Dwarfing Poems | Examples

Prickles the Gust

“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.

The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.

“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.

Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.

Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.

Contaminated

("Contagion", 2020, original oil)

Contaminated

Everything we taste, see, hear, think and feel
Is taken in as a layer 
Upon layers within our mind
Adding to the library of imaginary things
Which makes us distinctly human
All too human.

This world of the collective unconscious
Is worse than any one imagination
Could imagine
A world of angels and demons 
Morphing in real time
As we, the collective
Write our novels, make our movies
Indulge silent fantasies and forbidden fruits
In the dark web of Mind.

Everything so consumed
Adds to this web
And adds to the collective weight
Of being human
The stuff of dreams
That end up nightmares.

This is the world our children inherit
The real world
Beneath the one we see
A world as old as time
Mythical in proportion
Dwarfing the fragile balance
Of what little we can handle
With all we know.

(12/29/23)

Going Wild About Clare

     Where hills lay barren, and bedrock’s stripped bare
              let me take you away to county Clare 
     Huge cliffs climb sheer, dwarfing waves underneath 
             atop the Burren my heart skips a beat 

            With nothing to see, apart from the view
       all makes perfect sense, rain comes right on cue
                 And whatever I feel, it’s in the air 
                 desolation yes, but without a care 

     Where fields seed pebbles, and pastures reap stones 
         through Clare’s vast rawness, I trek on my own 
             A whitewashed lighthouse, beckons away
           scouring heavy seas, beneath clouds of grey 

                 Gulls are crying, as they happily do
                rising and falling, going nowhere too 
            Still makes me wonder, where I’d rather be 
               than here by Clare’s dolmens in reverie

                  Later I take in, what nature left out 
                 my pipe, tobacco, and bottle of stout 


Hms

Only Three Days In Cell

Only three days in The Country’s Cell
And one won’t any longer feel well: 
The Damned Bizarre with a Killing Smell, 
A place Tortoise loses help from shell,
To be ringing in one’s ears Death’s Bell,
Dwarfing other sounds with somber knell…

Keen prayers for life to stones tell
Or a song make of it helped by Snell
And hopefully The Waxed Record sell 
But – Sorry - no success would it spell;
For once I’d pandered to it and fell: 
All men aware our Cell is just Hell…

Received Blows you don’t discuss nor tell!

Alcyoneus

Galactic spectacle, we name you
For a Greek mythic giant.
You exist in mythic realms of space
Dwarfing our Milky Way,
The largest yet known of your kind.
We behold your bygone light, 
Your radio signal artifacts now only just 
Arriving from what you were
Three billion years ago.
So humble our instruments for
Detecting you, 
so simple our data collection
about you.
Gargantuan star ellipse drifting and yawning in
Vacuous void.
A hosting galaxy, embedded in cosmic web strands,
Two hundred forty billion times
The size of the Sun,
With a massive black hole nucleus,
Four hundred million times
The size of the Sun.
We measure and record like
Ancient Babylonians,
And still, no one comprehends.

Thank You Spirit Moon

Ojibwe tribe is in awe of the spirit moon
She brings a swift coldness to the atmosphere
Showing her reverence for a wintery mix.

Cree call her frost exploding moon, 
in honor of the tree crackling sounds of Canada
Her bright roundness announces icicles and snow

Luna keeps her far side hidden, an illusion of secret
Showing us her full wolf moon, the one we howl for
Changing our moods in mercurial ways

I stare at her from the safety of my home
Wind chill here is minus eight below zero.
Thank you spirit moon, I say, admiring her frost.

Her gorgeousness brings blackness to the sky
Dwarfing the beauty of the constellations
Obliterating them. I feel Native American around her.

The Nordic Pyramid

The Nordic Pyramid

Up north, where I was born
there is a mountain in the shape of a pyramid 
of course, it is much bigger
dwarfing the Egyptian´ones.
It is snow-capped looks desolate
but every year I have noticed the snow crown 
is getting smaller 
now it is the size of a French beret.
Soon the snow will disappear and
the mountain will look like a pyramid.
A testament that once the human race lived here,
but they like the Tasmanian tiger 
disappeared from the planet.
They will never come back again.

My Old and New Wounds

Speechless and lost,
A *****, uncomfortable perplexity began to invade me,
Seated here all day, I've been thinking,
And feeling a stifling sensation of pain and suspense,
Life becoming more meaningless.

I'm choked by the thorns and brambles of life's cruelty,
Fighting without knowing how to win,
And a tear like silver, glistened in the corners of my eyes,
As ruthlessly as the hoof of a horse tramples on a rose,
I'm bruised and the scars scattered all over my worthless body like ant-hills.

Despondency clung to me like a garment that is wet,
I'm drying and dying from within me,
My voice like mournful bells crying in the wind are mute,
Suicidal thoughts descends and clenched perfect, sudden, like a curse from heaven,
I'm now as insensitive as a damaged barometer.

These are my old and new wounds,
Bleeding profusely and dwarfing my hopes,
In the last days when my pen will run dry,
And my name and poems forgotten,
Kindly take these lines to remember and feel my pains.

My Pie In the Sky

Fastidious gildings must dot your mien:
Sizzling lips that ooze unbridled charm,
And a neck sleekest with angelic luster
To daze the eye and sun a smitten arm. 

Still deeper graces beyond corporeal eye
Shall your gold’s stoutest bulwarks prove:
A mind pliable into another’s loftier ideal,
A heart malleable to wit’s forging groove. 

A full stock of sly eccentricities to baulk
Pert overstepping darts round the clock;
And a placating vocular chime that tells
Time’s tick better than poor-piping bells. 

A hope that dares azure's illest signs;
Turning gaffes into leaps onto higher 
Insights purer than filtered science, 
Dwarfing Fate and her fiendish fire.

And shall all these bejeweled traits 
Sure lie within one maiden’s tastes,
And finally match the magic gleams
Of that fairy gal I see in my dreams?

Poverty Trap

They tell them the reality of yesterday is their tomorrow
Save the cries for different versions of sorrow
The world is hash but there is a God who is omnipotent
The world has abundance if they choose to be content
If their dwelling is a square foot, they should think about a refugee
If their bowls are empty they should fast, prayer is free
They traded their votes for hope and empty promises
Their offertory is a subscription enticed with a forebode blessing
They should not question their poverty, for religion extols it
They should not question the system, if they are patriotic
The system was designed for the poor to determine who rules
The system was designed for a few rich to rule over the poor
Their poverty gives the powerful power over them
Their ignorance raises few questions
Their starvation hungers for crumbs
The desperation of the governed inflates the egos of the government
Dwarfing the people into fear, inferiority complex and indoctrination
These are the bars of the gate of the prison of poverty

The Orchard of Oppertunity

The Orchard Of Opportunity.
.
Strolling through the orchard of opportunity
Making choices as they come along
Trying to pick the best healthy fruit
But many a time I get it wrong
Picking the rotten ones riddled with maggots
Another blow to heart and mind
The windfall trod underfoot
And stick to my shoe
Leaving me to feel blue
I soon forget the good fruit
That tasted so sweet
As my orchard gets smaller and smaller
And the dwarfing trees get taller
Frantically I gather all
As fast as I can
Taking the  good with the bad
The taste used to be sour and vulgar
But now I’m older it’s not so bad.
.



Peter Dome©2020.

Red Herring of Lapsing Time

Fall’s felicitous red herring —
the mystery of leaves morphing.
The autumnal applause fairing.
Verdant heat and daylight dwarfing.

The horologic ticker chimes,
as lines are drawn on pumpkins patched.
Gramps, it’s apple picking time. 
The scarecrow’s wise with balding thatch.

Forensic crisp of maple leaves —
children foolishly blinded by
the crimson and yellow dervish
heap...how quickly green does die.

Snowy bonnet soon covers plot —
arthritically profound.
The creaky ice of knees and knots
embellish the grownups’ playground.

Sought are the days of yesteryear —
chirping of birds and childhood friends,
standing aloft swing with no fear,
ascending where sunlight transcends.

9/22/2019
100 words
Any poem you want to write exactly 100 words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger

Word count checked by howmanysyllables.com

Beam Rider

High above gray Manhattan’s marge,
‘Midst toothsome towers in the sky, 
A construction crane there looms large,
Dwarfing the crowds of passersby.

A new building grows, rising high,
Clouding another patch of sky.
A tower for trade will arrive
Where businesses may fail or thrive.

An unsung Mohawk warrior,
And an iron-ribbed Spartan crane,
Raising stanchions; bolting girders,
Work in harmony on the frame.

Clutching the cables of the crane,
Beam rider goes where most aren’t fain;
Riding angled steel slabs, held tight,
High aloft, nearly out of sight.

In their union, we may marvel:
From out of an architect’s dreams,
Row by row; level by level,
They unfold a right-angled frame.

And when the beam rider has gone,
Who will recall his days bygone?
For those who make real others’ dreams,
That is the way it goes, it seems.

From the Other Side of the Street

We were tired of living,
But weren’t sure of leaving.
To them, we portrayed an incoherent loquacity of a nervous Mong-er,
Committing crimes, living in abject poverty and dying in hunger,
Yet, their thoughts put on the panoply of killing.

We have been around this neighborhood,
But never had a chance to act with the Nollywood.
Their cameras were always on us like celebrities,
Not for good but to show the world our negativities,
We die daily, yet, we didn’t break the brotherhood.

The sound of their guns do thunder in fury,
Dwarfing our ambitions, then our visions blurry,
Then like vicissitudes of wind and weather,
We still adjust our lives like buckles on leather,
And wish to survive the tears of outraged vanity blinding us in a hurry.

We are from the black race,
It’s evident in our bloods and my face,
Let the black man enjoy freedom truthfully,
Because the decision to be free is taken freely,
I think I have already set the pace.

An Stewart Chekiri Everestus's Poems © 2019

Rhigos Mountain, Wales

All around mountains stare down,
Dwarfing Bleancwm with a silence,
Our Brockway walk is to begin,
Unusually no song  birds to sing!
The steep incline to the top,
Plenty to look at, while the legs stop,
Waterfalls, horse medows, rocks,
Plenty to hear as the mind resets,
Water crashing, Water relaxing,
Breaking the silence of the mountains gaze,
The reward, a look over Bleanrhondda, 
Where no doubt the birds have gone,
To join the people and souls in song,
Perfectly lined pine forest, not been touched,
God's home made compost already mulched,
All the trees eerie stand to attention,
One or two fallen, needs to be mentioned,
Further along the roman settlement so high,
The Romans must have thought it was the sky,
As the bikes in the distance come close and raw,
Tearing the path to its core,
All around old man's beard graced the trees,
A mountain that keeps on giving,
Another waterfall so tall, it's having a ball,
Stunning walk back to the car park, 
Where the past will always last,
Mining everywhere the spirit is there,
When the spell was cast who thought it would last,
Mountain with a heart beat,
Rhigos you have gave us a treat.

• Short Dwarfing Poems
• Famous Dwarfing Poems
• Best Dwarfing Poems
• Read Dwarfing Poems
• Long Dwarfing Poems
• Dwarfing Quotes