Bury me deep
Bury me deep,
where the pain cannot reach.
Sunset or sunrise
it doesn’t matter.
I am but meat.
There’s not much left in me;
my brain is jumbling,
and I cannot speak.
This job may be the death of me
too tired to think.
Each day is a struggle;
the passing trees swerve and tumble,
drawing me closer, they mumble.
I don’t feel human.
I feel less than I used to.
Hang me from your tree,
for my beloved to see.
Gaze upon what’s around so rarely
here to stay, withered and empty.
I love you forever,
my love, my family.
Is a limerick milk and rice?
It is in letter form.
Will a butterfly flutter by
as pastel petals fall?
Astronomers, the moon-starers,
Say, “Yay! Cat’s ecstasy!”
Do canoes that ply the oceans
show discretion in directions?
Be silent now, and listen still,
to bather’s pacing breaths.
The tall and solitary royalist reigns;
but, will he resign?
Hear the minstrel, Mr Silent,
make a testament and statement:
“This is a play on jumbling words:
it's Anagramalia!”
I am a loquacious, a storyteller of whimsy and woe
this poem is a jargogle of jumbling words
as I enter the forest to a cacophony of harsh sounds
oh, I often tend to be a gloomy crapehanger
and sometimes a fantasizer unable to distinguish
between fantasy and reality
escaping into the intricate world of poetry
it is a metamorphosis of a logophile word lover
oh, I am distracted by the wind in trees
and the rustling of leaves petrichor
and fall into an elysian state
it is an ephoria so intense with mellifluous feelings
sometimes I find myself in an assemblage of headstones
as I meander to the symphony of bird songs
as the darkness of death wraps around me
and the withered flowers are beautiful to behold
lost, lost in a reverie rhapsodic, unraveling words
and living in the moment, detached
F
E
A
R
... has a phantom voice
clinging flesh tethered bones
fumbling
- yardage
uncatchable
losing ground
ephemeral scope
a leathered novelty
of jumbling alphabets
despairing formation
a semblance
of hope
measured
a bit
a gram
a whiff of air
... a seeker of the
most desperate kind
?
... who is this mysterious
forbidder of my s
o
u
l.
?
... who is this formidable monstrosity
that consistently [b][l][o][c][k][s]
?
... who p>re=vents eventual re=solve and
the gift of a PeAcEfUl m
i
n
d!
?
W H O
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W H O
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W H O
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m
e
...
Poets vs. Posters
Poets
Observant sensitive
Describing bringing out uttering
Writers authors mooches delusions
Jumbling mixing up mashing
Shallow foolish
Posters
“Clouds are the sky’s imagination.”
- Terri Guillemets
“Clouds, they make a painting out of the sky.”
-Marty Rubin
Azure beckons clouds dynamic,
Ephemeral formations gliding,
Heavenly images jumbling
kaleidoscopically,
Lighting mysterious
nimbus operations,
Presenting q u e e r resemblances,
Sometimes tinting
underlying visuals,
Woolly xebecs,
Yielding zest.
12.10.2021
For Constance La France's ""A" Forms, new poems" contest
I was preceding to the podium to begin my chirp,
The old man there gives out a burp
After tasting his soup with a slurp.
He asked, “Who’s that little twerp?”
For me that was a usurp.
I took a deep breathe...
Remembered of the Greek Lethe
Which made me start with seethe
I was all set to unsheathe,
Ignoring my chattering teeth.
My voice was fumbling
And I was grumbling
Thoughts were jumbling
Instead of stabling,
I was stumbling..
Eventually my dreams were crumbling....
I took control over the dire
In order to set the stage on fire
Because I was on the spire
There was only a thin wire
Between me and my choir
I crooned for the people to Admire
And my hopes to ASPIRE.
MEMORIES
Memories to rewind.
In series come in mind.
Which to greet or to skip
In the list, which is deep?
All jumbling! Dis array!
Assembling! I should pray.
Some are spurred, some distinct.
Some are blurred, get extinct.
07/06/20
'Verses In Essence -8 Lines' Contest by Joseph May
With my feelings rising like the moon ,
I'm on rhyming mode ,
my mind is jumbling ,
dancing to the beats that the POET Is inventing .
Eyes are open wide ,
with no inch of a blinking ,
like a hybrid scouting ,
one breath it all fades ,
this is Poetry in making .
it's about time
for us to say
what on our minds
not to be foolish
enough to wait
til we're unkind
I love you Baby
and I wanted to let
you know
I want more than being
your friend
I never wanna let you go
make you my wife
you be my woman
and I'm be your man
work together and
have some babies
try to work together
and do the best we can
not trying to scare you off
I know I'm jumbling my words
listen to what I'm saying
this time I wanna be heard
MISDEMEANOR
A soft lisp runs through blonde summer grasses,
shoving at kites or the hems of long skirts.
Umbrellas and hats stir as it passes,
jumbling at picnics, it teases and flirts.
It picks up speed while playing with Marty,
and takes his land legs as he tries to walk.
The unseen source can raid a yacht party,
by strewing boats that are moored to the dock.
Laughing in whispers or screaming in storms,
a mythical being, felt but not seen.
Its guests are blind to the brail it performs,
it can be gentle, or just as well, mean.
Wickedly hurling a house in the air,
or docile enough to tousle our hair.
-Edlynn Nau
© May 21, 2018
late one night I walked down the lit up sidewalk and heard cries laughter music babies crying people burbling in the second floor motel and the noise went on as I got closer to the city limits and the night fell upon me with neon lights and club music as people lined up to check in to the rave.
I danced to the music as I skipped down the streets of limitations and threaded the needle through the pocket in my holy jeans. I screamed all of a sudden when I saw a rat carried by an ally cat in the dance of the fragile sector in all that was left behind.
silence was all heard and the jumbling of the sounds cried out in them motion of creation and evolution in the dreaming of going to sleep and little boy peep was never a sleep I was the creep in the measurement of sleep.
Tears of noise creep ed down my cheeks.
Arms and legs peddling struggling
I tread
In the middle of the lake
There is 300 feet of blue water
Between the soles of my feet
And the 10,000 year old dance floor beneath.
Torch Lake never gives up her dead.
The lake’s bottom is pocked
With springs bursting as jets from Middle Earth
Jumbling boulders like popcorn.
This is where the drowned bodies sink
Irretrievable by dive teams or priests
Those Ojibwa fishermen ripped from their Birch canoes
Loggers clunked dead on their heads
Great Depression titans
Still stitched to their britches
Top hats and bow ties
Pistols clutched to their hands
Wives sunk from hurt and betrayal
Factory workers snapped in two
A young girl from a rowboat
Caught in a sudden storm
Clapping for her tossed dog
She dove in.
I wonder from down there
Where they’re all doing the jig
What I look like to them
Up here?
Another man walking on his knees?
Life bounded by unbounded idea
Dogma of laugh
In the middle of session
Turned the real situation to
Unreal
The sururu or a boggle mind
The characters are disappearing
The length of character and
Breath of character was
Increasing n decreasing the size
The zigzag style of character
Placed in the board
Seems like a jumbling
Mind started shaking
And head eventually fall down
But as soon head was falling
In a quick sease of time
A laugh prevent from falling
Like a blood circulation started
And a sip of water
And a new life
Which in turn reviving from
Unreality to reality
And question was latent
A laugh prevent from
The all the preconception
The ground was blanketed with fallen leaves
that crunched under their feet as they ducked
into the bushes and secluded spots behind thick trees
The forest was their domain the comforts of life
as fugitives in hiding they could survive,
it beat capture and torture.
Emerging on the path came eight horses
with their riders trotting into view
Robin Hood and the others emerged from hiding
knowing they will not be eager to surrender
As the sun starts melting into the horizon bringing in the twilight
Robin Hood and his men knew they were in danger
Why did he feel like he was totally kidding himself?
Jumbling and stumbling they start to dwarf
Their voices had evolved from bass and baritones to tenors
Avoiding getting caught they all backed away and scattered
Bidding the riders farewell, then departing
2/13/2016
Poetry Contest: A twisted poem about Robin Hood -
Sponsored by: C. T.
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