niceties were over, the voice inquired
"How is it going with the gardening today" quite sincerely
I could not refrain and out of exuberance, desired
to extol the virtues and due attribute to the joy that Spring is bringing.
The Birds are chirping away
gleefully abound at their playing
rejoicing the rebirth of Spring today
and now have more hours to bask in the sun
That's the glory and joy that Spring is bringing.
The Winter's gloom of body and mind is now done
the Trees and Shrubs, in the breeze can't restrain their greeting,
The Peaches are busy Peaches-sing
the Figs are Figging away
and the Apricots are buckling in their blooming.
The Guava's graciously budding and Guava-ing the whole year
as with the Parsley's and Celery's luscious greenery,
The Paw-paw's are Paw-pawing, the Avocado-pear
so generous in their giving, through-out the whole year,
It's amazing, all the joy that Spring has sprung.
The Quince's are heavily wincing
the Mango's are flowering and ready to Mango-ing
the Banana's are Banana-ing
and the Plum's, purplish in their Plum-ming
so too are the Tamarillos heavy in Tree-tomato-ing
While the white and mauve blossoms
of the Yesterday Today and Tomorrow's, soften's
the most perturbed mind with their heady aromatic scent
and the Jasmines exudes a fragrance extraordinary,
As with the Clivia's in saffron pride, glistening in sun-lit dew.
What an awesome, wondrous sight
to see Mother-nature's beauteous, creative delight
blending so, with the Omnipotent Creator's panoramic scene
Set so, that we the Immortal Mortal care-takers bear in mind
that His Garden and the giving Spring, is of the sharing Kind.
Categories:
wincing, nature, religion, spring, joy,
Form:
Ode
Winsome Wendy walked in winter's white
Wondering when her window box wisteria would grow.
Wintry wisps followed by winter's windstorm
Wiped out her wonderful window work.
Winsome Wendy wanted to whine
"Without the wisteria, could winter be fine"?
While still walking, Wendy happened upon Woeful Will
Who worked without reward.
Winsome Wendy withstood the wisecracks that
Woeful Will had witlessly worded to her.
Wendy's withdrawal, spurned the wishy-washy Will
Which was witnessed by Watchful Ward.
Winsome Wendy went to the windbreak
Which Watchful Ward had wrought.
Wincing in the wind of winter's weight
Watchful Ward worded a simple warning to Wendy...
"Watch out for the windchill".
Categories:
wincing, fantasy, funny, imagination, nature,
Form:
Alliteration
Furtive glances mask the needs
Improperly. Her stillness wait inside
The fear where trust silently recedes
Of her hugging her mother's side
One day she left him in silence too
His eyes meeting no ones straight
And so they laughed and never knew
Why he stands only at the gate
I have no need for therapy or balm
My only cloak is this ancient faith
The second coming keeps me calm
And makes me different though they hate
Him upon th cross, abandoned so
He thought, wincing at rejection
I saw his face haggard with woe
And all our faces cornered by alienation.
Categories:
wincing, loneliness,
Form:
Verse