Her tears drag down like hailstorms -
leaving welts across her face.
Her shrieks & cries for help -
have driven everyone away.
Perhaps it's been her silence, though -
thats earned her such a grief.
Or possibly her drive-
that's sought for beauty; buried deep.
It likely, could be foolishness -
(for) she's chased such childish dreams.
With expectations far too high-
(of) those who far exceed her league.
Does she not get she'd be better off-
if she'd ever shut her mouth?
Or will she ever understand-
tears won't save her through droughts?
Her words have rendered useless-
never mattered in any way.
See, if shed learn her place, perhaps-
a man might wish to stay.
In this age of chaos, troubled tunes do chime;
seems elites can't control all the power.
Brawn does drag down ruler's clout over time,
only ones of merit can clutch the hour.
Military might has crushed many a soul
no one escapes, though millions are in play.
Through turbulent times it's taken its toll;
everything said, one must watch what they say.
One slip and an entire empire may fall,
fear Black Angel rumblings that lead to war.
Flicking a sole switch could end it all
in fiery overtures which singe the score.
Burden often flows from buried regrets
battles long fought that memory forgets.
Sonnet 14 lines 105 words 1/7/23
Illustration colored pencil by G. Gaul
`
Weathered this ancient brick of crimson stare
Lines like abstract graffiti
Painted on emotions
Openings glazed over in tempered glass
Curtains frayed in disbelief
Aging sashes crossing
Deeply formed jagged cracks in the facade
Curves drag down distorted flesh
The mirror does not lie
11/29/19
Written for: Pick A Title, Vol 11 - Kimo(3 Stanzas) - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Failed promises
You promised to love me more than I do
Treat like a child
Handle my heart like an uncooked egg
Not to listen to any foes
You promised to accept life defeat,to prove immortality of our love
Be with me,even at the peril time
Never to leave my side
Not to hurt me like others
You promise to drag down moon before my feet
Take me to that hiding paradise
Be my estacy and forever fantasy
All this promises was made in the morning
Hurts me most,seeing all been failed before noon.
Dust clings to my suit caught
by wafts of imagined vapor,
until I drag, drag, down
the dunes and depressions.
The cold a new arm of guidance.
I’m supposed to be warm,
wadded in comfort lining
but cold, cold, makes me old.
While I wander, sucking my last
breaths of precious oxygen.
I lost my converter, where are you?
Lost my ride, my partner, you-o-you?
Lost my every present guide
on far off Earth, while I rustle
unable to cash in on cattle,
unable to renounce life.
Dingy, dinghy, dazed, and all done.
You got me. Bring me home.
And then the hey-yoouuuu, yodel
somewhere near, hail me, hallelujah!
MY HEAD IS ERECT
Met
at best
conflict-strife
throughout my life.
Always struggled lot
As a loner I fought
Tried to keep head erect,
as my ideals could direct.
Malice or meanness pushed to sink and drown.
Never going to allow me drag down.
10/15/17
Never going to drag me down Contest by Julie Rhodeheavers
Second Place
Throw your white glove in a puddle of mud.
Let it represent all of your toil.
The mud won’t get glovey, for crud is still crud,
But your glove, I’m afraid, will be soiled.
Take particular care in the friends that you keep,
For your friends either lift or drag down.
Choose those who propel toward goals that you seek;
Shun those with the cheek and the frown.
Yes, there is room in the world for a kind word to all,
For the saint and the ruffian alike.
Pray, offer your hand to those who would fall,
But be watchful for serpents will strike.
And now the trickles ripple rifting
through the hues of the sky—confetti!
The words of my mouth are paintings;
a projected splash all over—frantics!
Whether they drag down God's face
blaze out streamlights—candlelights
pin a billion sunrises into a stiffened day.
How over-good—worthless crystallites?
When they fall on mangrove skies;
borrowed zephyrs compress—upsize;
explode into sands of mustard seeds—ripe!
Germinate tons of thorns—stars—torn
prickles—squeals—resounds—muted cries;
the act of the hands, when they try and try
to seal the width and pit of the mouth—'unrise'
head's cap size—safeguard the crown—discrown.
How over-good—worthless crystallites?
The River births—your River mouth—'silverlites'
the tributaries—tributes—waterfalls —silver bird—
the screeching lines—over-stretched verse;
voice box machines—the echoes—out loud;
on the stainless-steel wall—a still pass
into dwindling star flaps—eyes lashed
How over good, all these worthless crystallites?
© Destiny Izehi, 2016.
Villanelle: Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth
Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth
Love us as much as we whose steps in vain grace
Why make us defile the holy womb of birth
Who wouldn’t find us such a mawkish source of mirth
Our entry into world blessed with slime on face
Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth
Should not some other means have been found for birth
Than the bang-bang thrust in lice filthy disgrace
Why make us defile the holy womb of birth
That pleasure be sought in and around the girth
And to make things worse drag down the beauteous face
Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth
Unless the lesson’s to rise above and loath
The fiend in thirsty loins contumacious
Why make us defile the holy womb of birth
Could our true fate be to disown very earth
Not knowing why we came in the first place
Who would put us on this blue-green hot-cold earth
Why make us defile the holy womb of birth
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Dreaming the dream of love in decay,
neurones aflame and raw;
sifting psychic debris as night swallows day,
ragged and broke on the floor.
Splintered chewed nails as they drag down the wall,
clawing through plaster and dust;
crushed diamond skulls like fine crystal balls
in raptures of shame and disgust.
Sleeping the sleep of the damned and dismayed,
rocked in a cradle of hate;
schisms and fractures are stark overlaid
on a cortex inert and innate.
Machinery crackles and spits microwaves,
demonic and set to explode;
sinners and saints spin in uniform graves,
rivers of blood overflowed.
Pacemakers with teeth, veins springing holes,
atriums bursting apart;
keeping the beat of a warmonger soul,
hungered snarls from the carnage heart.
"The horror! The horror!" as Kurtz softly screamed
when death rang the terrible bell;
consequence, motive, one snapshot of truth,
it is realisation that's Hell.