Best Yanked Poems
POTW 1 Oct 2018
Gossip about her
swept the school yard through
“Hey if you’ve got what it takes
There’s this girl named Sue
For a pack of smokes
or a drink or two
She’ll kiss you ~ she’ll please you
like no other girl can do”
Her fuchsia glossed lips
Matched the colour of her hair
Her legs went on forever
She had a self-assured flair
He yearned for those baby blues
to stray his way
How did the cool guys snare girls
come what may?
Dreams on his pillow
a teenage fantasy
Were seconds away from becoming
a manly reality
She promised to meet him
in the park one night
Two packs of Marlboro’s
Under the pale moonlight
A brief kiss on the lips
then as she swiftly turned to go
He yanked her back hard
and as she fell to the floor
A fantasy was shattered
Hopes tossed away ~ abused
Feelings of rejection
Cast aside and confused
He lived in an era
Where double standards
were applauded
Girls were shamed
For going all the way
Boys rewarded
However integrity
doesn’t stoop to lows
no need to impress
Head high as he walked
it was not worth the stress
The journey was his ~ along this untrodden road
Tomorrow ~ todays rejection would be yesterday’s episode
Every step away from her was a gentle elixir
Then came her words on the wind ~ barely a whisper
‘Hey ~ I’m a virgin too ~ and a skank I’m not
They sully my name and my character they blot
The smokes are for my mum it eases her pain
And for my sick Ma I’ll do this again and again’
Continued in 'Tears on her pillow'...
My earliest recollection was being placed in a Coca Cola cooler in a Barbershop in Virginiatown Ontario. I heard the sound of the Nickle being placed in the coin slot. Then an eager little boy opened the top and peered in with twinkling blue eyes. I wondered which one of us he would choose? His tiny little hand reached towards me and guided me through a metal maze and yanked me out. He popped my top with the opener on the side of the Red machine. I wonder if that is how I got the name "Soda Pop". He held me close to his chest brought me over to his chair and placed me beside a stack of comics. I watched as he jumped up gleefully onto his chair.
He grabbed me with his two little hands and put me up to his mouth. My orange fizziness passed over his lips, onto his tongue and then down his throat. A big toothy smile and an orange coated tongue. I felt his little tummy bursting until a big burp and a giggle gave him relief. Even after my orange had been consumed he seemed to enjoy the texture of my glass as he rotated me in his hands. I remember him turning me upside down and peering at the room through my base. He liked the way I played with the light. When he was done he placed me in a paper bag with his comics to take me home.
To be continued...
I saw your other flowers sprout,
so bringing charm, I put down roots.
but hating me, you yanked me out.
You fool, I'll just bring more recruits!
Malevolent imploded uncontrollably,
twisting wildly maniacal posies
amid diabolically toasted brainstem,
angst uncompromisingly yanked tresses
purging stinging speech patterned rhymes
amuck iniquitous poetic verses hung
upside down to tormentingly dry,
facing other inimically knotted borders of
antagonistic galleries in deranged snapshots
razing warped poetical tapestries,
tripping on tunes of whiskey rushes' savoy truffles
and greenish tangerines whilst Led Zeppelin's
Sick Again danced upon reflective ceiling tiles,
time written sideways 'round alleged autonomy
hidden furthermost immune masked mirror images,
debauching Greek braille calligraphy's vindication
on walls of graffito scripted physicality
calling out 'tween hysterical compulsions,
naught one heeded the sounds of synapses
about ill-fated half moon's arresting arc,
synthetic doomsday's clocks aptly chimed
quarter to analytical cuckoo's nest repudiation,
still awaiting on serendipity to surrender
furthermost rabbit hole's curiouser rants,
relinquishing unwell-languaged compilations' sabotage - -
circumventing rhythmically subversive escaped detonation
Cityscape
The artist’s hand reshapes yesterday
In straight lines
Of hard edges -
Peaks of
Right angles perfected
Missing oblique or obtuse –
Claiming the horizon
In full frontal
Silhouette
Cut from ebony shades,
When daylight sinks into the shadows
And twilight goes down meeting midnight
One dimension pyramids,
Floors layered by steel reinforced
Triangulated honeycombs,
Octagonal rounds
Gather cotton clouds
Topping off their naked crowns,
Lofty spires
Scrape the midnight
To gather far flung stars
Flat rectangles with jute box tops
Soar with arches -
Lines leaping up and sliding down -
Squares low and squat,
Took up their space,
Yanked from the line,
Openings left
Like toothless
Grinning;
Concealed within the cityscape unblinking
The murmurings of urban sighs,
No rise and fall of breathing,
Foundation’s feet bound in stone
Swaying only when magnum cores
Tremble moving plates east to west, north to south;
Unseen
The doorway cradle songs
Of shivering dreams,
Desperation
Pacing
On the nineteenth floor
Fauna’s night perfume
Floating up behind dark floral gates
Of swirling iron
Grids of neighbors – blocks of neighborhoods -
Graphs of boulevards winding round,
Absent from the cityscape.
Inspirational verse – “When the lights go down in the city and the sun shines on the bay; do I want to be there in my city….I want to be there in my city.” Journey
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
I lie and watch the clouds go by;
the birds flying high…
wondering if Batman and Robin, Spiderman,
or Superman was once a kid like me.
Did they ever doubt what they
would grow up to be?
I pretend with my sister that I am
Spiderman…
Climbing walls and jumping from
my bed, finding a plan,
to set her free
showing her the hero in me.
I rescue the dog, from my little brother,
when his ears get yanked…
then I’m bathed with lots of kisses
and I know I’m thanked.
Did Batman have a little brother,
to inspire…
or did Robin have a big brother
to admire?
No denying Superman was the toughest
in my belief.
Muscles of steel could stop the meanest
thief.
Flying all around the world
never getting tired,
he was the hero who my dad admired.
Stopping trains saving ladies in distress,
climbing walls swinging from buildings
regardless…
of criminal ravings.
These are the heroes I have grown
to love;
and the hero in me is all of the above…
Copyright © 2008 By Caryl S. Muzzey
This was written for my four year old grandson who is simply crazy about spiderman.
Hurriedly, silently, in purposeful fluid movements
and long, determined strides, he dashed among
the thickets, bending and darting amidst the vines
searching for a perfect little place to stay and hide.
Stealthily and noiselessly he slithered underneath
lush, leafy overhangs shielding him from the sun -
keen, cautious, like a crouching, hungry predator
anxious not to draw unwanted attention to himself.
The birds on treetops hushed their singing in haste
as the woods turned suddenly still - frozen in place,
shocked, stunned and unprepared to bear witness
to the mysterious man’s strange, diabolical scheme.
He threw a quick look to his left and another to the right
then jerked, turning his head around to make doubly sure
that no human soul finds him in this quiet, secluded place
about to carry out his dark, sinister and unplanned crime.
Taking a deep, measured breath and now totally reassured
of being truly alone, away from prying eyes to a gory crime,
in his madness he violently yanked down his old Levi jeans,
squatted to the ground, grimacing, and…ahh, sweet release!
Written for Andrea Dietrich, a remarkable, talented human and sincere, caring friend
I’ve never even met her, we’ve never shared space,
Yet I continuously, tenderly, view her face.
She woke one same ole’ morn, on her same ole’ street
To retire that night with terror lying under her sheets.
She’s always been conscientious, responsible and prepared,
But she’s never dealt with this brand of scared.
It isn’t that bad news had never before appeared,
It just hadn’t carried such fierce shades as it neared.
I feel her frightened ache tremble and I silently shake.
My faith demands I believe He did not cruelly forsake
One who never selfishly sought her own delight
Over her commitments to living proper and right.
It must feel surreal to her that the world is the same
When her life’s been yanked, injured and maimed.
Everything must surely seem foreign and strange
As she struggles through fears web just to maintain.
Rudely, she was handed a nightmare wrapped in unfair
That I desperately wish my emotional sum could repair.
The Captain bellowed out the order,
soon after the midnight bell;
He said, "batten down the hatches boys,
we're in for a night a hell.
Seems storm force winds were brewin,
a Nor-easter in all it's might;
Sweeping down hard from Labrador,
with no shelter in plain sight.
The Deckies scrambled with precision,
and gave each dog an extra heave;
And never waivered from their duties,
amidst the pounding seas.
The water seeped in where ere it could,
and the cookie stored the mess away;
We all silently knew one truth,
there be no last meal this day.
The skipper yelled, "Hard into er",
as the wheelsman yanked the helm around;
The Mate watched into the blackness,
so no rogue wave would bring us down.
She blew herself out by mornin,
and ragin seas became gentle rolls;
And we silently gave thanks at breakfast,
for we never lost one soul.
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)
I fondly recall the innocent days of my childhood,
playing hide and seek among the backyard boxwood,
and life as I knew it then was sweet and good.
Country life was always fun.
I treasured Christmas tree lights glowing in the dark,
family gatherings each summer in Audubon Park.
In my younger years I was as carefree as a lark,
enjoying days in the sun.
With my little sister beside me we made mud pies
and didn't see anything wrong with little white lies
or that dancing like ballerinas in the rain wasn't wise
until our pirouettes were done.
I enjoyed having an allowance that I could spend
and sharing whispered secrets with my best friend,
wishing our playing time outside would never end.
How I loved to run!
In sweet memories I recall swimming in the lake,
helping Mom in the kitchen when she would bake,
and eating more icing than I had put on the cake.
Having fights with a water gun.
How wonderful were my days spent as a child,
Dad called me a tomboy because I was a bit wild.
I was happy and content with life, always beguiled
with everything I'd done.
My braided pigtails were yanked by a silly boy in school.
He giggled like an idiot thinking he was so cool,
til I fought back with a fist and called him a 'stupid fool.'
That battle I had won.
If memory serves me well, I remember not liking boys.
Always wanting their way and making too much noise.
I preferred playing house with many of my stuffed toys.
Boys were creatures to shun.
I was very competitive and wanted to win every race,
and didn't care much in those days about ladylike grace.
I recall being angry with myself for falling flat on my face
and not talking to anyone.
I've photos of me since I was born and it's plain to see
that my childhood was a very delightful time for me.
With a loving family like mine, I grew up quite esprit.
I love them all, a ton!
October 8, 2022 - A Constance La France Contest
Writing Challenge - Past Memories - "T" Forms Poetry
The nurse ordered her to push, push, push
in her best proper voice
and linen balled in red fists knotted
and sweat falls from red face knotted
while Billy, head first, tugged and yanked by nurse's proper hands,
emerges, gently laid upon the blood soaked sand
motionless in the sulfur haze, almost well-behaved
amongst the rifle clatter and bewildered screams -
get down! get down! get down!
while Billy breathes slowly, undisturbed,
his eyes closed with new mom
gently caressing matted, cark curls,
her fingers, no longer knotted, extended,
Billy's tiny hands and infant fingers
grip the plastic ribbing
around the rifle barrel smeared in stickiness that flows out
from below Billy and onto sand, puddling, his lips chapped and parted,
suckling as new mom exhausted weeps
in relief of two arms and two legs and everything okay
as she holds him, hurting for him,
everything that might happen,
everything that will happen,
and she drifts off to slumber,
mother and child peacefully spent
in soft pretty colors
and the soft murmur of the television as the sedan
with government plates at the curb
and a Marine in dress blues (Oh, God) stands plastic in the doorway
and uses his best proper voice (Oh God, not Billy, Oh God)
to regretfully tell her,
and uses surprised hands to catch her when her legs
regretfully cannot hold her
and she sobs on the floor like a mother who outlived her son,
exhausted as the day Billy was born.
Screw this war.
There are no shape walls
to bridle one's emotions
creativity is properly ventilated
unbound by meter or syllable count
embracing nakedness
yanked naked in its virginity
The binding belt of chastity
given over to lyrical lovers
Sleeping quietly in the meadows
a pristine area free of squatters
fighting for their rights
with sonnet-crafted homes
and hamlets defined by literature.
Straying away from the norm
acolytes watch as castles are built,
that worships orderly expression
poetic masterpieces,
safeguarded and preserved at all times
metaphors align into a specific subset
pictures look like works of art,
there is a distinct realm
for those unfit to fly in their confines.
Outside of the norm
is a vast nebulous
growing quill flowers from seeds sown
the power of smell to evoke memories,
which one's brain may elect to ignore
when settling at a location of a specific form
is what one's words must imply.
On this trip, there are no rules,
only that burning desire inside
strive to harass the page,
fire getting into the core
from telling someone a mystery,
till the key bares the chest
where other ideas demand rebirth.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: August 28, 2022
Free Verse - Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
5th Place Contest Winner
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
What happens when we die? I really want to know!
I’m getting up in age and am ready for the show!
Religious fundamentalists say things won’t be good
for souls unbaptized or for those not living as they should.
I went to church when younger and followed rules as well,
but I hear discrepancies regarding heaven and hell.
Because I’m not one given to spiritual displays
such as Holy Roller moments, I’m somewhat in a daze!
Testimonies others give confound me even more.
Would God send most to hell if they didn’t know what for?
The Chinese have no preachers. People think so differently
depending on their upbringing; it’s all perplexing me!
And so with fascination, I read books or I hear
of people having NDE’s, which takes away my fear.
Away from Heaven’s lovely light these “dead” souls get yanked back.
Inside their bodies once again, fear’s now a thing they lack!
How marvelous it has to be – to feel within your heart
sensations of that place from which you did not wish to part.
All things regarding after-life and pre-existence too
make me utterly enthralled. I know such things are true.
Too many people have things happen while they’re lying dead
for it to be hallucinations . It’s truth to which they’re led.
Reincarnation also once had been a Christian view.
Astrology ties into this, and that I’ve studied too.
I think the minds of humans are too small to comprehend
the otherworldly things we all will learn of in the end.
Psychics, ghosts, UFO’s, and things like ESP.
What do they mean? How awesome really knowing it would be!
May 24, 2022 for Jeff Kyser's Fascination And Awe Poetry Contest
She drives that wobbly car
Stacked to the roof with goods
Squalor taunts her thus far
As she hides under hoods
Her babe cries behind bags
Baubles of plastic sneer
Purpose chokes on ball gags
When spending serves to steer
Tears well in her bright eye
While she struggles with rent
How will her child get by
On cash already spent?
She bats those long lashes
As she stands at my door
Wounded bird with gashes
Maybe she’ll need to whore
I long to comfort her
To regulate her pain
Emotions tend to blur
When yanked by Cupid’s chain
So foolhardy with joys
At discovery’s gate
I shed some unused toys
To help her mournful state
I’ve learned to live on crumbs
With circumstance’s ebb
All billionaires and bums
Depart this fateful web
Conjured visions of us
Tease my eroding mind
Intentions won’t cause fuss
When paid forward in kind
Yet her concept of friend
Surely differs from mine
Manipulations end
Alliance once divine
Wounds either kill or cure
What I am meant to be
Yet one truth shines for sure
Love keeps consuming me