cranky bee was born on the underside of the hive
he has been cranky since minutes old, maybe five
this was from his mother, but his daddy agreed
He has always been angry, always seems peeved.
you could not have a regular conversation with him
He was always angry with Tom, Dick, Johnny and Jim
Always looking for the bad side, and always finding it too
He is still angry today, and he is forty-two
Most have moved on, and do not waste any time
They see that he is determined to be filled with irritation grime
cranky bee has never gotten over one single slight
Frankly, said my drone friend; he is not very bright.
Baby swing unused for eight years
Glider has sat dormant since 2019
Dual slides; who was the last one to slide down them?
I do not remember because it has been a while
I congratulate myself on making this play park into a dog park
The dogs use the underside of the slides for shade
They have dug holes around the pool
Now our little dog is making mud pies with his paws
I pressed my body
into gravel and oil,
the earth shuddered
like it knew my name.
Wind tore at my hair—
hot metal screamed above me,
the stink of burnt grease
and fear beside me.
Too late, I thought
of low-hung hoses,
of chains and things that could
pluck me straight out of the world.
I held my breath,
as if air alone might lift me
into the dreadful underside of things.
And the train— God, the train!—
roared on without mercy, gaining speed,
while I became smaller
than my own fear,
flatter than my pulse
beating against the gravel.
And in that grinding forever,
I wished I hadn’t been so brave,
hadn’t laid my young life down
for nothing more than a dare.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted out.
But all I could do
was keep still and pray
the sky would come back.
The train at last was gone
and I unscathed,
so I popped up like
jack-in-the-box
and scared the daylights
out of my friends,
laughing and triumphant
and unnerved
at what I’d done without thinking,
and wondered if I’d be more careful
next time.
Where the wild things grow, you are mine,
In tangled roots and ivy’s twine.
A love that blooms where shadows play,
In secret realms the world can’t stay.
Your love got me clowning, spinning in crime,
Tripping on whispers, lost to time.
Stumbling over soil, the earth our stage,
Falling for truths that elude the page.
Secret whispers, no one should hear,
Echo softly whenever you are near.
Unspoken truths with a rhythm so fine,
A language unknown, just yours and mine.
We steal away to a garden concealed,
A place where the sky and stars have healed.
Hidden arches, where moments freeze,
Our mystery haven beneath the trees.
But oh, this yearning's a fragile thread,
A fire aglow where mortals tread.
Its burden clings like a mournful tide,
This love lives only on the underside.
Beneath the veil, where the wild things grow,
Our hearts are free, though none can know.
In shadows deep, we write our rhyme,
A fleeting tale untouched by time.
Moments become wet steppingstone
over a stream of consciousness.
At breakfast, a TV delivers omens
with a perky disposition.
Buttering grilled bread, distracted by normality,
slipping through the well-greased gears
of a self-made reality,
then a singing hint of burnt toast
ripples through suddenly aware
nostril hair.
What should you do today -
walk the mood off
or pray brother pray?
Will the monstrous appear,
its likeness --- cute and kittenish,
though even now
new velvet satanic horns
are already budding.
Will the fuzz and fur turn quickly
to scabs and scales?
Sinister left-handed slaps of hysteria
swipe the sweat from wrinkled foreheads.
In a room bereft of natural illumination,
a light on an open laptop is blinking,
imagination types a nightmare
on the underside of its blank screen.
Brains unchecked by reason,
swivel inside their bony portholes,
they search this way and that
for a more feasible fantasy
before this amorphous apprehension
emerges fully clothed
as an all too familiar
mirror image.
Do you sometimes use GPS
To navigate your flat world?
Did you ever wonder how all those satellites
Get around to the underside?
Do you use a flush toilet
Or a siphon?
See, fluids can sometimes run uphill.
Your “the Amazon River is flat” theory
Fails to hold water.
Did you ever consider an Antarctic cruise?
Did you ever want to sail around the South Pole?
You could look out for the ice-wall
That you think holds the oceans in.
Do you recognize a metaphor?
When the Bible talks about the
“Four corners of the Earth”,
It’s an idiom for distant lands,
Or is your world-view ‘square’?
Every other celestial body we can see is round.
Why should the Earth be so different?
Phases of the Moon,
Pictures of Earth taken by astronauts,
The “celestial spheres” really are spherical.
If you need a book to tell you what is real,
Try a physics book.
If you need a tool to discern what is right,
Try logic or experiment.
Try to see beyond the horizon.
If your world is really constricted
To what you can see from your limited view,
Then, perhaps, start walking.
bomber jacket, dark glasses
blown out hair,
faded jeans that fit me slim,
brown leather belt and shoes,
a dangling cigarette between lips,
is how I would fancy look!
Reality is something else,
and what I look is more like this…
A T shirt straight out of wash,
never seen the underside of iron,
crumpled to show how the machine spins!
trousers broad fit that struggle to stay
at the waist, with a belt that fails to grip,
the colours of these never match,
and the shoes are ones that were
quick to reach, and the result is a
riot of disagreeable colours!
who cares!!! That is me!
When I walk, my wife walks with me
separated by a hundred feet,
with her impeccable attire that
compliments every fraction of her,
with lipsticks to match!!
Style of clothing do not make a man
but they seem to make a woman!
Reality of life is mismatch of things,
that we learn to love and to live with!
That is why we have been married years!!
our distances in clothes is bridged by
our deep understanding and love for
each other! And when this love really
gets to work- we often discard our clothing!!
Winter taunts with his sunset
blushing the underside of clouds
with colors of Spring blossom pinks
stretched across the waning sky.
Painted as with an artist’s
expert brush
teasing my soul
languishing in yearning
for the breath of Spring,
Reminding me who watches
how very distant
Spring blossoms be.
From the underside of a milkweed leaf you appeared to me, oh butterfly
you spanned and metamorph before my eyes
from a tiny caterpillar to a creature full of flame.
They call you the common tiger or the wanderer, but to me
you are "The Monarch," most regal butterfly of both heaven and earth.
To Southern Mexico you will soon migrate, just when the frost begins to settle, on the northern rooftops.
Like the tiny feathered birds that quiver as the winds of change appear,
one cool September day you will whisk yourself away.
Unlike the Asters & the morning glories, late bloomers of the season,
your short life span requires you to take flight, without treason.
Come to my flower garden one more time dear Monarch,
and show me the beauty that is truly thine. (pause)
From the underside of a milkweed leaf, you appear to me, butterfly
born to seize the sky you soar and aim for warmer weather ,
who could ever ask you, why ?
Written by: Vienna Bombardieri aka Mystic Rose
Ladybug, my Ladybug,
Large you're not and not a slug.
Leaves you-leap to so cute my little bug.
Like Strawberry wings does my heart you tug.
Light and small you are zephyr does snug.
Lawn and garden blooms you hug.
Lace azalea on leaf underside does shrug,
Last the spider looking so smug.
Ladybug, you’re my little Ladybug,
3/14/2023
It sticks to the underside
of what's out there,
a shadow
on the other side of knowing,
waiting, growing
and creeping closer
when eyes are focussed
elsewhere. It prefers
not to have a name.
One day, it will break cover
and pounce or slip quietly
through an unguarded gate.
Only then will you be able
to give it a name
and by then
it will be too late.
"Bluestocking"
Blue blew in
like the truth
in many different
shades
one tried
immersing in
shades of shadow
but the light was louder
Blue blew in
like a neon sign
flashing its underside
like a stocking’s ladder
the terminal
loudspeaker
for departure
was like a shot
of Uranian Blue Piñaq
arriving not soon
enough,
knocked back
some kind of
heady celebration
exits
arrivals
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Perched minds peruse the mystery
Observe a beauty they do not perceive
Explore the underside of leaves, ignore
Trees deep tangle
Roots that lead to
Yesterday.
Sunrise forever breaks
On white sand truth
Under the silent guise
Poetic muse
John G. Lawless
©8/10/2022
Summer’s sweetest natural dessert
Presented itself to me in the form of a
Large seeded watermelon that
I found by chance at a local food stand.
Thrilled was I to see such a perfect specimen!
Wide, round, and green,
It had a yellowish underside and those “bee stings”
Desired by people who search for the tastiest melons
Every year when that marvelous fruit is in season.
On my arrival home, I stumbled and dropped that luscious melon.
Pulp of red juiciness splattered all over the driveway -
Effectively destroying the whole thing as it went KER-SPLAT,
Never to be enjoyed by my expected dinner guests that evening!
June 10, 2022
For Edward Ibeh's This Or That, Vol 12 Poetry Contest
Title chosen: Split Wide Open
The carpet has two sides
The upper surface with patterns
The underside plain
It describes two worlds
The rich and the poor
The dignity and the informality
The solemn and the ordinary
The authority and the civilian
The high reputation and the low reputation
The publicity and no visibility
The difference makes the two extremes
Unroll the carpet red and shining
You're the king or queen of that moment
Rolled up the carpet dull and dusty
You're yourself or a step lower
Why not
Always be a figure that live
In the hearts of people
With or without the carpet
Like God who is the almighty
Of all mankind
Irrelevant of man's origin
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