Best Wrinkly Poems
Mum sat in her aromatic garden,
admiring its charm and grace.
It was a cold morning,
but mum never seemed to feel it any more.
Her eyes were tired, life's adversities had taken their toll,
yet the smallest things filled them with joy.
Like the perennial ivory lilies blossoming
among her loyal, royal forget-me-nots.
The tranquil scents of lilac lavender,
blooming among radiant Jerusalem sage,
always made her smile.
Her hands were wrinkly, but resilient,
despite years of hard work as a single mother.
Still strong enough to tend to her grandiose display
of ruby red, aureolin yellow and puce pink roses.
Mum always told me the thorns were like knights -
there to protect the rose's fragility.
That a woman is a man's most precious flower,
requiring tender care and appreciation.
Evergreen conifers parade along the perimeter of
my lovely mother's garden, like a colony of soldiers,
protecting a beautiful, yet delicate,
Japanese cherry blossom tree.
Mum always told me it reminded her about life,
how everything was temporary, just like its fragile buds,
that only blossomed in the spring and
how the lightest breeze blew them away.
Mum taught me so much and was my inspiration,
picked me up when I was defeated,
taught me that only in defeat do we learn.
When the world tried to change me,
taught me to accept myself,
to love myself before I could love others
and be true to who I am.
As I sat with mum admiring the beauty of the seeds sown,
melancholic tones flooded my emotions,
wondering how I would cope without her.
Was I selfish wishing to die before her,
so I would not have to mourn for her,
but it would be so heartbreaking
for her to mourn for me.
My contemplation was interrupted by an outbreak of rain.
Mother simply smiled and said:
"Rain is mercy from God, my son."
Written 26 February 2016
Categories:
wrinkly, mother, mother son,
Form:
Free verse
December – A Time to Remember
Deep into Fall, as brown wrinkly-faced leaves wave adieu
Ebony evening sky twinkles with rhinestone-studded stars
Chilly winds blow … a sign that winter’s just next door
Erubescent sunsets flaunt their majestic golden crowns
Mingling with gray and white patches of layered cotton-white clouds
Beautiful, ruling planet Jupiter aligns with Venus and Mars
Ever the auspicious harbinger of wisdom, prosperity, and power…
Reminding my mother of the day I, her first child, was born.
12-06-2015
Contest: Any Poem Written on your Birthday
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placement: 3rd
Categories:
wrinkly, beautiful, december,
Form:
Acrostic
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throws of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dew drops appear like goose bumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
Thank you Peter for this brilliant collaboration.
Peter is a very talented poet, please check out his poetry.
Categories:
wrinkly, analogy, hope, winter,
Form:
Free verse
I pull down from the shelf
The beautiful box of treasures
Ornately carved
Warm, yet well worn
To the gentle touch of my fingers
There is no rush
As I sit in this cosy spot
The sunlight of memory
Like a shaft of enlightenment
Beams onto my cheeks
There is a brass clasp
That silently releases the lid
Inset with filigree, blue and gold
My favourite colours
In my favourite pattern
The hinges release the air inside
Like a happy sigh
A hug of acceptance
As a valued friend visits
After life has carved out years of absence
My eyes closed, I reach inside..
I find the sound of laughter
Forest light streaming through the trees
Jewels of picnics and Spring days
Friends I have loved and lost
I find endless Christmases
Warm Summer gifts of love
Painted pictures from children
Smiles from unexpected messages
Or kind words that linger
I find weddings and food and dancing
Music and poetry and photographs, old and new
I remember the holding of many hands
Small, soft, pretty, all different
Some tired and wrinkly (my favourites)
I find emotions that I thought I had lost
All gathered in this precious box.
Placed carefully,
Never broken
Always perfect and personal
I am slightly overwhelmed
(it happens sometimes)
For now, the tears can stay outside
As I close the lid, replace the clasp
Until the next time
Categories:
wrinkly, family, friendship, loss, love,
Form:
Free verse
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throes of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dewdrops appear like goosebumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
Categories:
wrinkly, autumn, winter,
Form:
Free verse
I'm the two year old
with white hair and wrinkly skin-
mother's eyes' magic
Honorable Mention in STRAND SELECT 7 ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Categories:
wrinkly, daughter, magic, mother, son,
Form:
Senryu
Whilst walking down the street one day,
I saw upon the drain,
A little green dill pickle,
That was beaten by the rain.
I picked it up and took it,
To my house upon the hill.
I placed it in a tiny bed.
I named it, Baby Dill.
I nursed it back to bright green health.
Its flesh was plump and firm.
Whenever I would touch it,
I'm sure I saw it squirm.
One day when I noticed,
My babies wrinkly skin.
I grabbed a jar of pickle juice,
And I promptly threw it in.
Within a couple of hours,
I thought I'd better check.
My baby dill was missing.
I was just a wreck.
That's when I saw my brother,
He was sitting in his chair.
Eating my dill pickle.
As if he didn't care.
This was the hardest lesson,
I've ever had to learn.
Now I can't eat pickles.
They make my stomach turn.
Categories:
wrinkly, funnybaby, baby, green,
Form:
Rhyme
I’m hanging on to the skeletal branch with all my might
Westerly winds blow but I won’t give in without a fight
My skin once soft and smooth is now wizened and wrinkly
Dark veins are so visible now, I’m all brown and crinkly
Suddenly a huge gust of wind releases me
HELPPPP! I’m
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
Silently I drift down to the ground,
Now I am lying on my winter bed where I will curl up and die
No longer the last lonely leaf on earth …
For now I’m surrounded by my friends and family …
Inspired by the lonely leaf poem by Sophiya Kamil
28th November 2015
Categories:
wrinkly, death, tree, weather, wind,
Form:
Personification
Big Brenda knew things were not right
When she saw the rolls of cellulite
She could not disguise
The wrinkly thighs
And her hanging butt groaning with fright .
Skinny Jack just stood there and leered
It was worse than his lean frame had feared
When he sat on her lap
And had a real bad mishap
Skinny vanished .... He just disappeared .
But Weight-watchers opened her eyes
Slimmed her "Michelin" way down to size
And Skinny was found
In a wrinkle that bound
Her bum to the back of her thighs .
Inspired for Carolyn's contest .
Categories:
wrinkly, funny
Form:
Limerick
Like my fondest memory of it, the park of my childhood still remains -
with its garden of roses near the entrance and its verdant rolling hills.
On its eastern street, It had a tiny zoo our step dad took us to.
Gone now are the monkeys, the snake house, the zebras, the giraffes,
and the elephants with wrinkly greedy trunks reaching out
for the leaves I waved excitedly in my sweaty palms.
Across the street, the swings, see saws, slides and springers beckoned us.
Dizzy with excitement, on the merry-go-rounds we spun.
Then from one thing to another, laughing, we’d all run.
When did the train and the miniature roller coaster disappear?
Even that fun pool in the park’s center with its outdoor snack shack was removed -
to be replaced in a new spot by a new pool, bigger and now with water slides.
Are the picnic tables where we gathered for wonderful reunions
even in the same green spots where they used to be?
I try to see Weed Park whenever I revisit my home town,
first crossing the quaint bridge above the pond where we could ice skate in winter.
Leaving it, I cross the street to where my fondest memory of the park remains.
There I see myself sitting on a swing, legs pumping air, as higher and higher I fly.
My father, the other one, whom I rarely see, has come to visit me and my sisters,
and I’m shouting gleefully, “Look at me, Dad! Look at me!”
Written Feb. 2016 for the contest of Craig Cornish
Categories:
wrinkly, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
The sky bathes the harbor in cyan turquoise
cadet-blue sea foam bubbles the only gorget one has
versus the flamingos and canaries absconding littoral mire
the gashes on my feet, the burn in my gracilis
have returned me yet again to
sanctum:
la vie en rose,
where
lips breathe lunarias into drift bottles
love songs the only tune in our ears,
lilac mica on denim morpho
is the heart in my chest,
and the color of your hair
when the sun decides
its inevitable rest
everything must come to an end,
but the feeling I get
when you scrunch your nose
and shake wisteria dust
off raven plumes
eclipsing spinel
opals
and if describing them is the one thing I can do,
then the paint in my mouth may go stale
fingertips now pruney, lazy, tired
vision indispensable falling pallid
the paper of my visage a
wrinkly,
sallow
pity
but the young wish of a besotted soul
to grow old with your puling orbs
granted
ink sinks the coral lens
your darling hands
have fixed over my head
but my legs are torn,
and my teeth broken
aching
for another laugh
rumbling through
your vibrating back
that my cheek is pressed into,
and I drown
willing
smile
wistful
hush
still.
Categories:
wrinkly, age, beauty, bird, first
Form:
Free verse
To tango with a mango;
now that would be sublime;
much sweeter than the bitterness of lime.
With a sticky passion fruit
I did try to make it merry;
and, once, the innocence of unpicked cherry.
A banana in Havana
I tried, but once beneath the skin
I found it just a little soft, and pale, and thin.
A passion for papaya
gave me all my daily C;
but too much of it did not agree with me.
To moon with a prune
I thought I'd give it a try;
but found that a little wrinkly and dry.
A dapple with an apple?
But taken once a day,
soon become a little tired and gray.
So, I tango with a mango,
I do it all the time;
I tried once with an orange but couldn't make it rhyme.
A Merger With Food Poetry Contest, placed 1st
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Date wrote: 9th May 2022
Categories:
wrinkly, food, fun,
Form:
Rhyme
Broken, this aged vessel
fractured by fate in matter and mind
careworn and cracked like creeping veins of window frost ...
(but colder in my solitude, I surmise)
Oh, but wholly blessed on the surface, really
no furrows or folds or wrinkly crows
hardly a dozen gray hairs, but for goatee' ...
(winter taking hold there, evidently
the once fiery and fervently experienced lips
put to the frigid air of the disinterested and forsaken)
Too proud, really, that I look twenty years my lesser
for it reaps naught but envy ...
(when I yearn for naught but love)
Yes, the porcelain facade still reflects the sun
but ONLY that, then back to whence it came
the warmth seeps not, and oh the splintered shell within
shards as sharp and crimped as British wit
whether by bent or happenstance or horrid folly ...
(they are as defined as they are hidden
as black as they are white
as cursed as they are blessed)
A hundred and more, they are a memory, each
a pain, a tragedy, a misstep, a ravaged heart given fully
returned with but a wish and a wave
but you see, those cracks and breaks and chips
all carefully mended ... with gold ...
(caring friends, exquisite joys, profound experience, loving family
hope, faith, renewed self-respect, and a million little things
that may pass others unnoticed
but to me, are the lifeblood of existence)
They fill the seams with the most wonderful precious metal
and that broken, shattered soul is healed
made whole by what is truly valuable and lasting
far more formidable and beautiful and priceless ...
(with the wisdom of breakage and healing
and all the myriad lessons learned in the process)
Than it ever was ...
(than I ever was)
Before.
Submitted on April 4, 2020
To the "Strand Choice Z, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
( For those not familiar with the ancient Art of Kintsugi, please take a moment to check it out - it represents a model for life that is very special - strengthening through adversity. Here's a link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi )
Categories:
wrinkly, analogy, appreciation, beauty, life,
Form:
Free verse
Church Lady Cat was a formidable, skinny, ugly wrinkly old crazy thing.
Never showed a smile, and certainly did not cheerfully hymn-sing.
We saw her at church, and knew she would come and get the money.
No man in town had ever called this old prissy baby or honey.
Blue eyed hag had a meanness that only arrives in the lap of skinny.
So homely, many of us made jokes that she could probably whinny.
She wore a padded bar under her lacy blouse and I pointed it out.
Brother let out a not-for-church stupid horrific dumb brother shout.
Mother gave us both a mean unmotherly look that meant “now be nice!”
In the sixties, she did not have to give us that look more than twice!
Church Lady Cat’s clothes were made of drapery material I swear.
Doubt she had anything but lead in her undersized kitty underwear.
Wore a purple hat with the cluster of marshmallow baubles of pink.
She was a blue eyed woman, who never walked with a slink.
She had dainty ivory gloves that covered most of her skin.
If they had covered her scrawny face, it would have been more of a win.
I thought she was the weirdest craziest person at church for sure.
Then I got a job at the grocery store, and met her other side, demure.
She was helpful and kind, and made me feel at home, became a friend.
Now I get in fights daily to defend her. Yes, sir. I will fight you to the end!
Categories:
wrinkly, cat,
Form:
Rhyme
still a tree
longingly with lashes,
barely seen through wrinkly lids —
a mother, a child of ages ago
yearns for a ten foot tree.
with strength of a weaker sort,
eyes still sparkle and shine
for former ways, days that blink.
bags the artificial with receipt.
turns her eyes toward Charlie Brown.
her tears shall wrap the miniscule pine,
lift its sighing boughs, kissed with ribbon’d rose.
her smile makes it stand up soldier straight.
for Christmas day she cannot wait.
12/24/2019
Categories:
wrinkly, age, christmas,
Form:
Free verse