Long Ragged edges Poems
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Oh the disgrace
Infamy and shame
The ridicule that’s now
Poured on her name.
There’s no escape
For she’s been seen
Trying to fake a pair
Of Designer jeans.
She couldn’t afford
The poor dear soul
The real thing and so
She cut her own holes
She fooled the world
For just a little while
Except they didn’t have
That designer style.
No ragged edges,
They looked too neat,
Too contrived and
Not really incomplete .
Sent to Coventry by
Her fashionable peers
Subject of ridicule
Whenever she appears.
Oh the disgrace
To be publicly seen
With fake holes cut
In counterfeit jeans.
She wears whole jeans now
One of the new fashion bold
And tells the world at large
Her legs are no longer cold.
We pack each little box
Until it’s full of memories.
Unpack when we arrive each day.
Like spring, when daffodils are new.
We put ourselves inside each word,
Stuffing the tattered, and ragged edges
Of each memory with a lubricant of feeling.
Inside, each emotion pressing outward to be free,
Not fitting into such tiny boxes.
Reading the poets and trying to be like them.
Communicating in glorious ways;
Bending ears, Bringing tears,
Giving the gift of giving-in.
Suturing the fractured,
Making every moment whole,
An ecstasy of living.
Finding the glory in being.
A duty of selflessness,
The humility of altruism.
Impulses shared to enlighten,
Fan multitudes like prospered wheat,
Making bright the common direction
Of swaying flames.
A breeze of words that carries all baggage
Until we wake.
Then, In the morning, we return.
Unpack each captured vastness of feeling,
Let it breathe until an end arrives.
Then pack again and make them fit
Into these small containers we call words.
Everything comes and goes like this,
boringly fast drills-
look and it's passed. Sadness and thrills too
are soldiers. There's no point in turning it over,
and over. The visit, however quick and smooth
warrants the quick and harsh pains. We're used to
never going back.
How is it sad?
How can it be anything else, but we're miffed
for thoughts of the ragged edges of what we've had-
and all this, carrying our shiniest wrappings
for merrymaking instruments to one day tarnish,
that we'll collect as antiques and garnish
our mantle-piece with them.
Nostalgia is all the rage,
so ignore the tea and collect the dish.
Strong Voices, Fixed Opinions.
"Bashing",
the political warfare,
of the uncommon man.
The rights of all those in power,
ungodly "saints"...
that walk on higher ground,
to prove they are better than the rest.
Alienated and disturbed...
by the fact,
we put them there,
on top of the world.
Famous for all the wrong things.
Not for saving people,
or heroic acts,
but for keeping the small,
ever smaller.
Eat your dogs,
and say little,
that is what is expected of you,
and you and you and you.
We are your betters,
and fretters best beware,
or we will quietly send you...
down the stair.
Some heads will role,
some broke the law,
more are far above it still.
While others, only tried to call out
the ragged edges for what they were...
or are... or will be.
Bad words they speak,
while we dine at the 5:00 o'clock hour.
Pressing their agenda,
into our faces,
until we can not eat...
anymore.
Flour sacks I remember you so well
full of golden grain, bran or flour
a slight but delightful musty smell
perambulating the atmosphere
Sacks cut up for all sorts of things
cloth shoes and dresses even trousers
rough coats that did not keep one warm
scarecrows dressed in sacks
Vegetables stored in sacks that are stacked
in rows inside the dutch barn ragged edges
where the rodents have been chewing happily
a veritable feast they will not go hungry
Sacks of cloth rule in my book
paper is not the same no way
a soggy mess when it rains
ripping as you carry them
Hessian sacks people knew would last
paper is only good for bonfires
or as twists to start the parlor fire
airless no good to store food through winter
written 11/22/2013
contest Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
All night, wind ragged as rain blew.
And the moon is seen as a squire view.
To be a mentor to the cutting wind.
In the sky, a single moon might askew.
Oh, hurry to the lake in the wild.
Both the lady and the bird sighed.
If only we'd ever loved each other!
If all they've done is look in mind.
Utterance cracks as we become older.
A lighted match's rosy cheeks, blusher.
A sun storm raged underneath the ground. ?
I clean our crystal skulls with a safe utter.
I ramble with most of yesterday's wound.
Along the ragged edges of a river round.
Among the hopes that will never realize
It was only me, my last day, and my hound.
But yet, doesn't all life exist to demise?
Can't the sun have some night bronze?
Isn't it all promise that flickers so dimly?
When faced with the stout dawn rise?
It's likely that the odds aren't so dreary.
But some, we will have to fight certainly.
Surrounded by the lowland meadow.
So I dare to daydream to attain victory.
Written: October 5, 2021
''R'' Contest, New Or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France.
In the house where I was born
We tied our laces in the dark
Then shuffled down the stairs without a lamp.
We breathed a foggy whisper
On a window webbed with frost
And we swore, and we swore,
And we swore the vows of knighthood every day.
In the house where I was born
We ate our breakfast standing up;
The better for to make the swill go down.
We dipped the dripping ladle,
Closed our eyes and swallowed hard
And we swore, and we swore,
And we swore the vows of knighthood every day.
Gravity, brevity, granite and lead,
War bread and horseflesh, a pillar of salt,
Tilt yard, curtain wall, tallow on slate,
Crossed swords with diamonds; Et monstro fides.
In the house where I was born
We swept the dirt beneath the rug,
Then nailed its ragged edges to the floor.
We strapped our monkish duties
Hemp and leather to our backs
And we swore...
CUM ET PIUS VIRTUTIS (With devout courage
ET SUPPLEX VIRES And humble strength
NOS PAREBIMUS DOMINUS We serve our lord
ET MONSTRO FIDES Faithfully)
Would that I could be made beautiful again
after being broken, withered and wrinkled.
My aged parts, especially my heart,
given new life like pieces of sea glass
gently washed upon an amber shore.
No more complaints then would I offer
to my coffer filled with miseries.
Free from clicking knees and blurry vision
preventing me from seeing clearly, things
I cherished and lost. On waves, I'd be tossed.
Would that I could be made beautiful again
like frosted glass in pastel hues from the deep,
I'd be prized and valued enough to keep.
No longer would I weep over jagged shards
with ragged edges that I have sadly become.
If ever again, beauty is found in me,
let waves deliver my body as bounty from the sea.
Weathered skin, emeried smooth by grains of sand,
would find me renewed when I emerge,
purged like sea glass, polished until I shine.
Sagittarius
Strike true the star sign of the archer hunter’s heart true north while
Arrows of artistic aspiration fly free from optimistic opportunity in
Grand views of grace to stumble over humility’s stone in blunt speech as
Inquisitive innovations turn eyes to heaven’s crystal river in the
Thrill of effervescent infectious energy for risks of happiness and
To the trusting essence worthy of compassion’s trust where
All creatures great and small hear bubbling music’s fresh fountains while
Ragged edges of unfinished rhapsodies, abandoned in new crusades of
Insatiable quests for authentic unexplored astral eternity,
Understand restless feet rushing in the wind - sign of fire adventures -
Searcher of the stars and soul revels in laughter and vision’s arrows
3-30-21
Contest: Star Signs
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Whispering warm hope and faith within
Whimsical wisps of affectionate wishes
Wakening waltzes that dance wildly
Wanderlust winds breathe gentle warnings
Wakeless weathers ragged edges with
Widening worlds where we never worry
Weathering woes that seek to warrant
Wallowing, wooing watery tears wailing
Wasting wayward ideas that will worship
Wherever wonders caress the soul with
Walks whistling out echoes of watercolor
Wrapped with God’s arms open, welcoming
Luke 15:20 KJV: And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
ALLITERATION REGARDING RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
August 27, 2020