Chalked Poems | Examples

Parasocial Relationship: What Remains Is the Latch

I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open—
chalked in wax traced from your last reply,
the one you coughed out sideways
between a mirror and an echo,
Just to reiterate, it read. 
(Though you’ve unsent it now—
the smoke still mouths it back.)

The salt forgets which door to guard,
whether you're enemy or friend.
My tea leaves knot themselves
into nooses. The knife won’t keep
its edge unless I say your name
with my mouth full of soot. You know
who you are. 

We only spoke three times—
I still remember your laugh. 

I burned your coat—
the one already nicked at the cuff,
lined with lint and one of my hours.
The smoke limped east,
then circled back.

I still leave the latch loose.
Not for you—
just in case
some ghost with your gait
remembers how
my spine once knocked
like a drum left running.

THE WORLD IS A SMALL VILLAGE

The world is a small rural village.
Each nation is a household
Sometimes one runs out of salt
but never worries for a neighbour will offer
expecting nothing in return.

Communal hands
Clear each other's farms.
When pests strike one, the rest respond
because no rain ever falls on just one roof.

Children are raised by the village
whether born of wealth or want.
Every father is a father to many
every mother is a mother to all.
Lessons are not chalked on blackboards
but told around fires, where wisdom glows with every flame.

The world is a small village
my grandfather once said
where kindness is currency
and no one eats alone.

The Bar on Beer Street and Gin Lane

They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.

Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.

They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.

The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.

The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.

A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.

Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.

Jingle Bells and Family Ties

Written: December 11, 2024 For contest Sponsored by: Constance La France

Quote: "Cheers to a fresh new year and a fabulous opportunity for us to flourish!"

                    _________________________________

In the forest where the trees glow,
Shimmering stars shine, a stunning show.  
Mesmerizing marvels in an idyllic, calm flow,
Cheerful gifts gathered gently in a row. 

Blanketed children in wonder and cheer,  
Gingerbread cookies, sweet flavors near.  
Iced in crimson, green, festive atmosphere,  
Sprinkles of joy as Santa draws near.

A sleigh with bells that jingle and run,  
We gather as families, our hearts are full of fun.  
Celebrating traditions, our spirits as one,  
In the warmth of the holiday, we bask in the sun.

Shimmering ivory pearls in moonbeams,  
Gentle lullabies that soothe all our dreams  
Chalked memories drift in a crystalline stream, 
In hopes that our love will forever gleam.

Though jaded vials may drip with despair,  
We find elixirs of hope in the air.  
Sick veins may quiver, dreams still ensnare,  
As impending fate reminds us we care.

BODY WORK

Funny how independence
Can blind lack of choice
The feel of wheels
Silencing the roaring voice

Yellow, plain, drab
But it got me to my destination
Blaring the AM radio
While I chalked my delineation

Finally, graduating my goal
So I got myself a present
I wanted roast duck
But the dealership gave me pheasant

My partner wrecked my present
And took my decision power away
Every body I got was good for a time
Then turned to clay

Finally, free to be me
......WHO'S THAT......

Blindly I walked onto lots
Expecting care and compassion
They just wanted to sell, me,
A body decked in the latest fashion

Upside down, Topsy- Turvy 
Became my new way of existence
No wrecks to report
In my system resistance

Finally, my wheels were given back
My name swiped with black ink
All that I tried to build
Now with dirty dishes, in the kitchen sink

I'm left with ME
Without deceit running about
The journey is arduous 
But I'm finally finding out

.....I'm worth loving

Written by Trudy Schrader on 11-24-2024

City Life Circa 1957

City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up.  We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement.  Four neighborhoods abutted each other.  We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”.  On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine.  Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A.  The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.

After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team.  She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business.  We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.

These Streets

These streets are where the devil lives —
Where temptation breathes,
And nightmares don’t sleep.

No room for doubt.
No space for pessimists.
To survive, you need the heart of a man
Ready to conquer Everest.

Behind bright lights
And sleepless nights,
Truth bleeds through
Even the blindest eyes.

Stay on the straight path —
Or watch it turn black.
Knives don’t whisper;
They scream when they crack.
Cuts don’t heal,
They stain through the years —
And mothers drown
In their children’s tears.

These streets will steal your style,
Your charisma,
Roll you in tobacco
And spark you in a Rizla.

All for what?
For your name to fade,
Your presence dismissed,
Just another statistic
On an ever-growing list.

Stop. Think.
Before your life becomes part of the payment.
Before you’re fifteen —
Cold,
Alone,
Dying on the pavement…

Streetlights hum like a funeral hymn,
Your blood runs black, your future dim.
Another name chalked on a curb in red —
These streets don’t mourn,
They just count the dead.

Mid Week Memory

CHILDHOOD GAMES
bouncing a ball against a wall
        conkers bashed as Autumn falls
the swish of a skipping rope


 hop skotch chalked in the dry
nearby swings swung  high
 five-stones on a roll


 tin-can tommy in fading light
  pooh stick streams
homespun childhood - a delight

The Bricklayer

His wheelbarrow wobbled 
Across the broken sidewalk 
Toward the job site 
Where the work was

Some girls in yellow taxis rode by and whistled at his tanned arms. 

His brown boots got chalked 
as he scuttled and scooted 
The heavy load
And he thought about her 
Again

He was so clean and polished last night
When they sat down for dinner
Around perfect white cloths
So uncomfortable for him
Only to hear her say,”I’m leaving.”

Her skin was like a pond in the morning
Before anything was awake. 
Her eyes were like Grecian isles 
Even her nose was a perfectly acute angled
Piece of her face. 

He was a bricklayer and knew his place.
And he would never ever get to kiss her face
Again. 

So today he dumped out his wheelbarrow full of bricks and started building his walls again.

Routines

he sat there in his room
gently shaking his head as
he chalked ducks on the floor
which then he carefully fed
over in the corner 
watching him with glee
the asylum keeper counted
from one to ninety three
ceaselessly repetetive
each number chanted out
sometimes in a whisper
sometimes in a shout
the warden made his rounds
with his little boxes of pills
each chosen for efficacy
on a multitude of mental ills

they washed them down with water
on sundays gin and rum in lieu
carefully rationing the alcohol
to never more than a tot or two
and there were watchers watching
the watchers as they watched the rest
each watching watcher watched
in that observed observation test 
it all made perfect sense of course
he thought as he shook his head
ensuring that each chalked duck
received its proper share of bread
and every single morning
when their clock struck ten
the asylum keeper blew a whistle
and the routine started off again

Possessions

briefly uttered
epithets
in chalked
    pictures
a
quest
    for forms
to gladden & enchant

a delicate
        response
            to entrance
to save
      a dream
a stimulating 
               force
with beauty's
            imprint




THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived

A Superb Forenoon

*Image of San Francisco Street Neighborhood by Pixabay.

A Superb Forenoon
This superb forenoon down the avenue,
flower gardens, mostly lawns, up this part.
There's Sammy and Tammy, "How do you do!",
naught Baker's ... close, Cooke's, love their fine art.

In view, ol' Freddie sits at the bus stop,
this superb forenoon down the avenue.
Waits not for bus, just days headlines they'll swap,
park seats, down some, too far ... bus stop will do.

Fair breaths of air, perfect time, grows in view,
from this point, I approach the metal wind,
this superb forenoon down the avenue,
flaps Orient graces in a crosswind.

Chalked squares in my path, sits a small beanbag,
a lil' girl says, "A minute sir, thank you!",
"Welcome, Miss!", homestead nearby, let time lag,
this superb forenoon down the avenue.

2021 August 27

A Butterfly Mind

charismatically gifted
 in  conceptual leaps 
  expressions
opening 
          a doorway 
to destiny

moments in time 
           stumato,
from a butterfly mind

 scattered 
with unfinished masterpieces 
of imagination 

 drawings chalked& charcoaled 
with tonal modulation
the inner person
 portrayed 
face on
    in ambivalence
profiles turned to the light
 display emotional depth
through the genius
 of genuflection 
       with touch & sensibility

Sneakers

When I started to jog
Back in ‘75
(When so many of you
Weren’t even alive)

The choices of shoes
You would wear on a run,
For a woman, at least,
Made the shopping no fun.

Just Adidas and Brooks,
And with limited styles,
Were the options to wear
As I chalked up the miles.

Then came Reebok, but still,
All the pickings were slim,
So you’d see the same shoes
On the streets or the gym.

But that isn’t the case 
Anymore, as you know.
The selection has managed
To crazily grow.

As I sit here and marvel
At sneaker-clad feet, 
I will rarely, if ever, 
Detect a repeat.

Birthday Surprise

Miss
Arrives
To find that
Her wooden desk
Is covered with apples, flowers and gifts
Birthday greetings were chalked on the blackboard
Miss Jones' students
Adore her
And she
them

IMAGE 2
 
Double Tetractys 7 Poetry Contest


Sponsored by Eve Roper

02/11/21

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