Best Zags Poems
ON RESCUING AN INJURED PIGEON
I.
sliding screen door screeches, pigeons scatter
thump of wing against breast, shockwave breeze
more frequent than in the past, shimmering necks
soundtrack squirrel zig-zags, new-green lawn
perches like the pigeons, await my departure
II.
he appeared in the night, a tattered statue
grey as the rumbling skies, white patch on his back
must be hurt, too painful to move, teal collar
my compassion swells, how can I help?
leave him seed and water, natural healing
III.
red-toed demon leaving bird-turd on my deck
can barely walk let alone fly away, railing perch
rain or sun sits most of the day, ruffled feathers
hit his head or fallen, maybe a scuffle with a cat
wants to be part of a flock, I move closer
IV.
day three I made him a coop, Bucky by name
Becky if it’s a girl, I’m not checkin’, won’t go in
moving better, flies a little, short bursts
still prefers my perch, watch him sleep, still
hours to days, nothing seems to change
V.
the four-legged’s have found the coop and feed
I become my grandmother chasing chipmunks, futile
Bucky likes grass, hacksaw walk, double-banded
looks strong enough to fly, abandoned racer
wonder, is it psychological or could it me?
VI.
trail of seeds brought him to the edge, coop and me
as I watch him he watches me, wide ruddy eyes
huddles in a ball on one foot, freckled vest
finally, twice today he found his way to the coop
sad he can’t go home, sheltered but dispossessed.
VII.
animal rescuer Howard came with a net today
tried clumsily to catch him, lift and accelerate
over the treetops he flew, circled back to land
from the rooftop he smiled down at us, relieved
proof time heals all wounds, in rock pigeon world.
Aug 30/18
Apparitions behind every mottled rock.
Shaded countenance surreptitious like shadows.
Fractured slivers and fragments boast -
On wall, ceiling and floor.
Splattered drop cloth - reflective dread.
Fun house of Zeus,
The zigs and zags -
Thundering fakes, illuminated lies.
She claws her face.
Crags of wilderness.
Deep etched drama.
Whirlwind’s not glue.
One face.
One mirror.
Truth
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
She sprinkles a jumbo box of Rice Krispies all over the ground,
in a beautiful garden, where red and yellow tulips surround.
When they come to trample on her flowers they'll make a sound,
then she'll march right up and yell " Hey you there, put that down!"
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
He is hunting for the best pinecones, smelling out calorie filled seeds
inside Mrs. Russo's lovely garden, there's more than anyone needs.
Crunch crunch goes the squirrel with his highly specialized little paws,
munch munch goes the little rodent, without taking a breath or pause.
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
She comes out wild and matted with a broomstick in her hand,
"Shoo Shoo" she yells, as a cheeky rugrat gets the upper hand.
Because he's small and fast and in a hurry to hide one or two,
he ignores her and zig zags through the tulips like a jumperoo.
Tiptoeing through the tulips he sings, "crispity oola crispity yay,
found me a pinecone, why leave it alone!"
Poor Mrs. Russo had no choice but to go inside,
leaving the little fury beast alone, to eat and hide.
standing alone in the eye of the storm,
he doesn't care that he's seen
as an iconoclast.
not afraid to defy conventions.
a non-conformist to the core;
strong sense of independence,
zags when everyone zigs,
leads, never follows.
he stands alone;
marches to
different
drum
Forceful, unforgiving claws, deep in the earth they dig
Upwards, upwards, breaking more than simply twigs
Cracking crevices, zags, zigs
A roar, a shake, a crick, crig
Midday sometimes in class instead of learning algebra
While she should be calculating and figuring a formula
Her mind wanders aboard a moonlit gondola
Serenaded by a musician and his viola
She follows the enticing aroma of hot lasagna
Zigs instead of zags, could be seen as a faux-pas
She glides around a peninsula soon in terra incognita
Traversing a nebula not a care in the world, she’s in Utopia
Atop her head a diamond studded tiara
Below a ball gown of the finest taffeta
As she gracefully waves and cheers at the orchestra
Who is playing al dente a capella for an al fresco opera
Such fleeting moments garnered as bouquets of ephemera
She weaves in and out of daydream during algebra
AP: 1st place 2021, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on June 8, 2018 for JUNE 2018 STANDARD CONTEST sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
THE TENTH WAVE
The rain drops prick the skin of the sea
Tumble with the urchins in the water,
The black water, so heavy, tired--
Watching it tic tac toe in millions of tiny rings
Tic tac toe, three by three by three
Up until infinity--
As scores of seagulls watched from buoys
Red sky at night, sailor's delight
Isn't that how it goes?
All hands on deck! All hands!
Until then came, out of the night sky, a wind
With the sound and fury of a thousand black horses
Pummeling down on the water, the great, fearsome ocean
And stirring it up like a bowl of soup
All hands!
The great boats all groaned in protest,
Their wet, wooden bellies full
Reeds choking shores uprooted and flew at the storm
The whole world seemed to be feeding the storm,
Which would not be satiated, but howled for more
Chunks of earth, wood, sail, even human souls
Would not appease such an appetite
And then, in the pulse of three hours, a brief
Quiet...
...an aching silence
where the sun deceived them
By shirking off the clouds for a moment
Hear the call of the birds...
Red sky at morning, at morning, at mourning
It was then that the waves began--
Undulating at first, feel the water breathe,
Soon rising, rising, black towers
Into walls of water no one could scale,
Ripping across the top in violent zig-zags
White madness, the open mouth-
-and they came, they came in rows
As tall as nightmares, even hungrier than the wind
And they ate up everything they touched,
Swallowing lives, swallowing that which made them
Pulling our dwarfed armies into the deep, deep
Dark, black salt water
Until then, after the herald, and the birds didn't sing anymore
A tenth wave, which rose colossal over the rest,
Moving like a lost city,
Over the darkness, a shadow covering this world
Silenced what was left to be silenced
Little sailors
Little sailors
All sailor's songs end
And On the Land
Your little wives
Will catch your songs on the wind
Will pick up those songs on the winds
It is snowing out
The wind is blowing
Spreading on the ground
The wind is blowing
While the snow zigs zags
The wind is still blowing
With the snow fallen
Falling to the ground
In a deep[ pile
Spreading evenly
All the trees boughs white
No longer bare and cold
They are dre3ssed up warm
With the cover of snow
Like a white blanket
The Queens Bed
There's a certain symmetry in mis-shapes
A Correlation of zig zags
A pyramid of Mish mashery
Of Golden haberdashery
A prism geometry forgot
Disfunctional patterns
Of a Diamanté Zodiac
A Tessellating Mosaic
A crazy jigsaw of zany gems
Adorned the Queens four poster bed
A Crystalised Diadem
The perfect fit for her head
my flesh is filled and fraught with foul disease;
offensive is my life to mine own eyes
who sees me sail life's clear and cloudy seas
where faith fills up or empties out our lies.
now here I stand a broke and beaten man
whose love of life laments obscurity
but in the end ambition's naive plan
reached in and stole my soul's integrity.
I am but one who's never been an us:
no flesh - no blood - no break of fast to feed;
a lustful trust once wrapped in omnibus,
ground down and made a graven slave to need.
disgusted as those degradation days
laid waste upon the taste of indiscreet;
my soul a hole of black and blacker ways
confronts chronicity of incomplete.
there is no way to spread the dreaded blame;
excused are those accused or left behind.
I do so love to play the changing game
in every little corner of my mind.
I've traveled every twisted rut and road
that zigs and zags across my mottled map
and every road became an endless load
and every stop became the same old trap.
I've tasted magic mushroom's mellow cure
alongside mystic natives in Peru;
made love in huts to ladies quite unsure
as glitter ghosts played rock and roll kazoo.
I've sat inside the sacred Shaman ring
where apparitions dervish-dance around
but what the Shaman brought I could not bring -
my last was lost - my first was never found.
I'm jonesin' in the center of a city
while waiting on some powdered China-white.
I pray the man can deal a bit of pity
or sick I'm bound to be throughout this night.
I think I see my hero now a-comin'
like a pimp he's dressed in tapered leather
tripping proud with lanky strides and hummin'
tunes he writes but cannot keep together.
I'm watchin' death come walkin' straight at me
and I don't think or blink a cautious eye
but hand the Ferryman Charon his fee,
relieved to leave without a shout "goodbye."
This is the road that leads to my father's home
It is old and dusty with bullock-carts creaking,
Carrying the heavy weight of the freshly cut sugar-cane
To the mills nearby for our sugar laden tables,
Piled in our court-yards are the freshly made cane balls
Tingling on our taste-buds with its melting ginger tang.
This is the road that zig-zags to my father's dear home
Cyclists are few carrying fodder for the cattle,
Trudging on the pathway with bundles on their heads
Farmers are spotted and responsibilities enumbered,
Carefree children running all asunder
The rural joys have much for us to remember.
This is the road lined with dancing mustard fields
Halt it will at my father's flowering doorstep,
My mother will be sitting in the verandah patiently
Peering her eyes in wait for her daughter to return,
Thirsty is her heart for her daughter's true love
Nestle will I in the warmth of her arms.
This is the only road that I always do treasure
Woven is it with memories to pleasure,
Every pebble and sand grain is drenched
In the sweat of my father's very long sacrifice,
My mother's footsteps are embedded in time
Leading me home with my finger she held.
(Second Place
May 6, 2016
For Nayda Ivette Negron
Memories)
(October 15, 2015
Contest: The Doesn't Fit
Sponsor: Carol Eastman)
June 26, 2016
For Laura Loo
Second Place
As I gaze out upon the blue ocean,
from my perch, on the cliff above .
The incoming storm, hovers close by,
I am watching battering waves, smash
the rugged coastline shore below.
The blue waves blend with the distant blue sky.
The once sapphire ocean now becomes steel blue
As the storm rolls in, the ocean, ever changing hues.
The waves smash, blend and churn creating
Cauldrons of undertows merging with rips
Battering with a powerful gale force.
As lightning zig- zags across the deepened sky
I head for shelter from the incoming rain
Knowing I will return again to look at ocean blue.
Francine's contest- blue on blue on blue
Phyl the ocean
thanks Francine
There is a truth I've come to comprehend,
Life is full of twists and turns,
And outs and ins,
And ups and downs,
And zigs and zags,
And curves and bends,
And though it sometimes seems to follow guides,
Blind fate alone decides how long it lasts
Or where it wends.
Another truth I've learned of late,
One not controlled by Fate or trends,
Is that Time follows a different line,
One that just goes straight…
And never ends.
Life’s Timeless Driftwood
Peering back at the shadow stretching,
continuance knows well the peaceful silhouettes from horizon's light,
ancestral sequences having frequented one’s shore many times.
All is as it has been.
One’s longevity holds firm,
like isolated fingers protruding in protest
from sequestered driftwood blanketed by sand,
unready to move on,
just yet.
Just as sandpipers scavenge wet bubbles along the beach,
furtively running zigs and zags,
avoiding swooping wings overhead,
we too avoid termination,
with luck.
Destiny continues to lap the shore,
its gentle hands tugging
into tomorrow’s warm waters.
man’s stubborn endurance.
So mighty…
This evolving limbed-strength,
accepting of journey’s tempest,
willing to ready again for the next leg of one’s odyssey.
Even as…
White caps thunder applause,
at the elongated shadow of remaining branches
fading into the day's dusk,
signaling a tide ready to lift
to carry to the next shoreline and beyond.
Roots have withered,
growth's ever changing leaves and bark
have become morsels of love and loss,
an existence mixing peacefully toward ghostly remnants.
At some point…
The water rises,
the fiber and strands of resistance soften,
dissolving into a new connection
as birth's salt and brine prepare the next iteration,
the next surge upward,
another tenacious wave of purpose
exploding its final power
into a mist imploring remembrance
before the oneness of completion
cycles again into its new existence.
Such is the gift of time and space,
the requisite condition for permanence,
where presence once created
evolves unfettered in perpetuity.