Flicked Poems | Examples

a protagonist

Shut the door to the purple and bruised
in the dark like an old dog and a bone
refuses the water too and a stew.
cooked to be so deliciously....
but her old bones are given
and stubborn of weakness,
I just need you to drink
and to eat something...

There's another of black of visions
I can hear the ravens and the pigeons,
after the flooring of my subtle empathy
and an old friend loses her grips
as that damn kitchen sink drips
I can't go with them to the Vets
as you are and will be everything.

I protected my little girl
its down, in so much hell,
when it pelts so much hail
and a dummy for sale,
that I refuse with......
a shore with a dead whale
of a protagonist...
and how I feel I failed
with a reality of no twisted,
just random of lists flicked
and I'm alone in Oblivion.

The Kill

It's to be expected
this time of year, mid Winter,
a merciless wind straight
off the bay blowing
leaves left over from Autumn,
lifting them like dead prey
flicked up by the claws
of a cat reliving the kill
in its remorseless play.

Tess

Just now I’ve met somebody beaux,
whom I perceive to truly glow
—(oh! anxiety—oh! fitful fret!)—
Somemany beaux (just now I’ve met!)

has flicked a spark of gaiety
O’! Fitful fret! O’ Anxiety!
for outfits worn—For, mask and mark
of gaiety has flicked a spark

to illumine a free soul born 
for mask and mark, for outfits worn,
and who’d begun “woman”.—Hu(man?):
A free soul born to illumine.

Can you believe they all are one
(w(h)o)?man: human—and who’d begun
to truly glow—whom I perceive:
they all are one, can you believe?

Inside

Bubbles hit the walls of the dome and pop. 
Hurting sounds. 
Flinching tree branches. 
Feeling bored in here. 
As if my car won’t start.
No one believes that my car won’t start. 
Or that the dome is getting warped. 
I’m like a failed science fiction story. 
I wish I could turn into a stone and get flicked away. 
I wish I could shrink so that I won’t need to eat much. 
Feeling bored still. 
Bored and trying to be whimsical. 
By playing in the swampy old puddles. 
In this place where it never rains but has endless, sloshing puddles. 
I think everyone else is happy. 
Rusty water hits my face again.

Echoes in the Locker Room

They never saw me—not really.
Only the outline I traced in the halls,
A whisper of denim and shy glances,
A ghost who smiled too politely.

They passed notes like grenades,
Laughed too loudly
When the silence was breaking me.
I wore their words like a second skin—
Tight, blistering,
But invisible to them.

You asked if I was okay once—
But your eyes flicked away
Before the truth had a chance to crawl out.
Still,
That was kind,
Compared to the others
Who carved their stories into my name
Without ever asking for mine.

I screamed,
But only inside,
Where echoes get lost
In the ribcage's corners.

And when I disappeared,
They asked,
“Why didn’t she say something?”
As if silence isn’t something we’re taught
By the ones who pretend
They’re listening.

Mother In-Law’s Tongue

In this woke world I’d soon be hung
If I had had your spiteful tongue
How ironic that its wagging
Only stopped when you were gagging

And as I tried to grab the shard
Of chicken bone that was stuck hard
I grappled with what I could grip
And when you flinched… I heard a rip

You spasmed like you’d just been stung
And left me with your severed tongue
My sense of humour must be black:
Your tongue is mounted on a plaque

I’ve kept it from my wife and kids
To keep my marriage off the skids
So they don’t know that though you’re dead
A bit of of you is in my shed

So there I sat; my hide of choice
And thought about your nagging voice
And when your tongue began to jiggle
I won’t pretend it made me giggle

It made a move like licking lips
And flicked a few saliva drips
It looked ’round with its probing tip
Then sensed me… and it gave me gyp

ECHOES OF THE SILENT SHORE

ECHOES OF THE SILENT SHORE

No longer the crash of breaking waves
Over rocks that always take the blows
Nor even the softer whoosh of the tide
That every smaller sandy pebble knows

As if it was that nature had just paused
An unusual eerie silence now pervades
Like a shift in moon’s orbit were caused
All is still, as a last remaining echo fades

It’s as if some finger has flicked a switch
And no tide will ebb and flow anymore
Boats at anchor will neither roll or pitch
None now comprehend this silent shore

Scattered

In July.
The gym I go to is down the street.
I like to wear those shoes.
Shoes which are dying to run around.
My birthday.
It was horrible,
I don’t know why.
In July.
All I have are July shoes.
My May shoes were ruined in a muddy puddle.
I drove my car back home.
A stone in the gravel driveway.
Gets flicked aside.
All I have are my July keys.
And my July groceries which are getting hot.

In July.
There’s not much to do except have a July day.
With flowers, but they are summer flowers, not the first blooming, bustling flowers.
I miss when it was May and we all fell over like a coffee mug.
With just a little bit of coffee left.

In July.
I drink iced coffee only.
Even though most places serve both hot and iced…
I want to forget.

december

(a quick, staccato tapping of imaginary typewriter keys)

december!

(d(arkness)).
(e(nding)).
(c(old)).
(e(ven so)).
(m(emory(christmas hanukkah kwanza))).
(b(efore(ten))).
(e(ach(a flicker))).
(r(estless(me))).

(a pause; a cigarette flicked into an unseen ashtray).

(born)this(month)me,
(a small(fear))a big(joy)a whispered(prayer),
(this)light(a(breath))).

(a final, almost whispered keystroke),

(it is perfect).

Colors of Love

The sun shone and our love was born.
Your golden hair, it did adorn.
Green was the grass, and too, your eyes,
that flicked and danced like butterflies - 
the day our love was born.

The sky above was sapphire blue, 
It was endless.  Our love was too.
Rose flushed your cheeks, and red your lips,   
as our souls, like our fingertips, 
touched, intertwined and flew.

Must everything, once born, then die?
and colorless tears fall as we cry?  
Must our love story fade to black?
Is there no chance to get it back?
Can we give it one more try?

More is Less

How you feel is not enough,
You as this is less than function,
Avert the feel, replace with stuff,
Or suffer states, disjunction.

Comparing scrambled eggs to buzzing locust,
To the mumbled mind within you,
Hocus pocus, lack of locus,
There's too much to think or do.

Is it magic, the spectacle, the prance of flicked rays?
Distracting as you navigate your ways,
Through this nothing filled by gaze.

The TV sounds like lightbulbs burnt,
The filament ablaze; fidelity.
Tinnitus chimes, claiming weren't;
External cause for remedy.

I can feel the TV hum, the windows wake my earlobes,
Aghast by glass, the lampposts shook,
I'd rather nether regions probed.

I sense that I can't sense a thing,
Nothing lurks beneath my brain,
Haunting me to always bring,
The me who flees from fear and pain.

Poisons for potions, 
Pills provide motions,
A corpus of nervous commotions,
Despite that, these without,
I'm better about,
But me: I continue to doubt.

Marbles

I don't want to pay the price
of my own bad decisions
I wish I could run away
from this bad vision
I can't change nothing
I can't glue the divisions
so little is in my hand
to avoid the collision 

I don't want to pay this price
can you spare me the pain?
come down from the sky
and tell me we'll be ok
no walk take me far enough
to make my heart forget
do miracles really happen?
I haven't seen one yet.

But if I could just no pay the price
and make you just appear
have some magic in my fingers
to turn far into near
I'll let the rain now wash
the story of my years
we are marbles in the dust
flicked inside a child-made sphere.

Jessica

Metamorphosis

The resemblance of the omnipotence imprinted
With rare colours and shades elegantly tinted
Cherubims and seraphs adorn my being's core.
Like the capacious cosmos, I am in candour.

Senses surpass the physique and touch the psyche.
Wisdom arises beyond my likes and dislikes.
Allure becomes affection. Lust turns into love.
Divine graces, like monsoon rains, fall from above.

Consciousness and unconsciousness seem to conflict.
Connections of clear conscience, yet, within, get flicked
Like the lustre of the sun, the moon, and the stars
Rays of virtue erase naiveté’s sombre scars.

I am on earth and in heaven at the same time.
Body and soul, like church bells, are in tuneful chime.
What's heaven and hell when divine presence pervades?
The grimness of death and grave becomes godly glades.

In the Eye of a Horse

Yesterday, I stroked a horse:
I ran my hand along his back
And watched his every muscle twitch,

So sensitive—what a proud and
Ceremonious beast. He held his head
Lightly—comfortable, with no fear—
And his ears tipped gently forward,

Relaxed. They flicked around at every
Sound, but the horse was not tense.

He rested his weight equally along
All four of his strong yet delicate legs—
So slender you thought you could snap them

Like a twig. But this tall and respected creature
Could run at thirty miles-per-hour on
These legs of his. His kick could kill,
If it had that desired intention. But this horse,

So powerful in all its creation, stood
By my side—unflinching; unmoving:

It made its choice to allow my presence—
To allow my every touch of his body.

I rubbed his nose, and his dark eyes locked
With mine. They told a story, certainly:
He could remember his whole life.

Perhaps, even, he could see mine, but
It looked as though he could see even further
Than just the past and the present.

I have missed you so much

heaven was not what Charlene expected. She was thinking Jesus.
Instead, she found a bubble of a pink day moon lounging over a meadow
Her body had stopped hurting, or maybe not, she had left it behind.
Cancer had ruined it anyway, so this was not a hardship.

Delicate wild flowers flicked gently against her heels as she walked.
She felt unhurried, her breathing was no longer labored. She was relaxed.
She felt more herself now than she had in a long time.
“I have missed you so much!” she said to her spirit guide, Jesus.

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