Best Wormed Poems
After all these years, we've weathered many a heavy storm
Now my life is empty with no one to keep me warm
Bitter tears I've sadly wept, I begged you not to let me go
You couldn't look me in the eye - you didn't want to know
I thought she was my best friend, we’d been through thick and thin
She wormed her way into our lives – oh boy she took me in
Stole your heart away from me, now its no longer you and me
Today we signed the papers, and finally you are free
How do I explain to our kids that daddy no longer lives here
That you prefer that sneaky cow and your pints of beer
Yes you can say I am bitter, gave you the best years of my life
Seventeen years together, now I’m no longer your wife
My world is shattered and broken, silent tears fall like rain
Maybe in time I’ll move on when my heart's not filled with pain
18th April 2015
Categories:
wormed, best friend, betrayal, heartbreak,
Form:
Rhyme
There once was a picture that wormed itself into my reverie
On a gray, cloudy morning, whilst it was raining and cold.
In this one picture were four slices of toast and five beverages.
Three glasses held tea the color of honey, and two were raspberry tinted.
Somehow it was important to me that the toast was suspended
In the air above the table by two glasses, like bookends.
For a moment I wondered who had achieved this strange feat, and why;
But then my thoughts turned to how my life was like that toast,
Suspended in air by forces counteracting gravity,
And any moment a passerby might jar the table, destroying the illusion
Of serenity and stability. I've seen people's lives change as quickly.
For the most part, everything seems to go well for them,
Then there is a turning point, after which nothing seems to be right.
Anything can trigger it; the loss of a child or job,
A spouse, or the home in which they have always lived.
Moreover, there is no reasoning to whom it happens;
Just like a careless passerby might bump a table,
And four slices of toast fall to the table, or the ground.
(Poem is written in Prose form)
Categories:
wormed, food, introspection, life, simile,
Form:
Ekphrasis
When I was young, I took ballet
or in the sun with friends I'd play.
but once in school I learned to read,
on stories I began to feed,
especially when days were grey!
Upon the bed or couch I lay
for hours, and nobody could sway
me from it! It became my need
when I was young.
Through many books I wormed my way.
In fiction's world I longed to stay.
Mom had read me tales, so she'd
been planting in my mind that seed
by reading to me everyday
when I was young.
March 14, 2019
Categories:
wormed, books,
Form:
Rondeau
Walk out to ocean, this stony pathway,
Folk story declare, twas a snakes byway.
Climbed from sea, wormed onto the hidden cave,
Men explored and commune, the knowledge crave,
This legend lives on, even to this day!
Along the horizon, dawn caught away,
Rides in with glory, it's mystic gateway.
Morning shines hope on, the soul of each brave,
Walk out to ocean.
Mist rises, the ocean hides the door way,
Relish the cold evening, welcome skies grey,
The lava flow stairway, the surf well lave,
Presents a view, foretell of gifts we save.
The moon radiates rich, dream day can't stay,
Walk out to ocean!
Categories:
wormed, adventure, environment, history, inspiration,
Form:
Rondeau
I am an evening of scented season,
wondering if you've given me
this stairway with the gold curls.
Who changed her name to Stacy?
Later in my throbbing red heart,
you were forest green and lush apples.
I have learned to pick my apples,
the reddest ones no matter what season.
Then you wormed your way into my heart,
gnawing away the discretion in me.
I wish I had a pretty name like Stacy,
and sunlight in my spiral curls.
A snake who maneuvers in curls,
you savor the tartness of granny apples,
dreaming of girls with names like Stacy,
who are cherries of the spring season,
while courting an old dame like me,
careless about breaking my heart.
I've wondered about the color of your heart.
It has wound its way around me in curls,
so tightly you almost suffocate me.
Now I am just the core of an apple,
tossed to the dirt in a cold season.
Maybe I will reincarnate as Stacy!
My childhood nemesis is named Stacy.
Oh, how she left an ache in my heart,
with blushed cheeks of a peach in season,
and glossy lips in a perpetual curl.
In everyone’s eyes I was the apple,
until that Snow White replaced me.
The whole world has replaced me,
full of young versions of Stacy.
My wrinkled skin is like fermented apples.
Now I tell people, hey, I have a kind heart.
I need no curler to make my lashes curl.
I change with the colors of a new season.
You've handed an apple to the piteous me.
It is love's season, nothing to do with Stacy.
The warm cushion of your heart is where I'll curl.
Categories:
wormed, love,
Form:
Sestina
The old widower kept a tidy yard.
Bright flowers -snowball hedges,
a sparrow house and apple tree
gnomes chasing ceramic frogs
pinwheels spinning sunlight
round and round silver dreams.
He put a picket fence around his little Eden,
like an artist framing a masterpiece.
It wasn't long before the graffiti ogres wormed in.
They inked a scruffy tattoo on his Mona Lisa
kicked in a few of her teeth.
Turned her into" The Scream".
He painted over those angry scribbles,
but they kept pace.
His glitter garden was overrun by hate,
The ogres stepped up the assault,
slashing another petal of his peace.
He finally caved in ,
took down the remains of the fence...
one night he had a big bonfire,
One by one he fed his defaced masterpiece to the flames.
Afterwards, he didn't frolic in the yard as much,
the hedges grew wild like green afros on fire.
The breeze shunned the pinwheels
frogs and gnomes fled.
the birdbath cracked and bled dry.
Not long after, the old widower died.
For "sails" drifted about his rotting apple yard.
The ogres moved on to the next Eden,
the one right next to mine.
Categories:
wormed, abuse, garden,
Form:
Narrative
(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game
He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him
He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber
He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood
I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Categories:
wormed, angst, funny, life, on
Form:
Prose Poetry
Winter wears on my patience.
Dim dreary days – the grey
grinds and grates the spirit.
Sleet slushes the street.
I don’t even ask for spring.
Grant me a blizzard
or a biting freeze with inky skies,
just something
to lift the weariness
that has wormed into my mind
and paralyzes.
2/12/2018
Categories:
wormed, depression, winter,
Form:
Free verse
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
Categories:
wormed, dark, fantasy, horror, imagination,
Form:
Narrative
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
from that of an old soul, from pure consciousness
to egg and sperm colliding, to embryo, to fetus,
to that of a baby, a child, youth, a teenager,
a young adult, a middle aged man, this old man
who has walked the walk of the living and the dead
with ghostly shadows floating in night time forests
blanketed by sheets of blackness, permeated with flakes,
specks of light from distant planets, long lost stars,
forgotten lives, as the reflective moon, on high,
tries to shed light upon the nightly shadows,
brighten the edges of all the black clouds
that fill all the empty spaces above the tree tops.
Life on the edge – I have been tripping – have gotten up,
have fallen from grace, yet stands up to face adversity,
have been trapped, yet set myself free, been lost
yet have found my way back to myself.
Life on the edge – time reveals all, all the efforts,
all the accomplishments, all the failures, the defeats,
and all the losses become weightless in the light,
of an old man who sits alone, on his own locked up
in the cage of his own design, his own making
as nightmares continue to haunt - to the end of his journey.
Life on the edge – has been sharp, dull, keen without tears,
in spite of all that life, fate, karma, choice have lain upon
the experiences this old soul has suffered, endured, enjoyed
and yet the dreams of this child – before and after he became –
still linger on in the fading embers of his life’s journey
even if they are but ashes blown by cold cruel winds
putting out the raging fires that once lit up the skies
and wormed the heaven and the hearts of a few mortal women.
Life on the edge – of this plane, this dimension, this universe –
can it really be as we see it ?, is it karma ?, is it fate ?, is it design ?
Does history repeat itself ?, does it come back to haunt us ?,
in another time, in another place, in a different space.
Life on the edge – next time around – will be a prayer
to never, ever have to live on the edge again,
to know no more emotional pain, no poverty of heart, soul,
the stupidity and thoughtlessness of those in control,
those in the know, of the nature of this old man
who has shown – specks, flakes of light, light that has
burned so bright, has flickered, has long since taken flight.
B. J. “A” 2
March 10th 2004
Categories:
wormed, life, universe,
Form:
Free verse
Ms. Brenda Brawling borrowed nothing,
but begged life to bestow her something.
Blistered blue when life barely listened,
she began buying bargain fiction.
By and by, she believed she’d become a book ink fly.
Her heart bade she give her own fantasies a book try.
Brenda bathed blank sheets in beaut romance
billowing with bawdy circumstance.
Brenda bloomed when her pen beget one man’s behavior;
the book’s brawny, bold boatman became her heart’s savior.
Brenda’s book was bought in big, boxed bundles,
so she boasted bling, but felt befuddled.
Daytime, bedtime, both brought baleful feel
born from thoughts baring boatman’s appeal.
Brenda balked, but she well failed to block boatman’s stalk
who wormed her sanity thru fiction’s crosswalk.
Obeying her pen, she beheld him in blissed fantasy blocks.
Now, Brenda’s berserk pen bends her daily at bleak o’clock.
10-9-16
Categories:
wormed, books, fantasy, mental illness,
Form:
Alliteration
What’s that infuriating hum,
that droning, distant, low-pitched sound?
No one can find its origin,
but maybe’s and I-think’s abound.
In my small rural area,
not all can hear this thing that makes
me crazy; and no city friends
hear it at all. It even wakes
me up. It’s worse when I’m inside.
Earplugs don’t help. I can’t ignore
this interloper that has wormed
its way into my very core.
For decades news reports of this
annoying sound have been widespread.
The mystery is seldom solved.
The hum remains a cause for dread.
Factual write (hasn't happened in my community, but has happened in numerous other areas, according to news reports)
March 7, 2017 (posted)
April 4, 2017
Categories:
wormed, anxiety, mystery,
Form:
Rhyme
Bastille Day for Real
Jean Val Jean French "Mensch",
Rescued "Freres" From a Societal Trench,
Confounding the Monarchy With a "Monkey Wrench".
Marie Antoinette's "Let Them Eat Cake",
Only Inspired the Revolution to Make,
Show the "Roi" a Farce, Royalty a "Genuine" Fake.
"Marsellaise" Patriotically Sung, Bastille Stormed,
Prisoners Freed & Democracy Formed,
Citizen's United , The Specious Throne "Wormed".
Lafayette's the Gratitude to America Shown,
Allies Against "Brits" in Our Revolution Renown,
Gibraltar Strong, The "DeGaulle Stone"!
Categories:
wormed, anniversary, freedom, jewish, patriotic,
Form:
Rhyme
Thinking I knew you from your smile
you wormed your way in with guile
my bete noire*, my bogey man
long of tooth and without a clan
I let you in, a worm with style.
le grand faux pas*, angel vile,
seeming weak, yet, so versatile.
Hobgoblin of dread, bogey man
Thinking I knew
Shrink back now into your defile
of sagging skin and toothy smile.
But, I have seen a reviled hand
and my open heart still here stands
wishing sweetness all the while
Thinking I knew
Categories:
wormed, fear,
Form:
Rondeau
I push the tall-legged hard thing next to the water thing, and pick up the blue thing.
It’s sticky, and sudsy, and fun. I pour it all on the dishrag on the counter, over the carefully washed bottles, over shiny hard things, and some soft squishy yellow things. Bubbles are coming off the counters now, and they are pretty.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Uh-oh. I jump down and the chase is on. Nona is old. She probably can’t catch me. I lead her up stairs, and dive into a pile of laundry, where she does not find me until I laugh.
Being twenty-two months, means I am muscular, strong-willed, fast, and determined to make at least five more messes before Nona forces me into the room full of pillows, and we both pretend I’m going to close my eyes.
In the time it takes Nona to put these pieces of cloth back into the clothesbasket, I have wormed my way out from under her legs, and I’m poking Mommy’s make up out of their little metal tins.
Nona glares at me when she discovers this, wraps all the make up in a plastic sack, and tosses it into the garbage. I know Mommy would be angry about this, if she knew, but I don’t have words yet. And I doubt Nona is going to tell how she’s failing as a volunteer.
By the time Nona catches up with me, I have slid down the stairs on my bottom, dumped the Monopoly game on my way through the living room, and smacked my three-year-old brother with an orange plastic bat. Together in temporary solidarity, we are both now smashing marshmallows and Lucky Charms into a big plate of sticky gooey brown stuff we found on the counter. It is cold, and squishy, and the Lucky Charms look funny in it.
Uh-oh. Here comes Nona. She’s on the phone now, saying something about her meatloaf.
In a red minute my brother and I are behind the couch, crouched low, hiding.
This drives her crazy when she lets it.
That stupid giggle gives us away, and we get dragged out.
We can’t go to bed yet!
Who will teach Nona how to open every child-proof lid and lock she’s put around this messy house?
Categories:
wormed, baby, childhood, children, grandchild,
Form:
Free verse