Best Wound Up Poems
...and the wind..!
was,
electric.
there was water..!
there was sun..!
...it was all renewable...
the energy,
powered,
sustained,
life..!
Fossil liquids burning
emitting toxins
that was OUR mistake.
From the day a human kick started
wound up the first combustible engine..!
The first spill in any ocean
should have been our clue.
It was what cigarettes was to lungs-
-what alcohol was to brain cells.
It was a human error,
a human error so huge
that like a mythical dragon
assumed a life of its own
consumed the will
the power
the limited minds
of limited men.
Unlike the giant beast
veiled as nuclear power
with its unlimited potential
that would have wooed the minds
of the greatest among us,
oil from its inception
had the smell of destruction on its breath.
It would in its own way
fulfil the prophecy
the world would end
with a whimper not a bang.
We saw its horns
its bright red skin
its pitch fork
but we signed up willingly
...and from that day on
our eternal souls were damned.
24~10~2014
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
I was taking out my trash can
When I thought I saw a worm
But I realized it was a caterpillar
When the thing began to squirm
It crawled across the cobblestone
And made its way onto the grass
But when my puppy went to do his thing
It wound up on its a...
My puppy tried to get it off
By rolling in the dirt
He rolled so fast, came off his a...
And it landed on my shirt
It crawled onto my collar
Then, it crawled into my hair
So, I shuck my head and flung it off
And it flew into the air
A bird upon my roof-top
Caught the 'pillar in mid-flight
And fed it to his chickadees
Before they tweeted... a sweet Good Night!
Metrical Tale Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
1/4/2023
Here’s a short story of a cowboy I knew
Whose name was Beg Your Pardon.
He wasn’t a gun slinger in the usual way,
Though his hands were fast
And his foots were faster.
But when Beg started shootin’
There was nuthin’ but disaster.
No worries for Beg, he had none you see,
Since he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
But his pappy got ugly
And yelled in his son’s face,
“Until you can shoot
As the son of mine should,
I want you the h*** out of my place.”
Beg had some tricks up his very long sleeves,
Coz he wasn’t a slinger in the usual way.
He’d show his pappy his skill
There’s no doubt about that.
Yet time was a-wasten
So Beg he did hasten,
But first he took off his hat.
He then wound up his body like a Kansas twister
And slung a cow pie in his usual way.
And broke every record
Did our cow pie ringer.
Since there was no one better,
Pappy exclaimed to his son,
“Beg Your Pardon, I beg your pardon
Heck, you’re some kinda’ slinger!”
For Wild Wild West Contest
He didn't have a coat of many colors
he had many coats in different colors
each day he wore a different one
whatever struck his fancy, his mood
whatever made me feel suave, cool
whatever made him feel mannishly approved
He changed those colors
in kaleidoscope speed
so fast that it seemed
he had a coat of many colors
yet in the end
he wound up cold
none of the coats
could keep him warm
though each one had its charm
the constant changing caused alarm
No coat felt special, real
and by some magic mystery
when he reached in the closet
each one he pulled out
had turned to black
in coat rebellion attack
mutiny
Back to black
to match the color
of his monochrome heart
Eileen Manassian
Everybody, and his brother
Stopped in, at one time, or another
Not for the greasy hash browns
Or the coffee, with a half a cup, of grounds
They weren't there for Ruby or Ruth
Whose numbers were in the phone booth
At night when the honky tonks closed down
It was the only place open in town
The regulars sat at the back
The bar was reserved for the hacks
Nobody ever stayed very long
A blue plate special or a jukebox song
The burgers were extra greasy
Waitresses a little sleazy
But there were always people around
It was the only place open in town
My mom, warned about it's reputation
My dad, more concerned about damnation
I used to go there, from time to time
Back when a pay phone was just a dime
On occasion wound up in jail
And one might say, I've been through hell
Anything one needed could be found
It was the only place open in town
We saw the smoke, from miles away
Heard the fire trucks, early that day
Everybody not working, went to see
The roaches and the mice run free
When the honky tonks closed that night
Everybody had to go home tight
Cause before the old cafe' burnt down
It was the only place open in town
Looking back, had some good times there
Just sit by the window and stare
Reflections of places and faces
Kinda like a memory, oasis
Life was a whole lot slower
I was a wild oat sower
But anytime, one wanted, to hunker down
It was the only place open in town
by Daniel Turner
I have a cat that wears no hat;
though her paws do love to bat,
her mice and balls,
all through my hall.
A clever cat,
a feisty cat,
I made her a nice catnip rat;
my hyper-active tabby cat.
A cat with tail all poofed and fluffed;
her claws are never, ever rough;
they’re so sharp and needle-like;
my god, they’re really more like spikes!
All through the night she bounds and plays;
sometimes in a catnip haze.
All day long she’s in a snooze;
fortunately, she doesn’t drink any booze.
I know she’s been on my computer,
looking for a kitty-suitor.
The claw marks on my keyboard tell,
without me hearing her collar bell.
Her favorite website, “Kitten Caboodle”;
actually sells tuna noodles.
I know because my credit card,
had more than thirty orders charged!
A confrontation did ensue;
she wound up with her ego bruised.
Pouting cat took paws that bat,
took out her frustration on catnip rat.
I tell you honestly,
I tell you true;
be grateful she doesn’t
belong to you.
Written 3-7-19
For Contest: "Honoring Dr. Seuss Poetry Contest"
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.
On the plains in the Texas panhandle
The fight for survival is real
As I watched from the derrick
On a short smoke break
A scene rather harsh and surreal
A cottontail bunny was having his way
In a pasture of gold knee high grass
When a hungry coyote, prowling late in the day
Caught his scent on the breeze as it passed
The bunny must have sensed, the coyote was near
He ran circles and made figure 8 bows
Confusing the canine, wound up chasing his tail
While the bunny escaped down the road
But nature has a way of being quite cruel
As a hawk observed from above
As he swooped down, the poor bunny froze
In a scene void of malice and love
With the rabbit in tow, still kicking and screaming
The hawk not making a sound
Somehow lost his grip, dropping his prey
Who died instantly hitting the ground
In all the commotion, the old coyote
Had watched and raced to the kill
Snatching him up and never looking back
Running swiftly over a hill
I stood there amazed, as the scene played out
This microcosm of struggles and strife
Then thought about destiny, no matter how hard you fight
The unfairness and the fragility of life
by Daniel Turner
The evening's gloom of mistic glow.
Cast it's spell for all to know.
Deep down indide the dark morass.
Where beast's do dwell in the lowest class.
Above the fray looms pious air.
Consumed by those who just won't share.
The day before the last day came.
Somehow they all wound up the same.
Heaven scented plumes of ruse.
Lingered only to confuse.
The Spellbound Hellhound unleashed it's guise.
To show the foolish they're not so wise.
When everyone is on the run.
And there's no place to stay.
The fiendish binds inside our minds.
Will finally have their way.
A world within a world without.
Will leave no room for a single doubt.
And a path beyond a concsious thought.
Is where you'll find what tomorrow taught.
Two travelers with different destinations, we met before our paths diverged,
and in that span between our first encounter and subsequent farewell,
we read in one another’s eyes a wanderlust that took us off our track.
We found ourselves in a meadow of grass seemingly never trodden on before,
where we became as two breezy joyous children, frolicking dizzily around
the wildflowers that became our world. Racing each other up a knoll,
we finally and breathlessly tumbled into one another’s arms, growing silent
as we gazed into each other’s eyes beneath a sky of blue.
Rapture soon discovered us that glorious day in the meadow. . .
Later, a nearby river enticed us with its rushing sound, so we followed it.
Coming to its end, we saw the sky grow black and tried to find our way back
to our first spot of discovery and enchantment.
Instead we wound up back on the common path where we’d first met,
parting ways as a sudden rain’s downpour veiled my view of your departure.
Every now and then I stop and wonder if you ever came across a place again
that could compare to the rapture of our time in the meadow.
**Is it weird that someone my age (Gen Xer) actually likes the hymns at church? I mean I like the much more modern songs that they sing on Christian radio too, but I like the hymns. As such I wondered what I could come up with simply mixing the lines of the hymns up and wound up with this poem.
I will lean on the everlasting arms,
because I am weak but He is strong.
A mighty fortress is my God,
and I will praise Him all the day long.
I will turn my eyes upon Jesus
because He lives and because
He is a risen Savior who holds the future
and I know that He holds my hand.
Jesus loves me, this I know
because of His amazing grace.
So when the roll is called up yonder,
I shall see Him face to face.
MY DANCE WITH SHEILA
With firm resolveI I strode across the hall
To where the girls were standing in a row
My focus: Sheila, object of heart’s call
In fervent hope that I might be her beau
The scene was set: the annual ‘soirée’
(Intoned as ‘sworry’ in our dialective)
In school hall cleared for action of the day
Gramophone wound up for music retrospective
Deemed too young for those modern ballroom new steps
We capered dances from grandparents’ time
Old fashioned waltz, Valeta and the Two-steps
Should cleanse all sensual thought from our young minds
Between polished shoes and hair in Brylcream freeze
Vain assays at ‘debonair’ were keen applied
Though short trousers revealed matching pale grey knees
Ever hopeful this aspect could be denied
Should I execute a strategy well planned
Gain my chosen partner for the final measure
We might then go out together hand in hand
To share lemonade and moments I would treasure
Decades on in life’s experience recall
All the thrills and chills of myriad times spanned
Could I re-evoque such moments pain and all
I would choose that day when I held Sheila’s hand
2 March 20
Kim Rodrigues’ DWM Contest
I need to make some calls but I can't even use this phone of mine.
I live in a hick town and me and my neighbors have a partyline.
People are always squaking on their phones and I've had enough.
When I ask the people to hang up, they tell me to get stuffed.
I need to make some important calls but I'm out of luck.
Women are gossiping all day long and that really sucks.
When I asked them to stop gossiping, their hubbies broke down my door.
They each took turns punching me and I wound up eating the floor.
When they finished beating on me, I was in a lot of pain and I'm still wearing a cast.
This is the twenty-first century for Pete's sake, partylines should be a thing of the past.
If you move to my neighborhood, buy a cellphone or you'll be driven out of your mind.
I'm not kidding when I tell you that it's both annoying and dangerous to have a partyline.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Mother Goose and Father Time
All together had children nine.
Love ruled hers,
His were let free.
All wound up productive, happy and fine.