The Last Night in July
(I think)
by Evelyn Aimarie
It is the last night in July
(I think)
And this pink Moscato tastes like you.
Memories dance to the sound of crickets chirping,
Their legs rubbing bottle brush bristles
against my brain,
Scratching an itch I didn’t know I had.
I think I will call it—
Childhood,
Memory?
Lightning bugs rave in succession,
Primordial neighbor to the procession.
Release.
The wine harmonizes—
Honeysuckle exposed, sunray-damp.
Heat lightning remembrance, relative air.
Even the starlight lingers,
Pressing the mother Sun’s legacy of heat
into the blanket of the night sky.
Pulsing,
Sweat-drop breeze,
Kissing my lips sloppily but with a softness.
Like fingertips across my face,
Frizzing my hair like the hands of lovers—
And I exhale my heartless day
Into the musical
Of the last night in a small town, Southern July—
(I think.)
Darkness, shadows, raining, storming.
I liked to pretend I perfectly crafted these bleak, tired ideas.
When I was a stupid kid.
As if no one has ever drawn a picture in pencil, so that there is no color.
As if there is no piece of art that is gray with rain in the background that anyone would care about.
I guess I just like to recycle the same, boring concepts.
Just letting my mind tumble, over and over.
Letting each iteration wear me out slightly more each time.
Drawing more lazily and sloppily with time.
So they will realize that I’m suffering, but in a cool new way.
But no.
The teacher always picks the drawings with a sun in the corner and smiling families.
Those are the kids that everyone likes.
That’s why I always carried a sketch pad.
And never tore anything out.
All unknowingly we cultivate,
create wild flowers and garden escapes
from all those restless hours
of an ambiguous life.
Tomorrow happens,
it picks up our discarded clothes
dresses sloppily
shuffles into a daylight
visible only to hermit crabs
and night-wounded owls.
And yet the uncreated creates
green thumbs sprout forests
from the soil under
our scrabbling nails.
We are brilliant today,
we shine within a crystal clear
glass of new wine,
bring forth tangled gardens
clear land, till and sow
all oblivious
as we lay idle
wondering what next?
Staggering, wobbling, stumbling...somewhere
Watching the world spinning, and spinning, and spinning
Confused and discombobulated, he wandered...somewhere
Swerving his steps and slurring his words...
Still carrying the Boone's Farm- strawberry flavored
He mumbled to himself...
Where am I? ...somewhere
Walking with no direction, he sloppily sings
"Somewhere over the rainbow...
Bluebirds fly
Somewhere over the rainbow...
Where, oh just where- Am I"
His first taste of intoxication
A sixteen year old want-a-be drinker; drunk
Vomit all over his overalls, on his clothes, penny-loafers, and in his hair
The morning aft, mom asks "Where were you last night, son"
Still intoxicated, he replied- "Somewhere"
"I" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
9/9/2021
All this global speech that once lauded your greatness has vanished.
My lips are crying today because of my misdeeds.
The harvest was completely washed away in the high winds.
Diseases and sicknesses, with fire, threaten scavengers.
Because I am shy, I cry slowly and sloppily.
If someone's feelings are bruised, a wipe may be beneficial.
Companions with crooked mustaches.
Backstabbing and spying are both kinds of treachery.
Who grasps what happened to the planet Earth.
Shame no longer benefits them, so why would they desire it?
An anxious atmosphere pervaded the air.
I'm here to assist you, and I'm grateful to God for this gift.
A natural area has been cordoned off.
The headbands must be reconnected.
Probe the misanthrope and share the etch news.
The sand on the road will cease if they reach their home.
If I yield barefoot, my final inference is consciousness.
Written: July 03, 2021
1st place contest win
A Brian Strand July 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
As it mingles within and by virtue of substance
relates to the air by the depth of its dance;
the smoke is persuaded to somehow pursue
the course of the breezes developed by chance.
On a journey through space, up a thread-bare stare,
encountering nothing by way of resistance;
the smoke gently glides on its presupposed mission
with nothing to measure the time but the distance.
Continually merging itself to its doom
the smoke on its partner relies
and the air borne of power does slowly consume
til the last of the smoke calmly dies.
And as I relate to the passage of time
and the dreams that I sloppily wear;
I see in myself, and my journey with life,
less smoke with each year and more air.
Love goes away quickly, without regrets, tears and farewells, leaving only insomnia and bleeding stanzas. Sloppily, hastily and haphazardly written lines: "Love's gone, leaving behind all i's dotted and all t's crossed”. Oh, how you’re rough, my draft! Misspellings, strikethrough vows of love, blacked out curses, female profiles in the margins, exclamation points, blots and ellipsises - ellipsises at the end of every line - the footprints of irreversible love...
crests zigzags lightings
asterisks that's how love went
into my poems
I am a porcelain doll.
Fair of face, coveted by a young girl.
My smile is welcoming, cheeks are rosey,
My dress wrinkle and tear free
Each button in place.
I am a porcelain doll.
Cracks feathered lightly across my pained face.
I’m the one they come to when worried, stressed
Clutching at me too tightly
I’m feeling my age.
I am a porcelain doll.
Older now, but still adored by my girl
Who needs me much more as she fights cancer.
She sets me down way too hard
And runs to vomit.
I am a porcelain doll.
My face sloppily glued back together
That painted-on smile at last wiped away.
Who would smile at her torture?
My dress has a stain.
I am a porcelain doll
Everything I once thought vital has changed.
I hate my hair — because she is now bald.
Glad my presence gives her hope.
Wish my arms could hug.
I am a sad, broken doll.
I hate my gingham frock — I should wear black.
I am dirty, cleaned only by her tears
And now of those who miss her.
The lid closes. We rest.
January 6, 2019
Free Verse Only Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
Anomaly About A Trump Monopoly
About Trump, I was writing an anomaly;
On everything he does have a monopoly;
With possessed,
He is impressed;
Each result of book was done so sloppily.
Jim Horn
Dear Mr. G.,
I'm a sloppily manufactured good
the kind of
you don't want it to be
exposed to the view
the kind of
piles up in a humid warehouse
tacitly humiliated
collusively dehumanized
even that feeling of having price attached
was never introduced
and I've heard the story about 20 dollar bill
that doesn't lose its value
no matter what
yet, here I am
unpriced
magnitude of my role is reduced to
bidding for detour
and what if
no one ever unpacks my pages
what if ...
is this reticent predestination
my real path
or instructions are misplaced
give them an order
I'm patiently waiting for refinement
Kind regards
S.
Broken ideas recovered
My mind is shattered like glass hitting the pavement.
The rest of my body functions properly.
Mixed thought broken in my mind nearly wasted sloppily.
Eventually re made, to something that works cockily.
I nearly could not recover it all, it nearly got wasted.
I heard a deep unearthly voice in my dream
that silent night when I was deep asleep
“Control your anger, forgive, and let go
Live and propagate, the power for you to keep”
Woke up fresh and light as a feather
baffled how I could keep my cool
while hubby sang in the shower for minutes
the kids sloppily got ready for school
Did not chide myself for spilling coffee
did not honk when someone jumped the STOP sign
Things that would leave a deep frown on my face
today I just indifferently shrug and resign?
Did not swear when soap dispenser didn’t work
did not mutter at the mile long lunch line
Pinched myself fervently to check if it was real
the sweet lemonade taste of my new life.
Held husband’s hand,just in case,
bewildered at the sudden love, he winced
I know my experiment had already worked
He is so tranquil, hasn’t stopped smiling since.
Can I really heal the world and ease the suffering
lighten the boulders we carry in heads and hearts
I so wish to reveal my super power and hold all hands
but I must take it slow, or my arms will fall apart.
Written on 06/14/2016
MuddyFingers
I shall write in catchy thoughts
encased in phrases
lead you through a maze
of pussywillowedhazes,
in search of ducks that bark
and dogs that croak.
Snippets of mind strings
all cut too short
braided into knotted
terse retort
leaping the synaptic
sentence gap
two footed landing in
apresprungtrap.
Stream of consciousness
or babbling brook
searching for the stones
already took
seeping through the dams
of mud’s dismay
children in the midst
ofmudpieplay.
Sloppily creating
works of art
eager hands at work
in willowed haze
ducks that bark
in sunshine left to glaze
thoughts allowed to wander
through the maze.
Cats with wings
on tree limbs with the crows
childrensmuddyfingers
up their nose.
John G. Lawless
1/13/2016
There was a florist in southern McNungus
Sloppily smeared with soil humongous.
Customers suspected something was wrong
When proof arrived indisputably strong:
His ears displayed five varieties of fungus.
Given I've cursed myself
writing the title first,
I'll treat myself to a scribble,
poorly written, pointless lines
babbling, bubbling sloppily,
like those people I envy,
cranking it out without thought
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