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Best Poems Written by Curt Mongold

Below are the all-time best Curt Mongold poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Curt Mongold Poem

An Open Door

   I used to have an open door,
but I can't find it anymore.
Someone closed it from inside,
where all the painful, bad things hide.
And I think I'm in here too,
a child that knows not what to do.

   Scared and lonely , so afraid,
peering through a darkened shade,
Seeing my life pass me by,
because I'm too afraid to try,
to find someone who has the key,
that unlocks the door and sets me free.

   Is it more than just a game,
to feel something besides the shame?
The child inside me wants to know,
but somehow I just can't let it go.
   I used to have an open door,
but I can't find it anymore.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2008



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I Stand Here

I stand here and watch the changing of seasons,
a summer of winters, an autumn of springs,
I stand here in thought, not knowing the reasons,
to the meaning of life, how the caged bird still sings.
 
I stand here and watch as the years pass me by,
regrets of my past, what my life might have been,
I stand here and muse over one butterfly,
freed from the prison it had put itself in.

I stand here and watch as the dark turns to day,
the first glimpse of sunrise, a shimmer of light,
I stand here and wonder where clouds go to play
would they take me with them when day turns to night?

I stand here on guard while my inner self dreams,
of a world free of hurting, a life blank of stain,
I stand here and listen while my inner self screams,
with fear in his eyes and a soul filled with pain.
 
I stand here alone, memories by my side,
a flood of emotions, bittersweet in my mind,
I stand here unknown with the tears I have cried,
searching for answers in a world where I'm blind.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2008

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

Frozen Ground

I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your  limp laughter and scared stares. 

I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.

 I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
 the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined 
by my appalling appearance.

"How dare you be here!  What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie,  you slob,  just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer 
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped 
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to 
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."

The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley 
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously  from the bows of bastard 
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger 
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground. 
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run 
differently.

I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and 
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more. 
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and 
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

A Poet's Thoughts

I try to be a poet, turning everything I feel
into the magic dusted fairy phrases that I steal
from scattered, peeling pages of a strybook within
the cluttered combination of my unforgotten sins.

I pen forsaken fallibles surrounded by a word
or sometimes sweet soliloquy the likes you've never heard
to transfer tiny twinkles of my heartbeat intertwined
unraveling vocabulay's voiceless valentine.

I write to make the parchment sing in choired harmony
between the soured notes that echo of a diff'rent me
I bang upon the beggar's door and scratch a little while
to softly offer spices to my peppered paper pile.

I scribble, tearing barriers belonging to us all
with scripted scenes cascading over turbid waterfalls
pouring metered movements in a liquid sea of motion
washing over thirsty souls who drink my clear emotion.

I try to be the treasured tome as written by my muse
expressing me uniquely through these hands she likes to use
composed in crying chords of sorrowed laughter's ecstasy,
I try to be a poet, but that choice is not for me.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013

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When

   The dreams we had and pleasures held,
in yesterday's embrace,
I watch as twilight starts to meld,
into your lovely face.

   The spring came fast, then summer's glow,
the pale blush of your cheek,
the joy I thought I'd never know,
the touch that left me weak.

   How quickly autumn came around,
and stole away the splendor,
to take from us without a sound,
the sweetness summer rendered.

   Where are the dreams when we first met?
What happened to those days?
How can you be so close and yet,
still be so far away?

   An eternity has passed me by,
in moments, one by one,
your scent still lingers in my sky,
like sweet heather in the sun.

   When can I spend my life with you?
When will we be together?
What is it that I have to do,
to make us last forever?

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2008



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Forgotten Thoughts

Forgotten thoughts resurface like the dim light of the stars
seeping from the wounds that sit on shelves in broken jars
never to be mended in the tattered threads I've weaved
knotted in the fabric of the falsehoods I believed
to bind me in the cobalt tide that no one vessel keeps
what seems are dreams for some of you are nightmares while I sleep.

Proudly they parade in gaudy colors crimson laced
radiating fiercly from the fears I haven't faced
crashing as the seas of sorrow wash the taste of pain
out of my mouth as I turn south where nothing left remains
but scattered, dusty memories and used up yesterdays
and scars that last from days gone past in hues of blacks and greys.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

Try and Love Again

   Deep and dusky, far away,
shielded from the light of day,
a heart afraid to feel the heat,
builds another wall complete,
not knowing ever if, not when,
it can try to love again.

   Broken pieces, scattered dreams,
unseen tears an unheard screams,
bottled up inside this shell,
of a heart protected all too well,
in armor safe I built within,
afraid to try to love again.
   
   Will this heart ever break the chain,
of sorrow, cheating, lies and pain?
Will it reach for the gentle, loving touch,
of the hand it needs to feel so much?

  If only it could know just when,
to try and love again.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2008

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

Boogers Doctor Seuss Style

Be it winter or summer more likely than not
my big nose can produce giant globs of green snot.

I use up the tissues a box at a time,
picking and blowing and wiping the slime

that dries in my nostrils like small crusty scabs
and I pull thwem out furry from the hairs that they grab.

But some are still gooey that Ill roll in a ball
and I flick'em real quick so they stick to the wall,

then I wonder how long beforer anyone sees
all the boogers I flicked on their wallpapred trees.

It may be disgusting but then that's what I do
I blow out big boogers and I flick one or two

where they stick on the windows or maybe the door,
while the nastiest ones I just blow on the floor.

And some of you know about this, yes you do,
because some of you have flicked a booger or two.

I'll never point fingers at any of those
who've had their own fingers way up in their nose.

Now I've told a story and some of its true
I've talked about mucus and boogers and you,

and stretching and rolling these green little balls
and picking and flicking and sticking to walls,

and I guess that I'll stop there, so I'll take a pass,
I won't talk about boogers, but let's talk about gas!

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

Sister Wife And Uncle Brother

Sister wife and Uncle brother,
didn't really like each other,
so they left it up to me,
which one I liked the best you see.

Sister wife, now she could cook,
not too bad with line and hook,
but Uncle brother had good traits,
why he could name all 40 states!

Both of them were good in bed,
least that's what Cousin mommy said,
but Sister wife she had one ace,
and that there was her purty face.

Her eyes are green, and blue and brown,
one of them looks off toward town,
and she has no hair beneath,
her lovely, crooked yellow teeth.

Uncle brother, he's my friend,
I'll love him to the very end,
but he stops to scratch his britches,
'cause he says it always itches.

It is so embarrassing,
to watch him scratching at that thing,
but what am I supposed to do,
when Sister wife helps scratch it too?

Sister wife and Uncle brother,
suddenly they like each other!
I guess it's just a lucky me,
that has a great big family!

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2008

Details | Curt Mongold Poem

The Taste of Bread

I can hear them with their laughter
dinig on their wine and steak
hunger has to wait 'til after
doors are closed to fill my ache.

I hide inside the dumpster green
like the garbage, unaware
until the grubby hands are seen
throwing in my daily fare.

The echoed footsteps fade away
silently I open bags
what have they brought for me this day-
this crumpled soul in dirty rags?

Bones with gristle, rice pilaf
some beans and cold potatoes
there's meat that they did not chew off
and slimy wet tomatoes.

The foul smells that I notice not
as I keep hunger at bay
would make another lose their lot
but I'll live another day.

Survival is my only goal
but I would give instead
my heart and yes, my crumpled soul
for the tatse of fresh baked bread.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2013

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