Clumped Poems | Examples

Tomato Soup

I never liked tomato soup -
that thick slurry of red
in a white bowl - childhood
winters, Friday nights
with a menacing dark  
pressing against the window
as if trying to get in.

Tomato soup looked too much
like blood poured out
of that suffering
pictured in the vivid imagery
hung along the stations 
of a child's mind no matter
if blest by grace.

When older and wiser,
I had lamb shank soup,
clumped with celery, carrots
and loads of gelatinous meat.
Each heaped spoonful
was a precious gift,
a celebration of life.

Small Fish

Holding onto a rail.
I lean over to see my reflection
mirrored in the water 
and small fish swimming
in the camouflage of me.

I muse whether they are feeding
on my thoughts, nibbling
on the strands that loosely 
float my day, making 
their easy way towards
a dark clumped deep
in my shadow.

I can almost feel 
their small fins brush the inside
of my skull, following
the course of a fear,
threading passage
through a weedy tangle 
of doubt.

Then, swimming deeper,
their excitement seems 
to grow in what they find,
feeding on something
that is hidden from me,
beyond the reflection
of my own mind.

Portuguese Man o' War

Sunrise and already the water 
is being seared with a glow 
as if under a grill. 
You can feel the heat building
in the morning air, the sand 
still warm from yesterday.

The tide has left the creature
stranded on the beach,
its frilled sail glistening 
and rigged with blue tentacles
clumped menacingly beside
its motionless body.

The sun will soon cook it
to a dried out bladder.
This drifting marvel of murder
is now no more than sea phlegm 
coughed up on the crest 
of a wave. It looks so pitiful.

And yet it still 
has the power to inflict 
a painful sting. Venom
waits for one last desperate
chance to snare some poor
careless prey.

My fingers seem possessed 
with a will to pick it up 
to see how it feels without 
being stung. I hover somewhere
between head and hand, 
stranded by indecision.




Footnote 
This is one of a series of poems 
that have the shoreline as the 
backdrop for the exploration
of meaning in things washed up
on the beach or in the experience 
of being in the moment.
Paul

Darkness

In the ebony night time stops to flow,
the still hands of the impetus clock freeze
the timeless infinite pathos in congealed instants 
for listless life wandering on the shadows of past,
stares through the layered strata of darkness,
designed to mask the acuity lattice. 

Clumped silver cloud gleams with astral halo,
moon dust drapes the mind with mesmeric glow,
as ordained stars sprout hope remotely 
in the dark night of the inner cosmos.

Indomitable faith fertilizes the fallow mind, 
void perception in miasma fill elixir of exuberance ,
waits for the new sunrise to see
the creepy cloud in the obsidian sky melts, 
resurgent rain suffuses the  silhouetted senses,
for in the stalled time on agonized psychic canvas  
there is a darkness framed.

Tongues

Gaelic: it was my mother's native tongue,
and her grandmother’s elder tongue.
Grandfather was a Romani gypsy,
horses naturally understood his voice.

My lips follow English,
a tangled language with too many roots,
tuberosities awkwardly clumped together,
like hard and lumpy potato soup -
a dish My Irish mother made
with an inattentive gusto...

her pink tongue licking the corners of her mouth,
as she slopped the part-cooked pottage out
into thick porcelain bowls.

She had quite forgotten her mother tongue,
or how to respect the potato,
and its historical significance to all in exile.

My own tongue was young and tender,
and too hungry to care. Already I instinctively knew
how to take my lumps.

Touch

familiar foot traffic
past a garden, plush
         menagerie of color and scents
nervy stance
from a snowball bush, resplendent 
    with white rounded vases of blooms
    stately with milky petals
    in clumped clover-leaf shapes
tempting touch like a face symmetrical with compelling eyes

two small girls totter ahead
cup flower-clusters
push petals into rosy faces
peacockish vain
in a cherished space

a grandma explains, "snowballs of summer"
soothing presence for children, giddy
                 who cradle plump blooms like giants in hand
white petals plucked
specks in small hands
never fully sure of what they hold

moments that stammer
                  that leave us in bursts
as time flits through summer eves
to touch foreign worlds that bead like water on skin
a flow into comfort - when it comes
                                     in streams

Rhythmic Melody

The sun went down to a melancholy beat.
Harmonizing with the day's waning deceit
A motion was seen in the evening shadow.
Nightfall triggered mystery and hallow.

It could have been a superb writer.
Setting a fascinating story's vibe insider
As the wind tickled my flesh gently.
An airy glow drew the moon intently.

Coral jasmine blossoms in clumped form.
I realize I'm in a peaceful, intriguing charm.
A nostalgic ode to leisure and repose
Wordsmiths retreat to tears and prose.

Under the aesthetic Gulmohar tree.
Where peace gently swings with glee.
A place seemed the same as a safe haven.
As balm for poets where hearts are driven.

Only their tears could reach there.
Boost poetic flow; the rack is bare.

Written: May 23, 2023

Evenings

I can see the tops
of almond trees tinged
by a setting sun,
a vast column 
of starlings overhead
and hear their whirring wings
as they head home
to roost. Feel
the settle of things,
a slowing down
of movement
into a clumped quiet
from where nervous eyes
look out to see 
what menace wakes.

Then the sad folding
and the putting away
leaving a hollow
fear invades and fills,
a descending sanction
upon the tongue
not to speak
or to make a sound
lest something will be seized
and taken,
becoming no more
than a hole healed over
to a bright render
on the facade
of another day.

Cement Trucks

In the end
it was too slow, afflicted
by either age or illness
or simply distracted,
flew head first
into the eye of a headlight.
Flung contorted, neck bent
back, snapped of life,
it died
clumped on a verge.
Rewound to its first flight,
its brief existence traced
untold scribblings
across time and the space
stretched between
these tall trees.

No record remains.
A full stop is placed
here on this muddy shoulder,
the end to something 
which, only a moment ago,
flickered through the circuits
of a living brain.
It leaves nothing
but a small hole
and progeny
ignorant of history.
Whatever flowering form
that bloomed here
grew in the blind reaches
beyond knowing, no more
than a short awakening
programmed by its kind,
an expendable part fed
into the machinery
through which all life churns.

Chance had my way
intersect this point
and dab thought upon thought
to stem the bleed.
No balm soothes
the wounds
of this crumpled mess.
Cement trucks rumble by
moved by the need
to fill an empty space,
as these words try to do.

Rain After Heat

I like the smell
of rain steaming
from warm asphalt
and the cool wash
of it on my face,
to be a part
of that sweet soak
and splash of wet
running down my neck
and the earth alive
and clumped with wakes
of mulch and leaves laden
with the weight of rainwater
spilling into an evening.

I could lay there
beneath that falling height,
as would an exhausted swimmer,
to let the self sink
and feel the moment
ripple out to the edges
of the absolute.

old farmer tale

once an old horse named chester

impressing his nag esther

clumped up a tall tree

until about three

then clumped back down to best her.

In the Dark Night

In the dark night time stops to flow,
the still hands of the clock show
how infinite desolate pathos could be 
for life wandering in darkness lonely,
sunrise hour the time creator would know.

Clumped silver cloud gleams in astral halo,
moon dust drapes the ground with satin glow,
as God sprouts the stars of hope remotely 
in the dark night.

Indomitable faith fertilizes the land fallow, 
barren trees soak it in the trunk hollow,
wait for the new sunrise, longing to see
clouds melt, rain washes the green canopy,
as tranquil time creates the bright morrow
in the dark night.

_________________

April 25, 2022
Contest : Your Favorite Theme
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh

The One-Eyed King

The death knell, ringing requiem bell,
a saddening sound,
archways they pass, tears flood the mass, 
deep and deathly profound.
Of what we know, strange seeds we sow,
returning to us with a taunt
a tree of poisonous root, bares similar fruit,
wrinkled, pus filled and gaunt.
Lessons to learn for the freedom we yearn,
paid for in blood and gold,
lounge in the chateau covered with shadow,
and wait for the truth to unfold.
For we all have plight it doesn't make it right,
to wallow, fester and judge,
waste deep in sewage when the torrent deluge,
rushes in thicker than sludge.
Clumped altogether for worse or better,
seeking the price of the unknown,
soaring in flight then catching the sight,
of the one-eyed King on the throne.

Happy Cremation Anniversary, Auntie

Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake

drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature

casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper

and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.

Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.

Reunion

The oblong Oak crown sways atop its handle
In the night breeze
Like a spoon stirring its sugar and cream
Patiently
Into the tea of outer space

While underneath
An evening party of old college chums
Slop old time Miller Lite from red Solo cups
Humming along to Tears For Fears

Ev Ree Bod E Wants to Rule the World

How have you been?
Did it all turn out like you thought it might be?

Chit chat shedding like husks of furry Oak seeds
Clumped to the grass
Under our heels

My little daughter sits at the kid table
Legs crossed
All alone

The adults in summer skirts and polo shirts
Drifting about her perfect etiquette

Poor life being
What have I done?

She waits for her turn to take a sip
Of permission

For someone to say her name
Say Go and begin

Her blue eyes looking up
Searching the conversations of that starry black sky

She is not mine
This is what I should sit down and say to her

You are not mine
The thing I wish my folks had told me
At her age

You are tree caressing universe

Sprinkling Earth with a million butterflies
And quenching your thirst from the cup of God.

Never mind us.

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