It's said, "The world will bleed away."
It bleeds and bleeds—one pint a day.
A blood as bland as monochrome,
as voices in an echo-dome.
The drooling masses lap it up.
And lick the anchor's shiny cup.
With honeyed words that tickle ears.
Or doomsday chants, neurotic fears.
One pint a spew of ink on page;
the next a clip to bait our rage.
More deep-fake, cheap-fake, viral slop,
all gobbled up without a thought.
They swipe until their thumbs fall numb.
Each point-less short a tasty crumb.
And reach into their crinkly bag,
to find a byte with which to brag.
It flows and flows—a crimson hue.
False words—a bitter cud to chew.
When idle hour courts lazy mind,
and sightless ones dare lead the blind.
When wars are waged on field and screen.
Whilst rumor mills redraw the scene.
It's said, "The world will bleed away."
The things I see—I fear it may.
Categories:
crinkly, satire, society, technology,
Form: Rhyme
Reading feels like a chore, a heavy weight,
But it sharpens the mind like a blade.
Books cause boredom to take over
But wisdom is a flower that grows.
Pages flip, leaving me wishing I was doing something else.
But my brain is developing more and more.
Though each crinkly, dusty page is taking away my joy,
I know that reading will make me grow old.
Although my excitement is not present for reading,
I know that I will benefit from each black, bold word on the page.
Categories:
crinkly, 10th grade, anger, art,
Form: Free verse
An old gaunt lady
With feeble steps
Walked to the red telephone booth
On the roadside pavement
Every day she dialed a number
And spoke inaudibly into the receiver
As tears streamed down her crinkly face
This continued for an hour
Until she resigned for the day
Hoping for another heartfelt conversation
A baffling mystery unsettled us
Spectators to this daily drama.
Categories:
crinkly, loneliness, mystery, old, red,
Form: Free verse
That neighbour has just banged his door.
Again yet again and yet again.
I, a one of superior quality, wish to beat
his barking bonce against the wall of his rathole.
But there’d be no grey matter
to dribble down the concrete.
An ugly slimy mush would not be excreted
from that crumbly, crinkly, brainless brainpan.
No brainbox there to squirt the grey stuff!
Oh, what do I experience?
A swirly-whirly precognition of a pleasurable
banging of that brain that isn’t there?
Do I not wish to tear it into shreds?
Funny how feral thoughts burst into one’s mind.
Again yet again and yet again, this superior
wants to beat and bounce that barking bonce.
(17 Sep 2024)
Categories:
crinkly, break up, discrimination, me,
Form: Free verse
A whispered shhh hung in the air
Tall grass rustled nearby
A slight sniffy, snorty snout sound
Preceded the crinkly crunch of dry grass
Sweat slithered across my brow
A large head appeared
Violently shaking
Hanging jowls jousting
Saliva arcing aimlessly
A growl ruffling the air
We ran
Screams scurrying ahead
Saliva spewing demon behind
Fear fueled our flight
Her hand thinly slipping from mine
She fell
The demon approached
We heard her
Breathlessly shriek
“DAD
….CALL THE DOG”
Categories:
crinkly, fun, imagination, onomatopoeia,
Form: Free verse
My little Eden --
before the fall
a screened porch
in the shade of
an ancient
overarching
fig tree
small wonder
Adam and Eve
needed only one each
to hide their new
nakedness --
chicks in their spring nests
chirping away, feeling nurtured
and protected
oblivious to the serpent
apples not his only ripe
fooled by his appealing strutting
fruited limbs and tasty appearance,
Lucifer, the cat, a black joke of
mine, stirs in my lap only slightly --
he is asleep for full – while I, a rival
fig picker, finish my second cup of
coffee…
my Eden has a thousand garden poems
and their seasons, come and gone,
one would think both heaven and hell
satiated by now
the many morbid failures and bright
triumphs~ despite the thick foliage
I try to write of dappling sunlight, dabbing
word-glistens, here and there, on my crinkly old
face
unkempt growth bleached but yet hopeful
Categories:
crinkly, environment, evil, garden, god,
Form: Free verse
Dusty musty air hit me as I open the attic door. Turning on small torch, I pause whilst my eyes gently get acclimatised to the dim light. Brushing away the long cobwebs which hang from the low ceiling, I cautiously make my way to the back of the attic. In a dark corner I find Granny’s old ottoman, its pink damask silk top is now worn and faded. Carefully I begin to raise the lid, its hinges creak like granny’s arthritic knees. I gently lift out her silk wedding dress which, as a child, I’d help granny wrap in layers of crinkly tissue paper. She had always promised I will wear it one day, and as she’s a gifted seamstress I know it will fit perfectly on my June wedding day.
family heirloom
I’ll wear on my wedding day
precious memories
Categories:
crinkly, clothes, granddaughter, grandmother,
Form: Haibun
No blue hair or curls for me.
I’ll grow old naturally.
Hanging breasts and flattened bum,
crooked teeth and graying gum.
Sagging knees and chicken skin,
sunny spots and double chin.
Silver streaks through thinning hair,
dimming eyesight no repair.
Crinkly crow’s eyes and flat feet
singing as the Maker I meet.
I don’t care what you say,
I can’t hear you anyway.
Categories:
crinkly, age, beauty, funny, hair,
Form: Rhyme
Whitest world with cold and ice,
storming, sleeting, nothing nice.
Temperature sinks once, then twice.
Stay inside! the best advice.
Dropping crinkly like rock pink salt,
graupels fall with pelting assault.
No sign the wintry weather will halt,
night falls hard like a vestral vault.
She left for her home, not wise.
Pellets pitting the road, she cries.
Reports of frigid cold held no lies.
In her car, frozen solid, she dies.
*Inspired by, but not entered in, Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Poetry Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh.
Categories:
crinkly, cry, death, environment, nature,
Form: Rhyme
Autumn burnishes furry heads,
even we, who however scant our hair
flourish in this wind-blown leafy.
No room for stray gray wisps;
our locks turn golden brown,
crown our minds with crinkly laurels.
Mr. Groundhog looks pretty spiffy
in his cabbage leaf toupee,
even the bent old lady
who walks pell-mell
in the Fall, the strewn and gusty,
has sewn together a wig so big
that it covers her face with beauty.
Categories:
crinkly, poetry,
Form: Free verse
No hazel eyes are exactly the same, some cold, some hot.
Many people profess to have them, but many do not.
They do change colors with the clothes people wear
Becoming brown, blue or green, or black like a bear.
No blue eyes are exactly alike. Some sky-blue others azure.
Some are clear, others crinkly, some incredibly pure.
They come out in full strength when their owner wears blue.
I think they are delightful no matter what kind of hue.
No brown eyes are exactly alike. Some have golden flecks.
Some are Bambi eyes; many have colorful specks.
They can be intense and warm, or cold, chilly in fact.
Many look cozy in winter, a warm kind of pact.
Black eyes are the most diverse of all if you ask me.
They can have colors but don’t have to, dark as a tree.
I see these eyes and I smile, recognizing secrets kept close.
I rather think I like these eyes the utmost.
Categories:
crinkly, body,
Form: Rhyme
I Am Not a Zelig
By Sy Roth
If not now, when?
The Zelig resides
Quiet, undefined
In my dark corners.
Like a chameleon, it rests on the warming rock
Inert, cold-blooded creature
Sunning itself
As the ages revolve about it.
In the room, they come and go,
All the merry Zeligs,
Awash in their obfuscation.
They blend in so well.
I watch them and my brain meanders,
My colors a steady stream,
While their kaleidoscopes
Are a whirligig of activity.
The warming rock gives me comfort
While their cold stares
Wrap me in a crinkly, aluminum sheet
Preserving what warmth escapes me.
The music of their voices
Play discordant songs about me
And I wonder,
Wondrous thoughts that slither among my dreams.
I’m warmed into somnambulance
Of time, while Zelig souls
Eat them hungrily
And their color fades into nothingness.
I am not a Zelig
And I should be happy about it
But I frown at the intransigence
Of my spiritless, colorless climax.
Categories:
crinkly, angst,
Form: Free verse
I Am Not a Zelig
By Sy Roth
If not now, when?
The Zelig resides
Quiet, undefined
In my dark corners.
Like a chameleon it rests on the warming rock
Inert, cold-blooded creature
Sunning itself
As the ages revolve about it.
In the room, they come and go,
All the merry Zeligs,
Awash in their obfuscation.
They blend in so well.
I watch them and my brain meanders,
My colors a steady stream,
While their kaleidescopes
Are a whirligig of activity.
The warming rock gives me comfort
While their cold stares
Wrap me in a crinkly, aluminum sheet
Preserving what warmth escapes me.
The music of their voices
Play discordant songs about me
And I wonder,
Wondrous thoughts that slither among my dreams.
I’m warmed into somnambulance
Of time, while Zelig souls
Eat them hungrily
And their color fades into nothingness.
I am not a Zelig
And I should be happy about it
But I frown at the intransigence
Of my spiritless, colorless climax.
Categories:
crinkly, allegory, color, culture,
Form: Free verse
Like a scouting ranger
The cowboy's flower will
Be my secret messenger
To show how much
I cared and do still
I never told you how bad it was
How much I missed you
How I drowned it
How I almost came through
Like you wanted me to
Sluice gates shut and
I blocked my flow
Vault doors closed to
Hide the treasure
Vanity stopped the show
Because of family illness
I blow the dam, I explode the cache
Out everything pours
Gold coins glimmer on the floor
Untamed flood of feeling, reeling
My mother will not disappear!
Like I have for her!
Like I made you do!
I will take it all
And I will feel it too!
There you are in the
Precious pile, the frothing jetsam
Like losing my mom's mind
It was this bad only one time
When I was losing you
After a generation
When my hair is grey
Instead of sandstone
And I am crinkly not handsome
When it is far too late
I'll do it on your birthday
And our anniversary
For how special you were to me
A picture to hold the place
Of my old face
I hope you know that it
Has meant tragedy arose
Now it's in friendship's style
You'll never see my profile
But I'll post that yellow rose
Categories:
crinkly, first love, loss, lost
Form: Free verse
Write bad poetrations, thus inclined
To me, said she gruntingly.
I said my pluraled poetry is good. I just
Cannot blotchitnize bad poetry if I lortryop.
You are brugingthed conceited, she said.
Not, I am the othoriginal peddler of truth.
I cannot lieth for largid butterfunned toffee.
I cannot lieth if I grozling to.
Just as I
Cannot scribshod bad poetry.
She dringulized that anyway
What I think is good poestration
Like thinst
Is actuallyatrocioused poetry; not actually weevilif, but bad-thumpered, bleurgaucratic, officithiyed, cothillous, and torturises people
I beg to differ.
I don’t beg at all, actuallisst.
I insist.
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,mashurbitries.
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't!
Categories:
crinkly, angst, education, giggle, imagery,
Form: Free verse
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