Long Sloppily Poems
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All this global speech that once lauded your greatness has vanished.
My lips are crying today because of my misdeeds.
The harvest was completely washed away in the high winds.
Diseases and sicknesses, with fire, threaten scavengers.
Because I am shy, I cry slowly and sloppily.
If someone's feelings are bruised, a wipe may be beneficial.
Companions with crooked mustaches.
Backstabbing and spying are both kinds of treachery.
Who grasps what happened to the planet Earth.
Shame no longer benefits them, so why would they desire it?
An anxious atmosphere pervaded the air.
I'm here to assist you, and I'm grateful to God for this gift.
A natural area has been cordoned off.
The headbands must be reconnected.
Probe the misanthrope and share the etch news.
The sand on the road will cease if they reach their home.
If I yield barefoot, my final inference is consciousness.
Written: July 03, 2021
1st place contest win
A Brian Strand July 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The Last Night in July
(I think)
by Evelyn Aimarie
It is the last night in July
(I think)
And this pink Moscato tastes like you.
Memories dance to the sound of crickets chirping,
Their legs rubbing bottle brush bristles
against my brain,
Scratching an itch I didn’t know I had.
I think I will call it—
Childhood,
Memory?
Lightning bugs rave in succession,
Primordial neighbor to the procession.
Release.
The wine harmonizes—
Honeysuckle exposed, sunray-damp.
Heat lightning remembrance, relative air.
Even the starlight lingers,
Pressing the mother Sun’s legacy of heat
into the blanket of the night sky.
Pulsing,
Sweat-drop breeze,
Kissing my lips sloppily but with a softness.
Like fingertips across my face,
Frizzing my hair like the hands of lovers—
And I exhale my heartless day
Into the musical
Of the last night in a small town, Southern July—
(I think.)
I was embarrassed for my gold-finding prowess was slim to none.
I lived alone, in a mushroom hut, built sloppily for one.
My leprechaun relatives were braggarts, and blowhards and mean.
The things they said to put me down were evil and obscene.
A friendly cardinal named Ed saw them for who they were.
He told me I had to get away, he gave me ideas to stir.
He showed me where Old Man Ligglie Howser buried all his gold.
The man was long-gone from the spot, in a home for the truly old.
I started digging up buckets of gold that very night.
I was careful to hide all of these pieces, clearly out of sight
I bought a red Ford 250 Truck with all the trimming.
I drove away from my relatives with gold pieces clearly brimming.
I gave a little gold to Magna-Fe, a shape-shifter-professional witch.
She changed Cardinal Ed into a handsome lad, although he had a slight twitch.
We married in a little church, in a ceremony so light.
Ed turns into a cardinal in the evenings, so he can do his finder-flight.
He finds the gold and I dig it up. These Leprechauns are so silly.
They use their gardens, throwing the cauldrons willy-nilly.
I have become famous in town, as the Leprechaun Gold-Finding Queen.
And I have wiped my feet of my relatives who were always truly mean.
Another new beginning, another major change
My feet know the rhythm, though this road is undiscovered
My toes know the feeling of wet dew still clinging to the blades of grass
Not yet baked by a summer afternoon
They know the rough soft mountain dirt
And the bounce of a carpet of prickly pine needles
The numbing cold of winters long snow
Quickly followed by the sharp sting of feeling returned
As they are roasted by the fire
My loves feet are following the familiar rhythm
Down a much different unfamiliar path
Will our feet find their way back, unlike our stubbornness
That led our hearts away
The pieces of our soul we tore apart, have not fit right for years
Sloppily thrown back together
Not realizing the catastrophic damage our haste would create
Perhaps the pieces we are leaving behind will become a breadcrumb trail
The morsels to bitter for a crows meal
I had forgiven you so long ago
My love blinds me to your every misdeed
As I lie bleeding on the floor
But it matters not what anyone might say
Because though you can rip me to shreds with a look
Your lips heal my deepest wounds
And although tonight I lie above different soil
I console myself with the knowledge that it is still a part of this great earth
Of which we are all connected
I'll close my eyes and feel your warmth next to me
I will breathe your breath as you hover above me
And I will feel you inside me
As you run through my veins with every heartbeat
Come home to me my love
For I will never be home until I'm safe in the circle of your arms
Close enough to feel the beat of your heart
And the fire of our connected soul
Your Best 2020 Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Staggering, wobbling, stumbling...somewhere
Watching the world spinning, and spinning, and spinning
Confused and discombobulated, he wandered...somewhere
Swerving his steps and slurring his words...
Still carrying the Boone's Farm- strawberry flavored
He mumbled to himself...
Where am I? ...somewhere
Walking with no direction, he sloppily sings
"Somewhere over the rainbow...
Bluebirds fly
Somewhere over the rainbow...
Where, oh just where- Am I"
His first taste of intoxication
A sixteen year old want-a-be drinker; drunk
Vomit all over his overalls, on his clothes, penny-loafers, and in his hair
The morning aft, mom asks "Where were you last night, son"
Still intoxicated, he replied- "Somewhere"
"I" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
9/9/2021
Dear Mr. G.,
I'm a sloppily manufactured good
the kind of
you don't want it to be
exposed to the view
the kind of
piles up in a humid warehouse
tacitly humiliated
collusively dehumanized
even that feeling of having price attached
was never introduced
and I've heard the story about 20 dollar bill
that doesn't lose its value
no matter what
yet, here I am
unpriced
magnitude of my role is reduced to
bidding for detour
and what if
no one ever unpacks my pages
what if ...
is this reticent predestination
my real path
or instructions are misplaced
give them an order
I'm patiently waiting for refinement
Kind regards
S.
I am a porcelain doll.
Fair of face, coveted by a young girl.
My smile is welcoming, cheeks are rosey,
My dress wrinkle and tear free
Each button in place.
I am a porcelain doll.
Cracks feathered lightly across my pained face.
I’m the one they come to when worried, stressed
Clutching at me too tightly
I’m feeling my age.
I am a porcelain doll.
Older now, but still adored by my girl
Who needs me much more as she fights cancer.
She sets me down way too hard
And runs to vomit.
I am a porcelain doll.
My face sloppily glued back together
That painted-on smile at last wiped away.
Who would smile at her torture?
My dress has a stain.
I am a porcelain doll
Everything I once thought vital has changed.
I hate my hair — because she is now bald.
Glad my presence gives her hope.
Wish my arms could hug.
I am a sad, broken doll.
I hate my gingham frock — I should wear black.
I am dirty, cleaned only by her tears
And now of those who miss her.
The lid closes. We rest.
January 6, 2019
Free Verse Only Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
As it mingles within and by virtue of substance
relates to the air by the depth of its dance;
the smoke is persuaded to somehow pursue
the course of the breezes developed by chance.
On a journey through space, up a thread-bare stare,
encountering nothing by way of resistance;
the smoke gently glides on its presupposed mission
with nothing to measure the time but the distance.
Continually merging itself to its doom
the smoke on its partner relies
and the air borne of power does slowly consume
til the last of the smoke calmly dies.
And as I relate to the passage of time
and the dreams that I sloppily wear;
I see in myself, and my journey with life,
less smoke with each year and more air.
Although yours truly modest,
the only personal issue
I will lightly boast about
constitutes lingering
self worthlessness bred
if not prior to first grade,
than most definitely incipient,
academic deadlines
loomed large with dread
and exacerbated by procrastination
quickly adopted as linchpin
damned obsessive compulsive
currents (i.e. thoughts) fed
modus operandi, which intricate
schema writ over lifetime invisible
within this talking head
who ironically enough
never uttered a beep
engendered from lack
of confidence, esteem,
somehow worthlessness,
insignificance,
emasculation, et cetera
took root, and didst leap
(axon to neuron)
and said mindset did seep
percolating into every nook,
and cranny comprising
aging shades, transformed
gray matter, sans this
beatle browed bummer, a deep
purple, though easily mistaken
for minuscule Uriah Heap,
or perhaps, ewe might notice,
(albeit while in a sheep
push disposition) similarities
between mine fist
sized thinker, and another creep
pee totally tubular Charles Dickens
character, or maybe
even a commercial
for nano bot sized jeep
grand Cherokee keep
up a moderate clip despite,
and/or because I
oft times feel a light
buzz sensation within me quite
average gummed up noggin
jammed numb skull,
(essentially barren aged
teenage wasteland recently
undergoing gentrification),
(yeah how really) excite
ting, a no brainer fright
fully glommed with peevish
gobbledygook plus worthless,
obsolete, and crammed academic right
hand busily twiddling, scribbling,
and sloppily drafting
error riddled assignments
deliberately failing heavily
marked with bright
colors adding oomph
to mental blight
punctuated by
attaining puny height
(...oh, about seventy inches),
nonetheless, my slight
physique and mute quiet
as a mouse, I might
as well hove been a stand in
for Charlie Brown right
down to the tree eating kite
good grief - never an ending fight
with Lucy, hence now this knight
in rusty armor forever
disparaged his might
and attests to
20/20 hind sight!
Estella Murray
1891-1912
Johnny’s was the last face
I saw that April afternoon in 1912.
I admit I was mean to him,
As mean as a starving she-dog in heat.
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The blooming rosebud he presented to me
Six months before my untimely demise.
But that thorn hidden beneath it,
Could it not have been removed beforehand?
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The long-winded love letter he delivered to me
Three months before my untimely demise.
But that last line written so sloppily, – “I love thee!”-
Could it not have been rewritten neater
And the word “thee” replaced with the word “you?”
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The inert standing vigil he kept for me
Three days before my untimely demise.
But what was that fool doing out there?
Just standing in the garden out front-
Outside my open-curtained window?
Could he not at least have stepped to my front door
There on Friends Street
And cried real tears for my departing soul?
But no! That fool, Johnny Barrow,
Instead stood out there flirting with his new girl-
Insipid April and her moody mornings and afternoons-
Standing and staring straight ahead
Like some stupid stone cold statue!
“Oh happy dagger!” the young Juliet once intoned.
“Oh happy death!” I said at last,
There on my mother’s divan,
Forgetting once and for all,
That staring unmoving fool, Johnny Barrow!