Rumple Poems | Examples

I THINK OF HER

Frenetically I rest in her guest room.
I think of her quiet hospital room.

I’ve laid my head on this pillow before.
I toss, turn, and pray, in this cozy room.

The lamp that’s lit sees the quiver of lips.
The cool sheets rumple my soul in this room.

The morning will bring no kitchen nesting.
Silence of pantry doors - feastless, this room.

Cars leave the driveway while mom’s still alive.
The staff is preparing her hospice room.

The transport holds my heart; mom’s head is bare.
Tender care, support, comfort in the room.

I shared a scintilla of who mom is.
Caregiver softly stroked mom’s brow, in room.

After she passed, saw a tear on her cheek.
Her bones turning to stone in this room.

This daughter remembers the softest hands.
In dream, mom squeezes mine, from heav’n’s room

Sleep Infection

As Rumple in blankets,
I vegetate in unfilled torpor, 
Blind enervation adrift among
Extinguished stars, among dark 
Torpid galaxies where I am a stranger.
I find only dead planets, windswept and barren,
Where molecules of a distant living past
Are vaguely recalled,
And where conceptions, 
Convictions all collapse.
Exhaustion is an avalanche   
Making no distinction between
vacuity and repletness.
Sleep believes nothing,
Not even the animated chatter of 
My dreams.

A Wedgie In Her Drawers

The protests are written from the busy pen
of the one whose thoughts are quite driven
yet she cries "foul" like a rumple feathered hen
when the thoughts of another are simply given

Her name-calling ploy is such a childish game
for each one of us has the right to our opinion
without castigation and a finger pointing blame
I'm not a vengeful person, nor a poet's minion

I don't seek attention as a clown or a witch
I've not slandered anyone with my remarks
My fastballs are always thrown as a legal pitch
I'm vaccinated so I don't fear mad dog barks

Social equality is as much mine as it is yours
I've the right to write or speak what I feel
without giving a wedgie to someone's drawers
I'm not vicious like you called me in your spiel

You want to dwell in sorrow for the human race
but I have hope for mankind and will not brood
Our differences will never allow for an embrace
but only one of us illustrates the right attitude

Pimple

On her unfortunate face,
Expanding with grace;
A tyrant of a pimple,
Looking to be simple…
But with cohorts, an ample,
Intending her young skin to rumple
And her peace crumple:
All- too- overshadowed her dimple.

Too Late

It's very late: the moon lies on its back in drowsiness.
But still, we sit drinking cold beers. Maybe to give

us time to save ourselves...from empty promises
we know by heart. We sit waiting for the kitchen

to warm us, you in your chair, me in mine,
as we have hundreds of times before. Our faces

could be drawn from memory. It was late:
too late to talk, too late to patch our love again.

Too late to ease the pain in my heart, the
yearning for you I already feel. Maybe 

all love is like this: maybe all good things
do finally end. Can't we save us one more

time, and then another and another? I know
it's too late. But our bed will be a cold refuge

without your warm body next to mine.
Whose hair will I rumple as you tweak

my ears good morning? Who will share my day
when I come home to emptiness? Who will rub

my back, squeeze my hand, draw me into forgiving
arms and tell me it will be OK? Who will kiss these tears
                  when love has gone?

Poetry Hungriness

I ponder
throw away
my ancient
machine
of writing...
Rumple
the papers,
accomplices
of mine
tare ...
I even 
  stop
writing...!
but how :?
the words
pass by
my head
as models
on the catwalks ...
demanding attention!
I desire on going 
complete blind...
(I perceive poorly!),
not to assimilate anymore
colors, paintings ...!
but my mind
have secret files
containing
all beauties
of the world !
I stopped eating...
Never
I was hungry ...
I stopped drinking,
I saw myself free
from headquarters ...
I am further
healthy than
before...
My literally hunger
 rose ...!
nor devouring
mountain ranges of ideas
going hungry
of verses ...
nor drinking
an amazon
of words,
satisfy my my
hungriness for poetry ...!

Saucy Syllables Scribbled

tactic theories tamed
by moaning brain
callous crescendoes' bait
airy acumen craved
felon feasts fostered
hoity twin triggered

rusty rules reeled
raging rumple reek
punctured politics' spree

dark dances dribbled
saucy syllables scribbled
did curves cripple

lanky lust birthed
vying veil's verge.
     '20:03:21:11:01

Note: Dedicated to Plato.

Saucy Syllables Scribbled

tactic theories tamed
by moaning brain
callous crescendoes' bait
airy acumen craved
felon feasts fostered
hoity twin triggered

rusty rules reeled
raging rumple reek
punctured politics' spree

dark dances dribbled
saucy syllables scribbled
did curves cripple

lanky lust birthed
vying veil's verge.
     '20:03:21:11:01

Note: Dedicated to Plato.

Rumple My Stilt Skin

when younger 
i knew none 
of this that
you call
napping

so so awake
all this time
my beard
has been
growing

but now
it's a bit
passed
two in
the

afternoon 
and after
i finally
decide
to agree

with 
my eye
lids lets
let them
peacefully

close

Rumplestilskin-Ouat

Everything comes with a price dearie, he always said
He has many enemies, too many to count in your head
His powers have consumed him, there's no turning back now
He has made terrible choices, ones that can't be rebound
He says it is to protect his son,
But really, he likes the power and has a lot of fun
He has lost his mind over time
And likes to spin gold from hay to pass the time
Rumple is a terrible creature, a crocodile was his new name
His greatest enemy, Killian Jones has given him this name
For many years he has craved to skin himself a crocodile
This crocodile has ruined Jones' life and took his hand of with his wife
Now Jones has a nickname of his own
It's Captain Hook now, not Killian Jones
Rumpelstiltskin has made many mistakes
But there is still someone who believes he could change
Belle, a sweet bookworm, always sees the man behind the beast
She believes he can change and become the man he never got to be

What I Like

What I like is to be held, loved and cuddled,
Awaken in the morning, my head all muddled
Coffee, black and strong, just how you make it
Even though it’s not how you take it
But you know me better than I know myself
You know what’s good for me and for my health
Breakfast of toast, two slices, buttered with jam
Always warm no matter how late I am
You straighten my tie and flatten my hair
Pick fluff of my jacket I didn’t know was there
Then a hug and kiss as I walk out the door
Hanging on to you for a few moments more
The smile on my face during morning commute
As I try not to rumple my best three piece suit
I move through the day like an automaton
Fervently wishing my work hours were gone
So that I can return home to you, to my secret life:
My beautiful, sexy bigamous wife.

Pizza Prayer

Tumble, crumble cornmeal, salted flour 
Stream olive oil
Feed water and toasty yeast with sugar
Crinkle, rumple, crease, and fold
Smooth a silky, doughy globe.

Cover, leave the orb to grow
Keep baby warm
Wrap with snug and swaddling towel
Linger, loiter, wait and proof
Sing a sunny, happy tune.

Overturn the ball on flour
Dust a wooden pin
Feed heart and conscience with honey
Rotate, flatten, compress, admire
Make a downy, level sphere.

Bridge the stretchy bread to pan
Curl edges like leaves
Swirl and ladle a coat of tomato 
Thick, chunky, bright, and red
Sway to kitchen melody.

Peppers, onions, olives, chokes
Sausage for some
Rain down the mozzarella and Swiss
Turn and toss, precipitate
Drizzle a snowy blend.

Push the pie into a hot cathedral
Pray for happiness
Think about joy and contentment
Pause, watch, patience, serenity
This journey bakes the future.

Copyright © 2016 Tess Harvester

Zakaria

He stands against the old barn door
relaxed not a confrontational bone,
thin      as a pitchfork's tine.

Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter,
the lens flatters him.
A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse
halo to his lantern-jaw.
Loose fitting pants rumple
just right atop his     kick ass boots.

He stands against an old barn door
who held up who 	the real question—
a bit of James Dean   in pocket pressed hands,
Paul Newman in his eyes.

Flannel hugs him. 	(When the woman aren’t.)
Capped by a bent brimmed hat,
he's rolled to perfection.
I’m sure the name tag on his shirt
didn’t do him justice—

A Real Man

A real man never cries but endures!
When pains of the world rain upon him he endures!
When the sky is dark and horrific moments come, he endures!
Even on the edges of the deep dark deadly death, he endures!
Not even the reckless trembling rifles of the wars shall make him cry!
Nor the big bad blood sucking bats shall frighten him to cry.
He is the saviour of his of his own territory and 
No other man shall rule his land on his presence, never!
He is a god of his temple and a King in his royalty.

Tell me not about the weak pathetic man,
Who cries to death when impediments comes,
Whose knees quiver and rumple when the worst come
Who sold their manhood cheap with a piece of cake!
Man is no man that cries without enduring,
For endurance is what differentiates boys from man
And boys shall not stay in the same territory with man.

With Every Beat

Pitter-patter, thump, thump
goes the beat of my heart.
Rumple, rumble, churning,
innards feel torn apart.

Shhhh, shhhh lips quiver,
silencing my tawdry pleas.
Blink, blank, tears forming,
descending downward endlessly.

Waaah, waaah, wailing cries,
disappearing within the night.
Tsssk, tsssk, you were wrong,
just like every other fight.

Snap, smack, crackling woes,
all in the name of haste.
Tick, tock, the clock stops,
future years we do now waste.

Bang, boom, pow, of the heart,
that never stopped clinging.
Thump, thump, thump – silence,
a heart no longer singing.

**An Onomatopoeia Poetry Form

• Short Rumple Poems
• Famous Rumple Poems
• Best Rumple Poems
• Read Rumple Poems
• Long Rumple Poems
• Rumple Quotes