Sinkholes Poems | Examples

Robert Lloyd Sherriff -Black Holes

Robert Lloyd Sherriff - Australian Poet, Author, Actor, and Model: American Historian.

Cosmic

Black Holes and Earthly Voids” beautifully intertwines the mysteries of the cosmos with the depths of our planet. His verses draw parallels between black holes and sinkholes, exploring themes of gravity, darkness, and the potential for new beginnings even in the darkest places. The imagery of cosmic events reflecting earthly phenomena is quite profound.

Queen Of Sinkholes

Frazzle dazzled Summer escapades,
a wave of madness hoists a red flag;
Fuchsia allows my brain to defrag,
sunsets melt hues into softer shades;

I can now turn down those hot coals
that my emotions have been tossed on;
Acting impulsive is frowned upon,
or be seen as the Queen of Sinkholes;

Do not panic drifting out to sea 
you are still able to swim freestyle;
Poisonous thoughts regurgitate bile 
starting dry heaves almost instantly;

Into your stomach they creep upset,
it can feel like a merciless sting;
No need to entertain cowering 
before what’s only a baseless threat;

Sinking without a life preserver,
it’s not needed if your mind is strong;
Repeat like a mantra that plainsong,
tumult will become caricature.

Red on Yellow Will kill an Angel

In the rarest quiet of my mind
I think about you sweet Angel love...
the maelstrom of users and abusers 
that splashed your wings with blood.
Smeared coal dust under your pretty sad eyes
rusted out the final diamond of your life.

They say, your mind yearns to stray
as you loyally drag it from the fire
to save it from the serpents
the hiss of their red and yellow lies.

It's often said there's no escaping a past
pocked with sinkholes filled with quicksand and glass .

what of the future, that psychedelic maze
with the slanted floors under thins veil of haze..
Juggling blowtorch pins 
with stained glass faith 
hoping to keep the soul bow 
a single gull note
above the dorsal fin waves.

The Leftist New America and World

    Police will work for the government, not the community.

They will stalk the homeless, be merciless mercenaries, entrepreneur, agents provocateur.

Women will be bought and sold. Even some of the married ones.

Fissures will line the roads from sinkholes and earthquakes. Walking, driving anywhere will be a hazard.

There will be businesses and homeless street business. 
Info and dirty deeds, sold.

Cannibal diners will be the nouveau, patrons will be the next course.

Cyborgs, cybernetics and children will learn to be street savvy.

The Hunger Games will be real.
Running Man will be real.

Prostitution will be done in the open.

Haters of Christians will be narks, in charge.

Satanic priests will be their dignitaries and lords.

Everything you do will be tracked.

Groups will be punished

Non Government sanctioned Militias will be outlawed.

They will no longer hide that Google is a government agent.

Bibles will be considered hate speech propaganda.

Poetry will be filtered through the Government, like the News is.

Empty Circles

I circle the familiar oak, though no more do I recognize the landscape
I search longingly for any semblance of memories cross the expanse  
Darkness meant to protect erodes, the land cannot hold its branded shape
It's changed again. Crumbling structures and consuming sinkholes advance 

I speak into the void, demanding audience with my past, begging for a glimpse kind
But I hear only a cautioning silence, forced to wonder the cul-de-sac of my mind


02/01/2023
Prompt: cul-de-sac

Eclipse This

eclipse an errant eon
inhale discordant ions
exhale insectile icons

disarm misfiring memes
take umbrage under a titanic umbrella
recede from seething red-holes in sinkholes

just so you know…
Helga and Zohar orbit the Moon
a harsh mistress giggles indifferently
a cold cosmos says nothing
you are (not) what you think (you are)

forbid fallacious words
forget wordy fallacies
forgo fatuous wormholes

FYI, it’s Awesome
FWIW, it's Perfect
TBH, it’s FUBAR

A Book Reread

I see, looking through a novel read long ago
that most of the story I had overlooked
or misunderstood.

Strings of decades are often a compendium
a journey disjointed by sinkholes and rockfalls;
a digest often left undigested.

If I perused that old book again
went back with a red and blue pencil,
it would no longer be an autobiography
but an 'us' book.

Fact is, you were my collaborators
in these diverse plots,
blameless participants in a tale
I was creating heedlessly
with not a few omissions and fictional asides.

Your News In Print

This just in,
earth is careening toward an asterisk,
speeding toward a footnote,
alien podiatrists are monitoring.
Elephants have moved in-land
refusing interviews to the press.

In other news,
sinkholes have been rescued
from children’s ears.
Cyclonic swirls of pelicans
have created a weather front
scientists are stumped.
Excuses from discredited experts
have been spotted
escaping back to Beijing.

Nothing may actually be true
except for the asterisks,
these random star-shaped symbols
are always a tease, a risk,
Someone might misinterpret them,
call them misinformation.

Innocent Roads and Paths Behold

If you are one of the innocent
may I be one of the 1st to forewarn
you of this

The path or road of woe you currently
tread along 

Immediately is full of danger and
is not so much full of bumps but
sinkholes

Waiting ever patiently to snap you up
and trap you helplessly inside

So mind your head maybe perhaps
even wear or pack a helmet 
 
Just incase because if you are indeed
innocent

You cannot or fail to spot the pitfalls

Roads and paths behold

Garden

If depression was a garden and hope was a flower,
It wouldn't bloom here.
It would decay and rot from the inside.
Petals fragile crumbling
Never soft, never vibrant
Grey.
The garden isn't all things life
It's past tense
The storm that followed the rain but never stopped
Puddles turning into sinkholes.
All consuming.
Rage is here in the gaps of the soil
Sadness burried within decrepit roots 
Depression is wishing something would bloom.
Anything. 
Just once...
Fist to the ground screaming "Please"
This substrate isn't built to sustain life. 
Strife. 
This garden is full of sustaining doubts and droughts all the same. 
Wasting away in my head.
I'm wasting away inside it.
Do you see it?
Can you tell that this very moment I'm swaying, 
Nearly intoxicated by the lump in my throat. 
But here I am in lawn and garden. 
Watering flowers. 
Wishing I had something inside me that would be vibrant like these roses and not the dead petals beneath my feet.
Trying to will my wasting into wildflowers.

Waiting At the Steps of Dawn

Yesterday has slipped out into the night.
I will probably find it one day shivering
in the frozen hollows of the thin woods.

I lay awake for a long time.
The snow made soft padding sounds
on my bedroom window.

Eventually a dawn light settled down to rest,
first under my hands where historic tales
had gathered in the dark,
then that light slid slowly inwards
snaking into a bone
between my neck and the floor
of a scattered sky.

I sensed sinkholes,
yet felt no new awareness in them;
The body needs time to adjust
to its survival.

One day or night some sunken parts
will meet a ragged ghost out there
where the trees have been cut down,
the ground cleared for something new ~
out there upon a time yet to occur.

This day I am outstretched
under dawns surgical knife
where a probing light seeks out pockets of emptiness
and a white falling sky cleans house.

City of Palls

From dense sleep we emerge.
Realizing our coat, 
we seek to cast off this Nessus.
We drank the Jonestown Kool-Aid
and now it’s too late.

We never noticed the circling 
vultures despotic descent on the capital. 
We never contested the contagion, 
the invective infections of the tyrant.

Everywhere we witness the carnage, 
the flyblown bodies we covered,
the reeking pestilence of our infiltrated discourse, 
the spewing sewers of vituperation.

While all the sinkholes break open
our dual justice system a slapstick,
our public coffers are looted,
our privatized schools divested.

Trauma’s children seek asylum in cages.
Trauma’s vigilantes terrorize our borders.
   
This is the moribund city of rot.
This is the counterfeit city of lies.
This is our cloaked city
cast by an infantile overlord.
 	This is our tomb city of palls.   


Published in The Opiate Mag. 06/2019

River of Doubt

twists and turns of serpentine.
perfumes that emanate from time to time,
through a wall of quietus-trees.
perils in the doubting waters,
amidst the anaconda, caiman, and piranha.

perhaps, after all, man is the more sinister
as his stomach growls
and his face’s beaten bittersweet
by the zenith of the Amazon.

his legs carry portage and dugout canoes.
sinkholes churn whirlpools.
vines hang down and choke.
~ most hope from within ~
for despairing we learn to be thiefs,
murderers hewn out of fear.

insects further trouble and attack,
and tribal eyes spy, and agitate
in perpetuities’ suspicious waters.
Rio Roosevelt thrives cantankerously
as Theodore’s enemies attack,
with deadly scratches and malaria.

but Rondon never forgets
to map and be respectful
of the tribes, even if
it’s to his own demise.

1/22/2018

Sinkholes

I’m walking around sinkholes right now,
They’re called depression
They sucked me in once
I’m here for my death attempt session
They grab me by my ankles and try to pull me in
I can hear them whispering in my head
They tell me I’m better off dead
Actions speak louder than the whispers said
So I grab my scarf and walk to her locker
I keep slipping by the holes as the whispers get darker
12-18-36, the pain is almost over
I hang the scarf and put the two knots inside as death comes closer
I stand on the chair
I turn around
Sinkholes are everywhere
They lift my feet up
The chair is across the hall
The whispers become yells
I can hear my death call
I feel my soul leaving 
I am no longer breathing
I begin to pass out
You’re worthless and no one needs you is what they shout

Sinkholes

Been thinkin about them sinkholes
They seem to pop up everywhere
(or is it pop down?)
well, either way they scare

Brings to mind the ending times
some folks like to talk about,
claiming to be on the right side of,
boy, they like to shout!

Maybe the big guy is just practicing
maybe he’s just trying to find
the most dramatic way of all
to impress the “left behind”

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