Smallish Poems | Examples

Lost or Misplaced

When things are lost or just misplaced,
It’s more than just annoying,
For time spent looking’s such a waste
While good moods face destroying.

Since even in a smallish space
There’s lots of room for hiding,
So when you’ve searched most every place,
Frustration’s not subsiding.

If giving up is not a choice,
You’re stuck without direction
And even if your inner voice
Is battling dejection

There has to be a point at which
The chances shrink to slender
Of finding what you lost, so switch
Your goal and just surrender.

The Helderbergs

The trails runs the edge for several miles,
a clifftop walk, it is no great trial,
atop a long precipice of limestone,
where big, black vultures soar, and make their home,
a rugged wall, by ancient peoples known,
so it looms, this stubborn piece of wild.

Atop it a state park has sat for years,
small fences up to calm a parent’s fears,
but you know kids, they’ll always go ahead
and fearlessly peer over that great ledge,
the beauty awes even in their young heads,
like all souls, they’re stirred by the wonder here.

Some metal stairs descend down to the base,
so folks can walk along the smallish caves,
‘hold up the earth’ in a picture they snap,
see Minekill Falls, and walk around its back,
find passageways where Iroquois made tracks,
and Tory soldiers hid in olden days.

It seems so close, you can see Albany,
but when the winds blow you almost believe
that this place is at the edge of the earth,
like some lost land you found after long search,
quite thankful that people have seen the worth
of these tree-clad cliffs in their majesty.

Injured by an Ice Cube

Injured by an ice cube
'Tis hard to comprehend,
removal from it's tray
a spike of ice extends.

This dagger like stalagmite
did pierce my very skin,
a chilling site, believe me,
and much to my chagrin!

Some blood did run, yet briefly,
a smallish wound you see,
same ice that did the spearing
I used for healing me!

Superficial Love

She pooh-poohed his smallish gift.
He looked glum and she looked miffed.
	No diamond in sight,
	She did not delight.
Her love for him was set adrift.

Planet Norway

Planet Norway calling


We see a TV program from Norway, a smallish nation bent on becoming green, building windmills on top of mountains and in the sea, filling the landscape with rotating blades that have an annoying sound and does not make the famous landscape more prettier.
You see, to finance this dream of an unsullied nation at ease with itself, it has to sell polluting oil and gas by the tankers full and the more expensive the electric dream becomes, more oil and gas must be sold..
To reason to the leaders of this electric manic disorder, is impossible they act as the have found the final truth and God is no longer in the details
Can anyone explain to the Norwegian government their 
country is not a “Planet Norway,” drifting about in the galaxy oblivious of other planet but is a small part of Europe and the rest of the world, that pollution affects us all and that the solution must be based on common sense and together with other nations.

Kestrel

What seems an impossible feat
of forte and noble resolve
to boldly face the bitter gale,
a smallish bird feathers the wind.

His wildly beating wings afford
what seems an impossible feat
of willfulness against his foe,
as he hunts for suitable prey.
 
He hovers so he can find his 
preferred meal scuttling around in
what seems an impossible feat
to escape the eyes of the bird.

Such beauty in nature is rare
and one should be awed by the sight 
of the kestrel’s stamina in
what seems an impossible feat.

The Crack

Yesterday
the wind blew open
a crack in the air

A smallish space
   so t'wd seem
squeezed just between 
the here and there.
 
‘Tis said 
   a good deed 
   an' a heartfelt prayer
can let one briefly stare
   into that space
where eyes may see
   yet 
not quite be.

Eleven

in rooms of rainbows
          bloomed her powers
some stranger things -
          one sweet, soft flower
though daft with graft,
          men grilled and nudged
yet, HER book’s cover,
          quite poorly judged

through trust in Papa,
          risked life and limb
but all those things
          she gained from him
were cloaked with lies
          and borrowed breath
and brought her naught
          but grief and death

those sordid secrets,
          she dared disclose
while trickled, red,
          from ‘neath her nose
dread demogorgons -
          turned useless churl
by one strong, honest,
          though modest girl

the wounds ran deep
          in that smallish town
but deeper, still,
          ran the Upside-Down
that dark realm defied
          all the strength of men
yet, was NEVER the match
          for one more than …

ten.

To Be Set Free

I hear behind me
the fleeting  sounds 
of a large green alligator 
slithering through the weeds

it snaps at my butt
and takes a smallish  chunk of me 
setting me free
to ponder 

behind a tree
how lucky 
one can be 
to be set free.

Sam Spade

“Give me the phone Effie.
I have to make a call.” 
She handed it over to me
and walked into the hall.

The inspector had no clues.
He asked for my two cents,
asked me to give him my views.
I didn’t; the call was intense.

The dame had come in
asking for my advice
two days ago and then
was arrested by Vice.

I had seen the smallish 
puncture, blood pooling,
and I wanted to abolish
the coroner’s ruling.

The wound was there,
but he missed the needle
lying next to the chair.
He tried to wheedle.

If I couldn’t get the cops
to do their job, I’d need
to pull out all stops
to find a hard lead.

For Gershon...with smiles

Inspired by, but not entered in, Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest

A Garden Wild

The gardener's hand was feeble,
    the poet's hand was staid
    Yesterday's dreams were buried
    with seeds, last year were laid
    Yet flowers grew in rainstorms
    though coupled with the weeds
    Butterflies came to visit
    The gardener's heart was eased
                               
    A smallish yellow butterfly
     on heal of monarch great
    Across the wild garden flew
     and not a moment late
   For though her wings were 
     little, and she was very small
   Somehow, she found momentum
     to fly up the garden wall
                           
   The gardener watched in wonder
   in the scene that she was gifted
   Each nuance of this garden free
   Her poet's heart uplifted
   The springtime long now ended
   and summers turned to fall
   The gold was tinged with silver
   and a fairy came to call

Chanukah Cookies

I’m almost out of flour
And my sugar’s at the end.
I do not have sweet butter
On which I, of course, depend.

Since I’m not going into stores,
I’m ordering from sites
That quickly get depleted
From competing appetites.

Yet with my grandma’s recipe,
Each Chanukah I bake
The cookies I grew up on,
Long and tedious to make.

I scraped together just enough
To make a smallish batch.
Most years I mail some to my sibs
But that I had to scratch.

Yet still, I rolled the dough and watched
The shapes take form and brown.
On Chanukah, I couldn’t let
My kids and grandkids down.

Cancer Unnamed In 1862

The horses are a galloping today
Their hooves clacking against the cobblestones.
They clomp right by in a most lovely way.
Woman in carriage giving tiny moans.
Cancer prevails in her smallish bones.
Eighteen sixty-two.  Disease has no name.
Big C makes it impossible to hide.
This poor woman will never be the same.

I Turned My Back

I Turned My Back

A spirit casually approached, shat its parched load,  
producing a small cloth it worked its hands furiously, 
fashioning of clay and soot something to assuage a
deep yearning in its soul, something that looked,
as it looked to itself. 

I turned my back to the left, my sight took in these images,
touched to my core this phenomenon pierced hot like a steel blade,
searing a scaring wound punctually within, permanently set.   
I let out a scream, which carried back into the canyons and the recesses where smoke resides apart from fire, where water breaks into its separate molecules. 

A world-like landscape emerges from a thinning air, dusty and rough in texture, sprouting forth smallish shrooms in iridescent hues, resembling footprints in snow they shimmer and vibrate. 
The spirit and itself have moved in and around this landscape before,
leaving their footprints, their mark. 

The immediacy of my experience continues to pierce impressionably,
I am now a marked man, my goal; adapt consciously.

Unlucky Unhappy Me

Invisible predators steal my soul
taking me to a bowl of stale potato chips
dunking me down beneath the cigarette butts
That were not ever well-hidden in the bottom

Plunking me down firmly with their beady
little hands and their alien eyes.  Laughing maniacally
while I thrash around, trying to get free 
Then they grab me up having a better idea

And plunk me face down, bound but not gagged,
Which would have been invariably better,
into a smallish bowl of cold, half-eaten oatmeal.
I die ungracefully, and irritated.

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