Cringing Poems | Examples

Twilight

The corn has ripened.
With it is the wizened laughter of a
Mirthless age, showing ashy teeth
Of dappled cowries.
A flavescence so bantered by the courage
Of wilting bloom!

Sadly, sea waves truss the feet of
Burning skies, loosening the tongues of beaches,
Which, with ague, recline on cold, cringing currents.

Old cats mourn the fall of strafed pillars
Burrowing through silt-buried kennels re-grassed for the
Salutation of new vistas.

The Crying Child

The Crying Child 

The child cries 
wriggling limbs 
Scrolling the heavens 
Cringing away 
from the clinging shadows 
Streaming tears 
drowning the earth
Echoing thunders 
across the land 
The land bleeds 
even as the creators sleeps

Keep the Tattoos to Yourself Lulu

Lulu wanted this, that, those, these and the other.
Thought she deserved them, she dated a rich mother.
He liked tattoos, pretty soon her legs were tatted up.
So many tats, it rivaled the hair on her cat and pup.

Red tats, blue tats, yellow tats, purple tats, black tats too.
We asked her not to tell Grandma as she fixed our stew.
We had to all stop our concern and our ’n
When we saw Grandma’s legs out in the kitchen.

Grandma had six tats herself in pink and blue.
Not as much as you, she told Lulu.
But I am going to get them now, I bet.
The only one we saw cringing was Old crow, grandma’s pet.

annoyed while waiting part two

I did not think their music could become one iota more annoying
I was wrong
Maybe it’s the loudness; my ears are cringing
My sensitivity is crying
Why oh why do people use pounding music in a public place?
It does not help that I am waiting for a haircut
And two people are ahead of me
Neither of them looks like they even need a haircut
While I look like the wild child of Borneo
Who put her fingers in a light socket

Reflection

Reflection

Staggering out of the maze
his mind still swaggers
Mustering up his wit
he shored up his faith
Sulking his present state
he craves this cringing hope
Bemoaning the looming darkness 
he detest this fate 
Yearning for a reprieve
he is caught 
napping on the trail

The Command

The command is to write -
but every day you wake up
saying to yourself:

"I can't write, I was never taught,
my fingers are illiterate appendages
of a cheap Japanese laptop,
my mind is too oddly shaped
it has no dustcover
its pages have wormholes
holes that smaller worms fall through."

Every day the same old thing,

and a plasma screen mocks you,
mocks your open slack mouth,
your dull eyes,
the slow grinding inertia of every thought.

The command is insistent,
it prods the soft belly of your cringing ego,
demands a pound of flabby words
be made flesh,

and so, you tap random keys listlessly
until another string of consciousness
unwinds itself
into a last line,
that if not memorable,
yet at least will not live long enough
to disgrace you.

death has a fit

death rode by on a scooter today
I gave her a bit of a cheery wave
she frowned at me, and I know why
she wants to be scary,
will give me another try

by noon she had donned a distinctive disguise
dressed as dracula’s daughter, it made me laugh a bit
she jumped up and down, having a terrific fit
you are supposed to be cringing and fearful, you little chit!

I apologized, but she turned her back on me.
Stomped out through my garden, turned into not one, but three.
A mother deer, a raccoon and a spotted fawn.
I knew she would be back, but probably not before dawn.

Say What?

election fears
icy beers soothe
old ears cringing

Spring Cleaning

While mopping the melted snow of winter.
I remember when I got a splinter.
My expression cringing.
My finger twinging.
But still I reminisce.
Of the fireplace’s caress.
While dusting the places usually never seen.
I remember being-
Next to a draft.
Feeling bereft.
Wishing for spring.
Not seeing-
Flowers that bloom.
Feeling like I’m in a tomb.
But nowadays I slip from my mopping.
Dust flying and never stopping.
I miss being lazy.
Even when it was hazy.
But then I open a window.
And love for spring rekindles.
Soon summer will come around.
Then I’ll miss the smell of spring that abounds.

Combing for Reasons

I comb the banshee’s long hair
until she is calm and silent.
She is older
than the lowest barren hills.

Then,
a young girls voice
issues from her open mouth.

“Daddy.”

I’m not her daddy,
No one knows her father,
unless it be the ever-wailing winds.

“Daddy” her voice is getting louder,
ceiling light-fixtures begin to tremble,
a picture jumps to its death
from a cringing wall.

“Stop it! No one knows anything!”

The banshee dissolves into tears
and silence.

Moments come and go,
the locked house door, swings open
with a shattering crack.

A little girl is at my front step –

the screeching from her mouth
is mind-shattering. terrible.

Seagulls drop like stones from the sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An Irish myth. Some interpretations say that combing the Banshee’s hair
is the only way to stop her life-threatening bewailing.
She is said to foretell of death, but who or what is unclear.
This post might lead the reader to think of child abuse, at least I hope so.

Shadows

Shadows  9-22-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows

Living in ethereal shadows of compassion,
In profiles of grace,
Mercy overshadows stumbling stones
Revealed in a lens of benevolent focus
To eclipse blisters of ebony shades 
With wispy balms of healing from raining penumbras,
No longer shadow boxing with bruising lacerations.

Shadows of grace pursue cutting eclipses
And wraps golden coronas of clarity
Around impenetrable guilt, treachery and betrayal,
Forgiveness foreshadowed in rising cumulous mists
Chasing cringing palls back into impotent hollows
Creating translucent patterns of favor
In delicate dews of lotus clour.

Ever present living pierced hands of agape,
In crimson shadow’s continual canticles,
Engulfs dark demon wraiths with pure mystery
And with silhouettes of the eternal Eden 
Reveals perpetual truth –
No shadow can with withstand
The incense of everlasting grace.

Weevil Weather

It was not healthy,
a blunderbuss wind
had shot itself.

Strong legs for weak minds
were needed.
Therapy dogs did their best
to heal the barking mad.

Weather pattens predicted
downcast skirts,
hats orbiting Australia,
expensive sneakers crying in the rain,
nothing of the sort occurred,
but pigs did hover for awhile.

Any thought wired
to an inch of cringing flesh
tended to leap away
like a scalded cat.

It had all stopped by teatime,
however
the sugar bowl crawled
with dazed weevil's.

Later we sprayed the wilting fields
with Chanel Number 5
just to keep the evening alive.

Suki

Suki is as Suki does
A vacuum cleaner's twin
She keeps her face fastidious
So she can start again

She follows you about the house
A faithful pet is she
We count on her to mop the floor
And map it frequently

Her appetite is typical
Of creatures like the whale
And yet she chews while other choose
To pass the garbage pale 

She likes to bark at strangers
And she does so with a bang
A lot of worldly dangers
Are no longer just a fang

A funster or a munster
Is her sweet dichotomy
Whenever eyes are chasing flies
She plays the game with me

The toilet is her better half
As she would soon admit
She drinks a lot of water
In an effort to be fit

Another dog might step aside
Or say, I've got to go
But Suki dear is cringing here
To make the talent show

I'm glad to know her face is black
For this formality
A cordial black is nice to track
Her personality.

Ant Encounter

I was relaxing one night while reading in bed,
then felt something crawling, as I froze with dread.
Fearing it could be a spider or a dreaded bed bug,
It’s Just my luck since I was feeling cozy and snug.
It’s now running up my leg, as I let out a yell,
while quickly jumping out of bed, I nearly fell.
I threw the covers back, while cringing with fear,
not sure what I will find and if it’s still there.
I spot the huge black ant running all around,
I quickly grab a tissue, hoping to take it him down.
Luckily, I was able to rid the big black ant in my bed,
and any new bug encounters will end up dead.


(My poem was inspired by an ant encounter I had last night while I was reading in bed. Just glad it wasn't a spider!)

Never Your Nemesis

I'm your villain,
And I guess that's okay.
You might never understand 
How much I looked up to you.
You probably can't understand
Why I don't remember your name.
It doesn't matter.
I didn't get to choose my faults, my neurodivergence.
You thought that because I could read a book
I could read a person.
The truth is,
I thought of us as almost the same.
I thought of you as brilliant.
I'll never understand
How you could make me feel so inspired
While cringing at my disruptive behavior.
It hurts, believe it or not,
That I have known you for decades,
And I can't remember your name.
It hurts that I see your face
Hear your voice
I think of you as good, smart, and kind
But I can't remember your name,
You brilliant, beautiful soul.
So I guess I better be okay
Just being your villain.

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