Crinkled Poems

Falling Flower

   A single flower died today.
   Grew bright yellow petals,
   With soft green leaves.
   A sturdy stalk,
   I was quite pleased.

   Slowly the petals faded away.
   Leaves twisted brown and crinkled fell.
   Stalk bowed and broke.
   Faded petals gathered round at the end.
   Seed pods sprinkled to start the flower again.

Joyful

I went to a land of little
A place of lovely smiles
Candle sticks and butter cups
Clothes of many styles

She gazed at me
With crinkled eyes
She said “you’re just a boy”
“But, I”m all of sixty four”
“So what, embrace your joy.”

Tiny hands and tiny feet
Flowing yellow hair
She flew about as fairies do
I couldn’t believe that she was there

The path before me
Stones and grass
The air it smelt so sweet 
Butterflies with glowing eyes
Guided me to a seat

Animals and people too
Even Tiny tinker tots
Danced about with such glee
Amidst the Forget me nots

My problems shrunk to little
As I grew in joy
Sixty four’s just a number
After all, I'm just a boy.

One Tender Moment

‘Freeze’ brought us to a stop 
under a warm spotlight.
I turned to face my partner 
and saw these hazel eyes.

Eyes that had felt distant, 
dodging my very presence.
Uncertain, I looked at them - 
prepared for rejection.

But they wrinkled at the corners 
to match an unexpected smile.
Paired with a long sigh - 
a ‘phew’ that filled the distance.
Melting away the tension 
and inviting my heart to soften.

I found myself engulfed 
in these hazel eyes.
Shielded by sharp lashes 
as if to protect for a while.
A guard let down 
allowed mine to drop into ease.
A wide smile emerged 
and claimed my face.

It was pure magic, 
to finally feel seen.
But magic is short-lived - 
it was soon time to say goodbye.
I crinkled my eyelids, 
pushing this moment to a hidden room.
A room only I could visit 
when loneliness strikes.

Hair Composition Poetry Contest

My hair is a whimsical canvas my crown
It’s so versatile pinned up or flowing down
An expression of my natural creativity 
Hair is a blessing of my femininity 

Sometimes I let the pillow style it
Go with the flow wearing my wild wit
In this way my hair is a cocoa cloud
All soft and fluffy unruly truly proud

Sometimes the rain puffs it up
I don’t complain I just embrace love
If I wear a natural Afro style
Or twists with bliss will make me smile

I can never go wrong with braids
Long or short the patterns make waves
Take it down and enjoy it anew
Crinkled and wrinkled my hair is the truth

Even if I have had bad hair days 
Can cut it short or even shave
Hair is an expression when I’m feeling chatty
Fine like vine thick like brick stringy or nappy

The Kingdom of Forgotten Things

In the bottom of a drawer,
where rusted nails and screws gather dust,
never used to mend the house
we swore we’d build together,
my dreams lie waiting.

In the back,
with the dried-up ketchup packets
we thought would stretch the hard days,
but never opened—
you’ll find remnants of hope
wrapped in crinkled edges.

Tossed in an overfilled closet,
crushed beneath the weight
of your unpacked clothes—
the pieces I kept
after you left—
they’re hidden there too.

And in the basement,
where clutter grows like ivy,
where portraits we barely recall
prop up the cobwebs—
those fragile threads of time—
don’t let them fall.
I think I left part of me
down there as well.

Scattered like puzzle pieces
from a hurried Christmas morning,
left unfinished as we rushed
to places we never wanted to go.
Or maybe they’re like the tire tracks
carved into the mud from journeys
that never mattered,
etched into the earth
and fading into memory.

This is the Kingdom of Forgotten Things.

Saint Patrick's Day 2020

I order a Guinness and a shot of Pappy Van Winkle.
My green paper Leprechaun hat is crushed
and lopsided on my head.

That shot of bourbon cost me more
then I used to earn for a day's work.

“I'm worth it”
I say to the middle-aged female server
with my devastatingly crinkled wink -
she shrugs,
she’s seen daytime drunks before.

“My dog just died”
I tell the bulky reveler at my elbow,
he is shouting to some pal way across the bar.

“His name was Paddy,
and he wasn’t no ing Irish Setter *******,
he was a shaggy Kerry Blue”

The big guy doesn't even hear me.

I swig down from the dark mull and amber slug,
weave my way out of the joint,
looking for another pot of gold to piss on.

Luck of the Irish.

Song of old age

Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.

This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old skin was once never crinkled.

These eyes, now drooping, dimmed by poor vision,
Once sparkled with allure and shone pretty.
These hands were once fresh, smooth, and not gritty,
Though now shaky with loss of precision.

The mouth, now sunken and full of gnashers,
Was once bright in the glow of real teeth.
A life once like the vibrance of a wreath
Now whispers in the folds of old tatters.

These feet, worn and cracked, trudging so slowly,
Once romped in the bloom of youthful delight.
Though now calloused and bent, aching each night,
They carried dreams and walked them boldly.

conjunction

release my crinkled past oh midnight moonlight with your petals pearl peace 

August 21st 2024

Fartina

Could there be anything sweeter,
than our little dog named Fartina,
I wanted to see less of wretched in-laws,
they no longer come over because,
the gaseous funky green cloud,
emitting from Fartina makes me so proud.

I dare say we no longer have mice,
who now stay outdoors, how nice.
When Fartina goes to the vet,
it's a sure bet-
the leery vet techs yell, "Fartina's here!"
and the snooty lady in the waiting room
with the poodle holds her nose, oh dear!

At our family birthday party,
Fartina decided to get frankly, farty.
Our guests were all in a dither,
their faces crinkled, then quivered.
Til, lo and behold, a knock on the door,
pesky political  solicitors once more!
Well, lovely Fartina took care of that-
a silent savage air biscuit commenced,
and our unwelcome visitors quickly
vaulted over the fence.
These days bad news travels fast,
but the flatulent antics of Fartina
makes laughter last. ~

Mama's Hands

Mama's Hands

My Mama's hands will never grow old,
No matter the twisted, fickle years.
They've held the brightest gems of joy
And softly dried my childish tears.

My Mama's hands raise the glorious sun
And set the restless stars in the evening sky.
Filled with grace and sultry passion,
Their luminous beauty is quiet and shy.

They danced across the crinkled pages
Of my young and thoughtless life;
Taught me fearless love for children,
And how to be a strong and faithful wife.

With the magic of creative stroke,
With each caring touch and soft caress,
They sowed the seeds of grace and poise
Into each stitch she made in every dress.

The music of their movements
Will forever play across my mind.  
And, now that I am a woman
I'm not surprised to find...

All her words and thoughtful actions
Spun my life's web of lovely strands,
And her love was always measured
By the gentle touch of Mama's hands.
Copyright © Chula Fleming | Year Posted 2012

When Silence Speaks

"When Silence Speaks" poetry contest.
Sponsor: Craig Cornish 
2nd Place. 
Date Submitted: 07/05/2024


the air conditioner soothing my heated skin
fire brick curtains with their red dyed orange 
bumblebee rays peeking through gaps in between,
they have so much to say
so much to say to me

ghosts of muffled laughter snuggling my ears
crinkled edges of faded eyes and scratchy rugs beneath my feet
labored breaths running after a face resembling my own,
your lingering warmth has so much to say
so much to say to me

a hand in mine and a skip in my step
wandering, marveling at street vendors, the bustling market
lavender dreams blooming under our eyelids,
that quiet understanding has so much to say
so much to say to me

heaving shoulders in a dimly lit bathroom,
tear tracks melding into the glass of a splintered mirror 
this lonely silence has howled its piece,
now I have nothing to say
nothing to say to me.

Love of Nirmal Hruday

In Calcutta's heart, a symphony of need,
A chorus of coughs, a symphony of pain indeed.
Not music of strings, but of souls in despair,
Yet a love song hums, a love beyond compare.

Frail hands cradle a child, fever-wracked and thin,
Each touch a whisper, "You are not alone within."
Eyes, deep as wells of empathy untold,
Reflect the suffering, yet a warmth unfolds.

The stench of poverty, a harsh and bitter air,
Masked by the fragrance of compassion, a gentle prayer.
Laughter echoes, a child's joy, pure and bright,
A melody of hope, piercing the darkest night.

No grand pronouncements, no promises of gold,
Just a presence silent, a story yet untold.
In the crinkled smile, a universe resides,
A love that transcends, where difference subsides.

For love, like water, seeks the lowest ground,
Fills the cracks and crevices, where hope is not found.
Mother Teresa, a vessel of grace so deep,
Shows us the love that heals, the love we all must keep.

she had fried her face

Lee had fried her face
She had fried her hair
Sitting in the sun
Outside her beachfront lair

She was all spotted now
Her skin was mottled and wrinkled.
Her face was splotchy like a cow
Her neck was hard and crinkled

You fried your face!
You fried your hair!
This was said by her sister.
Lee replied “I don’t care!”

In Spring, A Floral Clock

In Spring, a floral clock
Time shows us.
Love's own love-flushed dial!
Fairest smile!

In Autumn, a pale-blown
Leaf's o'replus.
Age's own soured outlook!
Crinkled. Crook.

Without My Say

no matter   the hour
no matter   the day
my breath   continues
   without my say

As so
   without my say
you departed
   on that bitter
   dark
of just one day.

Now on   these days 
   of today 
   of yesterdays
   of would-be tomorrows

Quite without my say
my cracked   be-crinkled heart
   she beats   
   rhythms   on 
for the   all   of my todays 
   for you   only you         
without my say
without   my you.

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