Short Wrings Poems

a poet is like a sponge
he or she absorbs words
and wrings them out onto paper...

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Grief wrings out our souls, but the tears do not wash away the blood. Our love remains, swollen and tender....

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1

sunflowers ring
teenagers ChatGPT
Sapphic know-how

2
her décolleté blouse
and see-through saree—
curve’s vanity

3
a curled snake
with fangs ready to poison
love’s narrow passage

4
sky’s canvas-
disfigures in no time
my funny face

5
she wrings her hair
rising from the lake:
rural Venus


--R.K.Singh
...

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He stands alone against a wind beaten sky
And wrings his hands for want of why
Rage at things that could have been
And others that are rarely seen

For truth like justice can be hard to find
But in the end do you really mind
Just take what happens in the end
For happiness is a pretence can be hard to pretend.

© Paul Warren Poetry...

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I REALLY don't know why
Can't figure it out
This wrings my thoughts
Why do I still want to try?

I know what will happen, 
Been there before
Somehow I feel like gave up to soon
Maybe it's just my desire for more

I've never been one to settle
I know it's a lost battle 
I don't like the feeling of defeat
Knowing that on that end, 
I'm the center of the heat...

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smashed the drums
wrings sweating hands

boom...boom
trumpet puffed cheeks

      notorious red
     toot...toot...toot

band sways
feet tapping

spit sprays
    silver flute

fame’s up front
poetically sweet

audience yawns; cymbals
crash

dull drums rev it up
      2/1/2020

Edward Ibeh’s Yalto Form
Line 1 to 15:  3,4,2,4,5,3,2,3,2,3,3,5,6,1,5 syllables....

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Spring. Radiant gold rays of sunrise.
Sprinkles surprise from dramatic skies.
Swing heartbeat, flowering Spring,
Stir-up breathtaking flowering buds, it wrings and brings.
Plump long-eared, cotton-tailed bunnies jump,
Zigzag among the green grass and clover, bump
Among yellow daisies, daffodils, and lavender boarder way yonder.
A timeless swing dance among the dawn wonder.


2/29/2024
...

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Loneliness.
It wrings the life out of you, 
Till you're but a candle at the bottom of the ocean. 
Loneliness.
It's the level of hell, 
Right below the rubbles of your abandoned existence. 
Loneliness. 
It's the mother of all these ghosts, 
Screaming for life in the deaf crowds of mortals. 
Loneliness. 
It makes death cry, 
With cold souls            disturbingly calm between his cracked palms. 

Elliepoet...

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Relief

She takes to bed,
winds round his
erstwhile ardent pillow

cooled now by the
meter of cruelty’s clock;
sheets spoilt by life’s air;

she recalls the scent
of him, the pre-washed
grime of his shirt.

Yearning wrings convulse;
fill eyes beneath 
quivering lids.

Coax her, blessèd
breeze;  take her to the 
limbo of pain

where slumber’s analgesic 
can soothe the emery
of remembering. 

©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
May 15, 2012...

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The vampire bats go out on strike,
Cats show dislike,
Refusing to ride through the gloom
On a straw broom.

They’d rather not always be stark
Beasts in the dark,
They tire of the witch-work at times,
And its night-crimes.

Myrcalla wrings withered old hands,
Magic wand stands
Next to a stew-pot of toads—
Caldron explodes.

Explodes—and the room is a soup,
Cats`n bats regroup,
Attacking Myrcalla by turns:
Witch woman… learns....

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The vampire bats go out on strike,
Cats show dislike,
Refusing to ride through the gloom
On a straw broom.

They’d rather not always be stark
Beasts in the dark,
They tire of the witch-work at times,
And its night-crimes.

Myrcalla wrings withered old hands,
Magic wand stands
Next to a stew-pot of toads—
Caldron explodes.

Explodes—and the room is a soup,
Cats`n bats regroup,
Attacking Myrcalla by turns:
Witch woman… learns....

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The vampire bats go out on strike,
Cats show dislike,
Refusing to ride through the gloom
On a straw broom.

They’d rather not always be stark
Beasts in the dark,
They tire of the witch-work at times,
And its night-crimes.

Myrcalla wrings withered old hands,
Magic wand stands
Next to a stew-pot of toads—
Caldron explodes.

Explodes—and the room is a soup,
Cats`n bats regroup,
Attacking Myrcalla by turns:
Witch woman… learns....

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Paint filtered through your pain
and came out as art.
Your broken body bent
under the weight of a brush
but did not succumb, instead
infused the canvas with fiery colours
mixed in the crucible of your heart.

Who knows why Art sometimes
asks for so much, wrings blood
from bone to write its name
across a life. The why we may 
never know much less understand,
we can only give thanks 
that such exquisite beauty
has bled from a human hand.
...

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How can it be history,
when the pain leaves me breathless?
Iron past that wrings my lungs
soaked heavy in sorrow
until that mysterious liquid escapes from my eyes.

How can it be past,
when the darkness becomes my shadow?
Harassing smiles and reminding pleasure
that there is no vacancy
within.

How can it be over
when I am covered in those moments?
Microwaving a frozen dinner,
collapsing on the floor with grief
my cat a solitary witness
to this complexity of living....

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