Three Word Poems

@DavidCHobbs Phalanges – Transvestite – Platypus

When Edwin dated the transvestite,
His parents looked the other way.
They talked about their son, away in school,
They showed off his grades and
Wondered what the future would hold,
But ignored the present absolutely.
When he married his lover and the two
Bought a rare tame platypus for a pet,
Carrying it with them everywhere and
Showing up on late night talk shows,
Both in drag and dressed to the nines,
His parents watched another channel,
Took up reading and vacationed
On every holiday, to avoid visits.
But when he fell on hard times,
Lost his lover and his pet,
Came to them hand out and shaking,
They took him in with open arms.
He grew healthy, got a job,
Started going out again.
They caught him one night,
Dialing the numbers
Of his old life. It was too much.
The digits were much harder,
With crushed phalanges,
And twenty-seven stab wounds
To the gut.
His parents began,
Talking about his accident
And planning what to do
With the extra room.

@Bluedevilmsn Volvulus – craniotomy – pneumohemothorax

The doctor suffered
Subdural hematoma
His paperwork too heavy with words like
Volvulus and Craniotomy,
Pneumohemothorax and lobotomy
Handed with glee to his mother,
Secretary, Transcriptionist,
Who took each one with arthritic hands
As he grinned and winked
And left to play golf.
They found the putter near the door,
Alas, instead of “fore” his mum yelled Gore!

@ZombosCloset wind – blue – cheeky

With the blue sky at her back,
The wind teasing her hair into
Whirlwind dances around her head,
Gulls crying in the background
And the wild taste of salt spray
Making her lips a red, inviting
Margarita glass…he drank.
He kissed her, knowing he was
Being cheeky, not caring
If she slapped him, or turned away,
But only that the moment be preserved
That the spark of that contact
Work on mind film and develop
A snapshot memory.
Tthe moment lingered.
Sometimes that’s the way
Of blue sky, gulls
And salt-sprayed kisses.
He lost the snapshot,
Traded for a starring role
In the Film.
Reviews pending.

@Papalazarou Pontificate – Floccinaucinihilipilification – dickstabbing

Outside the window of his cheesy hotel,
Neon lights flashed endlessly,
Offering love, lust, money and distraction.
From the bed, he heard street corner hucksters
And Soapbox preachers who pontificated
One on each side of the moral split,
One side for sin, one against.
In the next room, some young thing
With powerful lungs and a sore head
Was suffering a vicious dickstabbing
From an overzealous John.
He took a long swig of cowardice
From the bottle on his nightstand,
Raised the gun to his temple,
And contemplated the Floccinaucinihilipilification
Of his existence as the world outside
And beside, and before and behind
Closed in. When he pulled the trigger,
He did not smile.

@TJCrowley Loquacious – Solisequious – cuitlacoche

He followed the setting sun,
Solisequious to the bitter end,
Tattered knapsack on his back and
The battered guitar case in his hand.
He’d been in the Midwest, singing to
Finches and Cardinals in green woods,
Listening and learning lyrics from
Loquacious, chattering squirrels and
The drone of pollen-laden bees.
His shows were small, never sold out
Because admission was simply
Whatever the audience chose to pay.
His stages were street corners,
In parks beneath shady trees,
On piers and boardwalks and in
Back-alleys behind bars.
No one ever heard his latest single
On radio, CD or released on MP3,
He sang as he walked.
Ahead he knew he would find sun,
Salt air and seafood,
And if he turned south, just for a while,
He could stand in fields below the border,
Sing to the burros of forgotten wars,
And match their harmony to his own,
As the cuitlacoche drew sweetness
From already moist and tender corn,
Make music so rare it would be
A delicacy for the ears, and then,
With the sea at his back, turn
Into the rising sun, and start again.

Suggested by Sidney Glover Williams – Crepuscular – Gibbous – Lettuce

The little garden patch out by the bent tree
Is carefully weeded. Each carrot and radish
Has been carefully planted in even rows.
Each head of lettuce leans its shadow
To blend with the round globe of the next.
By day the garden is all colors, green and gold,
With rows of rich dark earth between,
By night, the shadows grow as well as
Vegetables ever could, and much faster,
Sliding across the dew-damp soil,
Branching out from anything struck
By the light of the gibbous moon.
The bent tree’s dark brothers grow in a single night
And die as quickly, leaving him alone in sunlight.
Tomatoes and corn spend weeks and months
Growing from seed to harvest,
Taking their time, one slow inch after another.
Crepuscular shadow plants have no patience,
Spending their lifetimes in a mere hours,
Growing, shriveling, and disappearing each time
The sun rises in fiery splendor.
The sun is powerful, and brings life to branch
And leaf, but the moon, silver and brilliant,
Grows her harvest again, and again,
Forests and gardens springing to life and dying,
In the short breath of a night.
Which is more powerful? A question for sages.
No wonder that shadows make us nervous.
We are sun-grown and slow.
Shadows move at the speed of moonlight,
And before we can truly see them,
They are gone.

@coyotesqrl Relative – Homecoming – Peace

He stood on the prow,
Wide canvas sails flapping at his back,
Hand cupped over his eyes,
Watching the shore.
He could just make out the frame
Of the home, set back from the cliff
Sunlight glinted off the glass
Of upper story windows.
He clung to the rail, enjoying
The relative calm of the rolling swells,
Wishing they would lift him higher,
High enough to see her waiting.
He tried to picture the colors of their home,
The polished wood of the floors,
The curtains draping the windows, and
The red of her hair.
It would not come into focus,
And this fact brought him no peace.
He’d held those images so perfectly,
For so long – it was strange to lose them now.
He’d been too long at sea,
And he ached for the homecoming.
As he watched, a white bird took flight,
Dove from the cliffs in a soaring arc,
Flattened out its flight, and
Made for the ship.
He turned to the mast and climbed
Hand over hand to the top of the mast,
To the perch where messages came
Now and again, And he waited.
The bird seemed to fly in slow motion,
Finally pulling up and back,
Landing gently.
He gentled the creature’s soft feathers,
Worried free the note from its leg,
And read.
“She is gone. She died in the night,
There was no pain, save one.
Her heart was broken not to see you.
There was more, but the note
Fell from fingers suddenly
Too weak To grip.
The cold, clammy wind chilled his heart,
And the waves slapping the wood
Felt like hands against his wind-rough face
He wished the swells would turn
To raging storm, lift him high,
And dash him on the rocks
Of the shore that was suddenly…
Far too close.

@Pheebs2000 What – No – Milk

The kitten climbed up
Fell, climbed and escaped
Then said what? No milk?

@BlankenshipFP Clamdigger – slope – centrifugal

He’d fallen on hard times.
The restaurant up the beach kept him
In hooch if he produced.
He worked in the evenings,
Or very early mornings,
Before the kids started in,
Roaring up and down the boardwalk,
Rushing screaming into the waves,
Surfboards in hand,
Cruel smiles on their lips.
They threw things at him.
They called him ol’ Clamdigger
And spilled his bottle when they could.
He followed the gentle slope of dunes
Down to the crashing waves.
He took his spade and plunged it deep,
Felt the wet suck of sand on the blade.
Water poured into the hole like a whirlpool.,
Centrifugal force fought his efforts.
He found them on the third stroke of the spade,
Turned them up and started down the beach,
Tossing them into his basket and dreaming
Of a time before his one love was named Rose,
Wild and Irish, before his sneakers shared his
Lack of soul. Before he was nothing,
But the ol’ Clamdigger.
He didn’t hear the boy slip up behind him.
When the blade crossed his throat,
He staggered. Blood dripped and stained
The clams. He turned, but
His vision blurred.
He held out the basket and tried to tell the boy
To hurry…
Or the clams might spoil.

@Toosweet4rnr shopping cart – drummer – candy

He pushed his shopping cart down Elm,
Turned right onto 42nd street,
Looked right, and left, and ducked into the alley.
Not Macy’s by any stretch, But he had shopping to do.
Dumpsters lined the wall. flattened boxes, once pregnant
With ceiling wax and magic strings, sat in squat mountains,
Plastic straps binding them into Cliffs and crags.
He stopped at an open lid, fished aside packing material,
Found a broken plastic tube, still Spilling candy,
A bright red plastic egg, cracked,
but still smiling, plugging the Cylinder top.
He dropped it carefully into his cart and moved on.
Next he found a wad of string, beneath which were bits and pieces
Of broken things. He sifted, hummed to himself,
Tossed aside the top layer and saw a wooden hand reach out.
He took it, pulled gently, and a wooden drummer boy,
One drumstick broken, one leg gone at the knee,
Made its bid for freedom. He smiled, placed it next to the candy,
And moved on. He still needed to find decorations,
A card, and something special in time to light fire that night.
The faded photo of a little girl resting against his heart in the pocket
Of his faded denim jacket, called to him. Tears trickled from his eyes,
But he moved on. It was her birthday, and,
Though he hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, the party had to be special.
He thought…if he made it magical enough, she might come for him,
And take him home. She had always liked candy…

@LarryBower role – Wisconsin – scuba

He stood on the pitching deck of the boat
And stared into the icy depths of Lake Superior.
Behind him, the Wisconsin shore
Just a dark line in the distance
Faded from his thoughts.
Cameras were trained on him,
He ignored them and focused.
On his back, the scuba tanks felt awkward
Heavy like twin anchors.
Vaguely aware of directors and extras
Shuffling behind the scenes,
He turned his face to the moon.
The script told him
The monster waited below,
Long sinewy coils of green scales,
Ready to wrap around him and
Force the oxygen from his lungs.
CGI would provide the beast,
His art would have to create the fear.
The wet suit felt like a prison,
He was coated in sweat, despite the cold.
At last, with a soft and silent prayer,
He stepped over the edge and dropped,
Bubbling down through the waves.
Lights illumined the boat’s hull
He turned, glanced down,
And it came for him. Green lighting
Shooting from the shadows
Too quickly for him to follow.
He panicked and shot toward the surface
Too late. Jaws clamped over his waist
Wrenched him downward in a dark
Haze of floating blood.
And he was gone.
The cameras went dark.
Motors fired.
The boat turned toward shore
And ran without lights,
Not wanting to the beast’s wrath.
They never found what took him,
But the cameras caught it all.
Critics agreed it was his finest role.

@KCarruthers possum – magic – lithe

There are magic places hidden deeper
Within the forest glens than you should go,
Cloaked by vines, and brush, and clinging creeper
Where nothing craving sunlight’s kiss can grow.
You’ll see the temptress in her shadow gown,
Wink and dance to steal your tender heart.
Her face is fair, her dark hair, soft as down,
Her dance a black seduction from the start.
Do not be fooled, avoid her lovely gaze,
The lithe and mesmerizing way she moves,
She promises the world, but means to raze,
Your soul, and trample you beneath her hooves
The wolf and bear and cougar lick her feet
The rabbit, possum, mole, and you? Her treat.

@Morticia626 dark – crawl – hope

Sometimes when it’s dark,
You can see her crawl out the attic window,
Settle on the roof just over the eaves
And stare up at the moon.
By daylight, she’d see flowers,
Colors blending and melting together,
Butterflies dancing over leaves,
And hear birds singing.
At night colors drain to silver,
The shadows grow and spill out
To puddle and cloak and hide
What sunlight left behind.
There are no singing birds,
Only predatory owls
swooping from the heights,
Or bats wheeling and screeching
Against silver clouds and across
The bright white face of the moon.
She watches it all from her roof,
Arms clasping her knees to pull them closer
To her heart. She closes her eyes,
Lets the breeze play
With loose strands of her hair
And reaches for her favorite toy.
Hope, sealed in layers of time,
Wreathed in reality and a little dusty,
Kept out of site and precious.
As the moon shines down on her, she smiles.
If you see her from a distance,
Darkness cloaks her, bats whirl and flash
Around her brow, and shadows leak
down to stain the walls below.
But if you look very close, And listen carefully,
You’d hear the soft flutter of butterflies,
See flowers blooming and hear the birds
Calling out her name.

Morticia did me the honor of gracing the words with a sketch…since it’s a damned GOOD sketch, I got her permission to include it here on this page.

@Gerryann Sanguine – Illusive – Vampire

Dim moonlight drains the colors,
Pale or sanguine, throats
All look the same,
In the dead time after twilight.
You can lose your name
If you stand in once place too long,
Thoughts flitting randomly,
Illusive as they fade to mist,
Hard to grasp and harder still to hold,
The rainbow contrasts of the day,
Played against shades of gray
White stone, and darker ebony
Are shorn of magic, save the pulse,
The heat beneath the surface,
Life scented and
Smelling of crimson.
In his cloak of night and shadows,
Only the vampire sees red.

@Scath Love – Fire – Dragon

They melt in the heat
Two hearts enter, one heart leaves
Joined in dragon fire

@TechHerding Spam – Spam – Spam

“What are you doing?”
Checking new accounts,
Followers from around the world,
Authors, actors, poets, dreamers,
Housewives and a few cats,
But wait…
How to get sixty-billion… AUGH
Spam blocked…onward
Editors and cowboys, race car drivers and…
MLMKING is a no-go
Spam blocked…onward
Newsmen and web developers
Code Monkeys and…
XXXPor4ULive!  Uh…No
Spam blocked…onward
Mind flip the Follow & Unfollow
To the background,
Mental processing power reallocated
Wonder what I should have
For breakfast?
Thinking,
Damn sure not…Spam.

@However grassroots, portrait, freak

He was a bohemian man,
Back to the basics, easel and palette
Sketchbook and black beret,
A grassroots movement of one
Seated in the park and
Drawing the world.
He drew the cars on the street,
Vying for too little pavement,
Honking and weaving and shooting
Holes in the ozone.
He drew the trees waving in the breeze,
Casting their leaves and blossoms
To the uncaring wind,
Offering up their bark to penknives
As a record of the history of romance…
But he drew no portraits.
There was a time when faces fascinated him,
A time when he followed their lines
And curves
Dips and deep furrows,
Smiles and frowns
And transferred them to paper,
Canvas
Stone
Anything with a blank surface.
Then, one day,
He brought a mirror to the park.
He tried to paint the artist
Trying To paint him.
He studied the smile, the frown,
Frizzy hair and smudges of paint and ink,
Eyes filled with questions,
Void of answers.
He started to sketch, erased,
And the artist in the mirror began
Erasing him.
Boy if that didn’t make him freak,
So now he paints the cars,
And the trees.
Tucked in the back of his sketchbook,
A half-drawn expression of shock
Is folded in between a tall oak,
And a Chevy Cavalier.
He’d have burned it,
But his deepest fear is fire.
He’d have painted over it,
But he was afraid he’d be invisible.
He’d have finished it, but…
He wasn’t ready to be finished.
He had a world to draw.

@Juniesgurl money – laugh – temptation

Come one, come all;
Experience the opportunity
Of several lifetimes.
Step right up and Take a card.
Some bring wealth,
Some promise happiness,
Oothers offer power.
All are magic.
I hear nerves quiver as you laugh.
I see the skepticism in your furrowed brows,
And the disbelief curling your lips.
I fan the cards and hold them out,
Because I also sense
the hunger in your eyes.
Lead us not into temptation, you say,
But deliver us from evil.
There are many rooms in your father’s house
There are many cards.
Step right up and take your pick…
You know you want it.
You know you will come forward,
So make it quick.
Before someone takes your card.
Choose wisely.
First turn to your loved ones.
Be sure to say…goodbye.

Wendy93639 –   Catacomb – Didgeridoo – Democrat

Dressed in pompous finery,
leaders gather in the catacombs,
pounding out the same notes they’ve produced
For two hundred years,
Neither Republican nor Whig, nor
Libertarian, conservative, or Democrat
Can find a new song,
They drone and they moan,
skin-sack Didgeridoo platitudes to soothe the masses
And promise messiahs in the rhythm of their drum,
While praying real messiahs…never come.

MadPoet duckies – sunlight – contagion

He bathed in the fetid pools beneath the city,
played with forgotten things, like rings cast into drains,
Money fallen from torn pockets, broken shiny toys no longer loved
and soiled rubber duckies canted to one side, drowning.

He never walked in sunlight, so they would not see him.
He knew they would revile him, hurt him, and
Cast him away as they did their worn out toys,
Those happy, singing girls and clever smiling boys.

Loneliness and hunger, like dark contagion
Might leak from his fingers into their souls.
Pain might flash from his eyes And soil their dreams.
The world beneath the city might call their true names.

He played beneath their city with their forgotten things,
In a chiaroscuro world all his own, he faded,
Dark, like an earthbound spirit, or uncast shadow,
A poet stranded on the shore Of an endless, poisoned sea.

And if they thought of him at all, it was to wonder
What had happened to that broken locket, or the torn page
Of a favorite book.  They stared into drains and pipes and shadows
And prayed their offerings might keep him at bay.

@Bookie_Girl Ladybird – Puddin’ – koumpounophobia

Bess said “Nevermind, li’l Ladybird, jes’ never you mind,”
And smoothed the girl’s hair back from her cheeks.
Tears had dried in splotchy streaks,
Trailing down toward the ruffled finery
Of the girl’s Sunday-go-to-Meetin’ dress.

She held up her white-gloved hands
And new tears wound their way
Through trails left by their predecessors.
Bess dried them with the hem of her apron,
Said “hush, puddin’, you jes’ hush.”
And stepped a little closer.

Pearl buttons hung loose and open down
The girl’s bodice, untouched.
Pale skin showed through shameless and bare
And churchbells rang unheeded in the distance.
Voices echoed down the stairs.

“Where is that girl?” Mother asked in sharp tones.
“I hope she’s ready,” Father said, voice heavy with frown.
Bess reached down and took the first button,
Slid it through the loop and reached for another.
The girl bit her lip and turned away, trembling.

Footsteps and voices drew near and Bess’ hands flew
One button then the next, smoothing the dress, and
Wiping away the tears.  Protectin’ her lil’ Ladybird
From Humiliation and pain…koumpounophobia
Not yet a separate word from crazy, or ‘tetched’.

The last button in place and the girl, trembling and pale,
Looked straight ahead, afraid to glance down,
Mother and Father called to her, impatient and distracted,
Bess patted her on the shoulder, said “God Bless,”
and they were out the door.

The bells of the church droned in the distance
Unforgiving and without pity as Bess watched
her lil’ puddin’ march bravely into another day,
trapped within her mind by frail mother-of-pearl clasps
Repeating under her breath, “Bess will set me free…”

@RainGraves Megalomaniac – milk – stabby

The eggs weren’t perfect,
The yolks runny, and albumin
Crusting the edges.
The toast was dry and brittle,
Even molten butter unable to soak
Its barren surface and soften the grit.
His anger grew as he studied
Brown spots darkening the once pure
Yellow of the banana skin
The pulp floating in juice he demanded
Pulp free.  Not so much to ask.
They called him crazy, said he was
A mealtime megalomaniac, wild delusions
Of culinary grandeur clouding his wisdom,
But he thought that it was not too much to ask,
That the bowl, filled with stale flakes of corn,
Be at least half-filled with milk.
He laid the spoon very softly on the table,
Froze a humorless grin across his lips,
Took a sip of bitter coffee without cream, and with
Too much sugar as his fingers danced
Closer and closer to the bread knife.
Mother would be back soon,
And under the circumstances,
He knew they’d understand
If he got a little…stabby.

@Stezza666 Kangaroo – Gusset – Diorama

They planned a wondrous diorama,
Recreating temples sacred to the moon and stars,
Peopled with the beautiful and the talented,
Dressed and posed as models and
Recreated by the sculptor’s art in life-sized splendor
But when she heard and told the man in charge
She must be represented; she must be the star,
He fell to despair.
She was far too old to sit in circles of virgins,
Far too large for the costumes of Goddesses,
The sculptor and the artist agreed
It would take fewer gussets to fit a kangaroo
To the leading parts, and less imagination.
But she was rich, and she had power,
And she believed in herself above all else, so
After the wailing and gnashing of creative teeth
Became a bore, they conferred, tête à tête
And concocted a plan, reserving the topmost column
Of the strongest pillar for a single sculpted piece,
Told her she would be the only model not sculpted,
But forever a part of their work and their art.
She had her doubts, but the chloroform dulled her wits,
And removed the shadow of her doubt.
They fitted her to gowns of stone and horns of bone,
Lengthened and strengthened her claws,
The gargoyle reborn in excruciating detail
Facing a mirror angled cleverly to reflect
Not a hideous face of stone, but Moon’s bright visage.
She preened as she posed and imagined
The gathered sculptures worshipped only her
And the diamond chips coating her eyes
Winked to those who entered. She only wished
The mortar and cement allowed her
To scream.

@llsoares – Big – Red – Spidermonkey

He tried to concentrate on
The work at hand.
He tried not to pay any attention to the shadow
Dancing across his keyboard
When they asked if he wanted to go
For Sushi, he did not look up.
When the lights dimmed,
Security found him there, still as stone.
They canceled his account and
Powered off his computer…
He made no protest, but
When they carried him out,
He shielded his eyes.
They asked him why and he blinked,
Met their gaze and told them,
He could not work with that thing
That horrible thing,
Hovering over his desk.
What thing they asked, and he whispered,
Eyes wide.
Giant red spidermonkey.

Written by David Wilson - Visit Website
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