Short Mimed Poems

Two robbers
mimed Bonnie and Clyde
without holding up folks with guns;
even the Law had no evidence of their crimes....

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Once I was a mouseketeer
But now
I am a Sonneteer
With fourteen lines of rhyme
Finding poetry sublime
Creating memories of time
All new and never mimed
That would be a crime
I do this to pastime
With words that 
Twist and intertwine
In the meantime
I am thinking of bedtime
Needing relaxation time

This is why I am a, 
Sonneteer...

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A needle nose pliers, polished like glass, damp
with tears and sweat, but not from rote plumbing leaks,
needed a good buffing at the Dust Rag Camp.
It slow-waltzed across the street where no one speaks    
and mimed a tale of woe beneath a dusty lamp
intently viewed by neglected toolbox freaks.
One grand gesture of support from each to all
gratitude like oil oozed to soothe the gall.
...

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Morey Mouse made merry,
Mollifying Mallory’s Mama,
Maybe mixing mammoth metaphors

Marvelously mystical, Marmaduke mimed
mingling, meshing, ‘mogrifying magical mites,
Measuring muskrats minding miniature minnows

Meddlesome merrymakers, Mr. Mumbsly mentioned, miffed.
Mesmerized minions made millions, merely making mincemeat.
Mediocre maybe, magnificent Mrs. Mumps meticulously mentioned....

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And now I can speak
With words unwritten
Because you listened
Word by word

Yesterday I spoke
With written words
Because you watched 
Me Step by step

And I mimed to me
If I should or not
Swear my spirit 
But how by now 

Tomorrow when I storm
My love from the struts 
Let loose your words
Spoken or written

Mingle our breaths
And single our tongues
Come to me and rest
Side by side...

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Guns fell silent, nervous heads appeared,
one by one from the trenches climbed,
for a short while no-one feared,
some spoke while others mimed.
They kicked a football,
hugged fellow man.
Peace to all.
We can
stop


In memory of the Christmas truce in 1914, when men from both sides,
for a brief period, forgot their differences. For contest 'It's Christmas time again', sponsor Broken Wings

November 26th, 2017...

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A love I have forgotten 
Leaves this path unwritten.
The love I have desired
Keeps me on smitten.

My love
My life
Two intertwined.
Between the two 
Something has mimed.

This fake love copied
This true love faded
My heart longs dearly
For something unabated.

This true love of mine 
Clings onto my heart divine.
The one thing I loved 
From this true heart of mine.

Faded and gone
To the depths of my mind....

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The Jackson Five
Brother lost
Michael's gone
His life lost
 
This Thriller star
Through troubled times
Sang live 
Never mimed
 
The guitar solo on Beat It,Wow!
Like Billie Jean
I'm playing it now
 
Such a brilliant artist
With stress so deep
Heavens clouds
On which you sleep
 
Your music will live
For all eternity
Bless you Michael
And your family
 
" For Michael, who passed away this evening 25/06/09 "...

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He was an actor in a one man play 
                titled 
"the smile within the rain".
On the last night of the final act
he climbed a plastic ladder
and mimed his own epitaph.
The gallery thought it a joke
as he fashioned a tie made of rope
but when his face turned blue
the laughter turned to morose.
The heavy black curtain came down 
on the neck of that town... 
they toasted to his memory
until the morning glories screamed....

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I am
a windmill, dilapidated but still rotating, creaking,
Lake Windermere off season, quiet and autumnal,
a tooth ache throbbing, an irritation, black decay inside.

I am
a foot stool unvarnished, one leg uneven, rarely used,
a penny farthing holding up traffic, out of time and season,
a pop song, mimed.

I am
an apple, red amongst a bowl of green.
I am one line short of a verse.

I am a letter unopened and unread,
returned to s-...

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It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears....

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It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears....

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It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears....

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It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears....

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It was the work of her hands
that gave flesh to her speech;
her persona made vocal.
Gestures were needle-point,
stitching words into sound.
She talked with the eloquence
of quick speaking fingers,
with hands that emphasized,
underlined, swept away, challenged,
motioned, mentioned,
mollified, mimed, beckoned,
warned and added warmth to her words.
Her hands sewing and patching together
articulations for
the far-sighted and for muted ears....

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“Avant garde”, whispered some as he walks past,
Cacophony around, still he seemed lost!
Her face haunts his thoughts, an anomaly in the lot!
Touched by Hephaestus, an artisan bonafide,
Its deja vu, he Sculpts; In past she hides!
With unbearable ennui, he chisels away,
He’s no dilettante, art is his only “way”!
He brought back the baroque style from time,
Just so her grace and elan could be mimed!
To believe is hard, muse has carte blanche on sculptor’s heart!



20/01/2018...

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Prism turned
as another memory refracted
against forgetfulness.

Motes caught in the cross fire
of synapses,
[collateral damage]

and like the sightless,
depression is read
in those delta lines
of arid tributaries,
cascading from salted pools.

Contentment or inevitability
are caught between a sigh,
where tumbleweed disguises
any tracks left behind;

I need no spooks to follow,

all my demons are an audience
watching a monologue mimed,

as my tube of life
tapers....

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