Long Picks Poems
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She sits by the window for her morning crossword
Coffee cup in hand struggling to find a buzzword
The autumn air carries melodies so pleasantly heard
Yet still she feels somewhat like a jailbird
Is there anything more absurd
Streaking by a Thunderbird
Not the first time it’s now the third
Conjuring memories easily deterred
And can’t help but look sheepishly inward
When gently comes to mind a keyword
So she picks up her notebook her vision blurred
And starts to write a poem half heard
Inspired by both songbird and mockingbird
Either way it holds to her soul the password
Setting her heavy heart free as if sepulchered
By the feeder comes fluttering a hummingbird
Light and gloriously free perfectly undeterred
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on May 26, 2018 for contest BEST RHYMING POEM APRIL - JULY 15, 2018 sponsored by JOHN HAMILTON - RANKED 3RD
I quiver with excitement.
Here comes Big Hand.
Will she pick me up?
Big Hand picks up a pink paper clip.
Pink paper clip sticks her tongue out at me; we loathe each other.
She always thinks she’s all that when she gets chosen over me.
I can do small jobs too, you know, I think with a sigh.
My arch enemy, clipped to the top of several sheets of white paper is lying on her side now, gloating.
I cannot believe her smug grin.
Big Hand is moving again toward me.
Choose me! Choose me! I yell, but only in my mind, as I have no voice.
Big Hand picks up a pen and begins to write, types on the keyboard.
Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. She types fast.
Picks up gray eraser, furiously tears him apart all over the paper.
I am relieved she never does that to me.
Typing again.
Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick.
Stops.
Decimates eraser a bit more. Scrapes his skin off onto the floor.
I feel hopeful because I almost always get used after Big Hand does this much typing.
This is always when she needs me the most.
I listen to keyboard clicking for three days, and two nights.
On Wednesday morning Big Hand moves precariously close to me.
Is this my day? I seize up with excitement.
She slides a bunch of papers into my large metallic mouth.
Snap. Snap.
She looks at the teeth I have left.
Smiles. Satisfied.
I happily stick my tongue out at pink paperclip.
Who is the top dog now?
When a heaven cracks and stars go to sleep
Morning so incredibly quiet -
A peaceful morning - the sun's rays meet my gaze
I listen to the peace - to its eternal rest - and I think
that this moment must forever be in my heart
My eyes filled with clear and clean blue sky
So beautiful quiet morning - a fjord bright as a mirror
. . . I'm missing my words
Happiness rustling through the blood
and awakens my senses
I float among the clouds and angels
picks diamonds like they were candy
The sun glows in all its glory
The words are no longer in my power
24.04.2014
A-L Andresen :)
When I see grass that’s green I wish was pink,
Soft to the touch in cotton-candy land;
Where eyes are never afraid if they blink,
Snow will steal summer and chop off its hand,
So that when I stumble warmth picks me up,
And wraps shame in satin cushioned just right;
Where tears become wine poured serenity’s cup,
Blushing cheeks rosy kept safe wintry night;
When I hear foreign-made songs drifting through dreams,
But seek Chevrolet music ‘n superstars,
Sharing a beer swimming Hollywood streams
Before making love in the backseat of cars;
Then I wave a wand held tightly by me,
Recovering scenes with my poetry.
Like a burst of confetti
They erupt into the corner store.
Tanned, long legged,
Laughing and pushing each other.
They toss their sun-bleached hair
And glance around to see
If people are watching.
Beach outfits – bikinis
Barely hidden under short
Skimpy coverups.
Sandals, high platform heels,
Gold or red or raffia
With sparkly decorations.
They find the cold soda case
And finally each picks out
Some favorite drink.
They giggle. One fixes
The strap on another’s sandal.
They shove each other
And double over into
Gales of laughter
Over some private joke.
Still giggling, they make their way
To the cashier, pay for their drinks,
And explode into the street
The same way they came in.
Playing in the rain
Stomping in the mud
little boy Bob laughs.
It is so much fun
free as a Lark.
Tiring of this game
through the house he plods
leaving patterned footprints
of black sticky mud.
Mother frowns upon the mess
accepting it as a test
of her love for little boy Bob.
Next he picks up his crayons
mixes colors on the wall
Lions leap big and tall
cattle grazing on the knoll.
A spatter of paint here and there
leave colorful spots on them all.
Little Bob, oh little boy Bob
mother cries.
you are a trial to me,
you top them all
a test of faith you are
May God forever help us all.
do you know Mrs. Con Mon?
She monopolizes every conversation.
Actually annihilating it, because once she is here
all conversation except her conversation stops.
People who do not know her wait for her to pause.
Thinking that she will, but she doesn’t.
Her mouth opens, and suddenly she is loudo you know Mrs. Con Mon?
She monopolizes every conversation.
Actually annihilating it, because once she is here
all conversation except her conversation stops.
People who do not know her wait for her to pause.
Thinking that she will, but she doesn’t.
Her mouth opens, and suddenly she is loud and proud.
Telling stories beyond stories, without pause or hesitation.
She picks up on no social cues
Co-workers, and observers are exasperated,
annoyed, irritated, tired of her monopolizing ways
She has taken the lunchroom by storm.
All conversations have ceased, for they could not go on.
Mrs. Con Mon is telling this, that, the other, and the other other.
Speaking, blabbing, gossiping about her mother and her brother.
She wants to engage everyone in her conversation.
I, I, I, me, me, me, we, we we….
People are leaving the lunchroom with frowning faces.
Mrs. Con Mon does not notice.
She picks up on no social cues.d and proud.
Telling stories beyond stories, without pause or hesitation.
She picks up on no social cues
Co-workers, and observers are exasperated,
annoyed, irritated, tired of her monopolizing ways
She has taken the lunchroom by storm.
All conversations have ceased, for they could not go on.
Mrs. Con Mon is telling this, that, the other, and the other other.
Speaking, blabbing, gossiping about her mother and her brother.
She wants to engage everyone in her conversation.
I, I, I, me, me, me, we, we we….
People are leaving the lunchroom with frowning faces.
Mrs. Con Mon does not notice.
She picks up on no social cues.
She wore next to naught, bare birthday suit,
Yet, sense of fashion was absolute.
Lifting that sole fig leaf—
The briefest of a brief,
Said: from Fall-collection— ah how cute!
___________________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 24.01.2020 |
Topic: fashion, humour
Poet’s Note: I remember to have seen a cartoon some time back. Adam and eve are shown in the Garden of Eden amidst heaps of fallen leaves. Eve picks up one meant to be her fig leaf, and says, ‘see, this is from my Fall Collection’.
Almost wordless, a cartoon brings the point home very effectively. A poem too does that so laconically. What when the two combine?
Raspberry Kisses
Silent kisses throughout the air.
Just like the wild raspberry affair.
Nowhere to know how,
Can they be found!
Now they are here,
Only to me you appear,
Fragrantly simple and sweet,
From your head to your feet,
Melts-in-your-mouth, easy to eat!
With an imperceptible sharp overtone,
Your lip texture finer than a rose,
A kiss, so edible it carries its own light juicy moan.
Delicious, I want to own them with an unlimited supply.
The greatest refined assortments, of every flavor of berry divine.
Delicately designed with a deep inner core,
"Cumulative kisses," wait to be explored.
Small cascading pods, contain the best forever after taste.
Exceeding saliva fills the hollow root in my cavity base.
Walking with kisses, which belong to the sun?
Your berry-fine sensation, lips of relaxation invade the method in my meditation.
The inner peace of you, lands in the most tranquil way.
My buds taste and hide this kissing quality; I won’t share nor display.
I desire this episode will full flavor ahead.
Transforming the imaginary form, from zero; till there is none.
The perfect persuasive peck of all picks.
Harvesting the ripest mental bliss only for my lips!
Berry-Mastery.
I belong to you.
by;PD
Standing cynical and numb on the cliffside, watching the waves flow, tumble, then crash up against the jagged rocks below.
Little bubbles of sea foam pop and crackle as they slide across the rocky beach shore.
The water ebbs back again to repeat the cycle; it goes back home just to be pushed out again
The salty sea breeze catches your loose hair,
just a few strands at first,
just enough to feel… something,
just enough to remind you something is there.
Before long, the wind picks up
and tosses your unbounded hair around in swirling gusts of unbridled resilience,
to get an easier path to whisper sweet nothings into your ear,
promising flight and unwavering freedom,
promising serenity found in the unending horizon,
promising harmony and complete wholeness.
The wind understands.
The wind empathizes with your pain.
The wind draws thin comforting fingers across your cheek
and breathes compassionate vows into your restless soul.
“The wind understands,” it promises.
You look down in shame, knowing no one is to be trusted enough to believe such things.
“Just come with me, my meek child. All will be well.”
The wind tempts as it brushes your hair behind your ear.
The wind runs down your neck, ruffles your dress, and spreads your arms wide as the wings of the gulls over your head.
The wind slips down your sleeve to billow your skirts.
The wind beguiles you closer to the cliff’s edge,
“To get a better feel of the openness around you,” the wind assures.
and in the moment the wind runs through your fingers,
you feel enough of the sky that for a moment you believe the whispering wind siren.
You finally let go and let the breeze sweep you up,
lifting you into the vast sky.
You embrace the promised freedom and smile at every peaceful whip of wind
right before you are thrown into the sea
and the awaiting rocks.