Short Drag Out Poems

DRY THOUGHTS

blue mists drag out lakes
packs of past wolves
provide evidence
pointing to
double suicide

that never gets restored 
entirely
ladders and paintpots
crawl through present
hardware

nailed to the edifice
of yesteryear
the termites
fail to notice
that I was their
flowerpot



© Kim van Breda—6 October 2015...

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This poem made me feel powerful and less lonely
Gave me permission to drag out my own macabre feelings
I found myself flying toward brilliance, enjoying “bat on the wing”
In a way, I felt this was written for me exclusively
A secret pact between me and the songwriter
“no moonlight for me’ is the way I feel on my darkest day
It is wonderful to know I am no longer alone....

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Spring has sprung
The lawns gone nuts
Mowing time again 
No ifs or buts 
 
A martyred sigh
Trudge to shed
Drag out mower
Filled with dread

Attempt to start 
Psyche self up 
Try many times 
Any luck? .... Nup

Give up the fight 
Drag back to shed 
Watch the lawn 
Grow long instead 

Ignore complaints 
From near and dear 
Enjoy the daisies
Mow next year 

 
...

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My husband's like to water, I to oil. 
We're masters of the knock-down, drag-out brawl. 
We just don't mix. I cause his blood to boil 
and he enrages me. The dude has gall!


From "Water and Oil," a parody of Edmund Spenser's Sonnet 30 "My Love Is Like to Ice and I to Fire" from Amoretti


Date: January 16, 2020
Contest Title: Arbitrium Divisa 6
Sponsor: Gregory Barden...

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I am not stopping by.
Day was crumbling
in flares of core issues.

I have set my thoughts
between the cries of victims.
Hearing the shots, invoke

the fire ritual, silencing
the guns. My journey starts
to bury the evil, but fails.

Again hear the foot steps
of unknown. Understand my
smallness, loneliness, my doubts. 

Move ahead of truth, step
into a black hole and
drag out the light. 



Satish Verma...

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Time has come 
For me to put paper to pen,
Or is it pen to paper?
If I put paper to pen
Is it on top or down below?
If I put pen to paper
Which direction does it go?

I opt for the one 
Where I sit down to write,
Not the one
Where I stand on my head all night.

If I can't figure this out real soon
I fear my poetic days are doomed.
Looks like there's only one way to win
I'll drag out my typewriter
And start over again....

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Being without you 
is 
the equivalent of being diagnosed with a fatal condition 
which 
makes each day drag out long and painful as i await my fate 


There is no one to nurse my wounds, no one to comfort me 
nor 
is there anyone to hold or console me, i'm just all alone
 

The loneliness eats away at me like a disease 
and 
the only remedy I know is you 


but 
you are not within my reach 
so 
there will be no cure 

and 
it seems that I shall truly die...

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