Sluggishly Poems | Examples

All i need is an escape

Who knew you were an ammunition, 
A camouflage with a malice!
I'm still numb from the revelation
No matter how much I try 
I'm afraid that I might risk walking the path 
that killed all my dreams I'd reinforced spellbound by your lies!
I'm locked in your cellar 
For the crime of conviction
In the castle you built 
And called our home!
There's a door on your side
I know l'd never dare to knock
The door wrapped in Bougainvillea
Hiding behind them
The thorns of your sweet excuses!
I know I must avert
And disappear into the fog, 
Hoping you'd then realise what a loss feels like!
But, my limbs are paralysed by the venom of trust
That sluggishly ran through my blood
Tormenting me all these years !
Now,
All I need is an escape
Is that too much to ask for?

Grief Lives Within Silence

A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.

History of Paper-Hearts

Have you seen, with no word,
The immense, cold voids
,among the slender, patient buds,
Received hollow seeds?

Have you beheld the earth
Lay the masks of dreams upon itself,
And like a sullen cradle,
Crush them within its embrace?

Have you seen the old children,
Pitching their tents upon the graves of young mothers,
On that day when mist
Wept upon the bloodied bridal bed of light,
And thunder,
,In a gown of false sequins,
Wed the sky?

I returned to the my embryo,
And my hands,
clenched the throat of motion,
Hardly tight—
Hardly horrified.

Will you ever know
What day it is today?
What hour,
Or the count of endless kisses between two eyelids?
Will time ever wend its way—
That crimson fluid flow
Coursing sluggishly through your drowsy veins?

And my child,
With hurried crimson lips,
Sleeps, suckling the secret of existence,
Hardly deep—
Hardly silent.

That day,
In a dead-end alley,
A closed window wept.
A window whose claws,
Gripped the erected iron bars,
And was crying out:
“The history of our paper-heart has been written in straw.”

night

dark is the morning dark is my phone with aliens rushing our border
i watch these vermin with contempt
i take my eyes off at 8am sharp
the commute is only an hour but a good first impression i will attempt

i bought the new phone today
it’s 0.5 centimeters bigger and even has another camera to survey
i stopped by the restaurant because its payday
the cashier’s wage is pitiful and yet they obey

that restaurant is slick with oil in the night
tomorrow the donkeys wake up to the styx
it's just the usual politics
though no darker than the previous night

some donkeys have houses, some half detached
some donkeys work carts, some clack away at keyboards
all sleepy 
but passionate enough to wage wars for pigs in hordes

our fat shadow casts a melatonin over them
honing an crepuscule covert with its shape
sluggishly, one eye scans for solidarity
satisfied with the turbulence over the landscape

Belated Dawn

What ought to have lapsed 
A decade ago sluggishly pops;
Antagonist’s claws now thaw 
And give way to buoyant hopes.

The Long Withering

This river is full of bodies,
dead fish, dead fishermen.

This river crumbles its banks,
it invades in trickles,
sluggishly it engulfs.

Once it deeply flowed
then death withered the water.
The bodies,
the dead fish, the fishermen,
all float upon its turgid path.

Where it goes no one knows,
for its long journey is too slow,
too polluted to measure.

Only the dead now catch each other.

Not Es Car Got

"not es car got"


sluggishly waking

what the hell

forget the shell

The Sun Sets

The sun sets
Rolling sluggishly
In the exiting tide

There is a joy to it
Frolicking in the froth
Of soap suds surf

We play our parts
In the evening reverie
Dancing alone

Shadows
Carried away
Like rolling stones

Distant bells
Peal
In soft darkness

I walk away
Leaving
My presence

John G. Lawless
©8/13/2023

Angst of Chores

fast…work is done…slow
quickly…cleaning…sluggishly
a.m. & p.m.
the angst anchored in stalling
then accomplishing it all

Weary

Weary
by S.C. Robinson



She sits on her soft fluffy bed, resting her limbs before she starts her day.
Rethinking her preceding dream, hoping the images won’t fade away.
She watches the clock as each second ticks slowly and fast at the same time.
Leaning over in deep thought as if her peaceful moments were a crime.
Thinking of a better day to one day step into her victorious purpose.
Waiting for the opportunity to get out of this mentally chaotic circus.
She sighs sluggishly and rises to the doubt of her daily occasion.
Pondering the temptation of desiring a day of relaxation.
One thing she knows, and one thing is sure.
She no longer awaits the pressure of needing something secure.
Without any hesitation or any further drama,
She decides that she is one tired mama.

New Alpha Dog

Our home used to be calm.
Sophie, our cocker spaniel set the pace.
She was an only child.
We were barely moving back then – sluggishly slow.

Buddy arrived. A big goofy puppy.
We are all racing around now.
He is fast, and he sets our pace.
He is the alpha dog.

Flying leaps from couch to recliner.
Jumping over a horrified elderly dog, Sophie.
We all defer to this new Alpha Dog.
I am pinned in my recliner now while he hits the recline button with his rear.

As Time Goes By

I woke up to a sunrise scintillating
With glowing low fluffy clouds barely moving.
Verdant dewy hills and vales adorn the view.
A light refreshing breeze that was so soothing.

In her pretty cottage she prepared her food.
Sometimes looking out of the window, waiting.
Wishing I'd return and hug her lovingly,
Remembering those lips intoxicating.

Sluggishly time went by, she’d ne’er gave up hope.
Spending time, her sad songs playing all along
I knew I had to make her my own, my love.
She knew I would come, for to me she belonged.


11 syllables per line

As I Walk

The black sea of faces
I meet in the street,
With hunched backs 
from a menacing gory despair,
Sweeping across the land 
like a flood of monsters,
And dry lips a stamp left by 
the  ravages of hunger, 
With gloomy eyes poppin 
sluggishly at me,
As if I am an exotic piece of cheese 
from Honolulu,
Making me feel like a fresh sandwich 
inbetween molded bread,
Wishing I could Snape back to where I was,
And forget the nightmares people trudge 
in daylight,
For the nightmares drain all the flikers of hope left in me,
Hope of a better future 
that I have always dreamt.

As I Grow Old

The fading ancient sun casts long shadows before me,
as I shuffle slowly and sluggishly down asymmetrical lanes.
How age mellows me like ripe watermelon, squeezing me
until all my ambrosial juices run acidulously dry as dust.
 
Unsatisfied desire, mental torment and general malaise
conquer my better moods of love, devotion and quietude.
Straggling with widespread dishevelment and disillusions
I try in vain to set an orderly pattern to my straying aims,
hoping some guardian angel were to take my shaking hands
to lead me onwards steadily towards some well defined goal.
 
Mark my furrowed forehead, tap solidly at my potential energy
fill my withering wrinkles with some sense or empirical reasoning,
but at least give me one essential gift, that a grumbler I'll never be.

Sluggishly Different

Enough of golden daffodils, romance and paths not taken
Let's lend poetic airing to a subject quite forsaken.
An opportunity's emerged to give a little plug
To that much lambasted creature called the common garden slug.
Though snails have stirred the poets' muse on many an occasion,
The slug has been subjected to a poesy evasion.
No poet worth his salt would waste much time on this intruder;
A slimy, homeless gastropod and shameless gunge exuder,
Repellent garden wrecker with a squirming gloopy tail
Which lathers lubrication in a sticky winding trail.
But just to be contrary have you ever stopped to think
How an absence of these creatures would create a mighty stink?
They go about their business eating signs of plant decay
And help the ecosystem in a beneficial way.
The hedgehogs, frogs and badgers, salamanders birds and shrews
Would view their disappearance as quite catastrophic news.
So next time you are tempted to dismiss them as a pest
Take pity on the homeless and give naked slugs a rest!

20.05.20

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