Barbs Poems | Examples

The Jagged Edges

The barbs she threw at him
left jagged edges on them both
torn from deep within herself
        raw, bloody pieces of meat 
      hurled violently across the room,
          the space, the endless time.
They cleaved to him, each one
      slowly shrouding the man
until he became a prickly porcupine.
Some silent days, from weariness
      would bring respite, closeness.
          In intimacy, his spines
      would prick her open wounds;
They could not help themselves,
        They no longer had control.
And so they lived, or slowly died
      behind soft lace curtains;
        a bitter purgatory
          on the jagged edges
      of a new society.

The Jagged Edges

Natural things are rarely smooth
or flawless as they appear on the surface
      Smooth fur on skin and curve on wing
           are rough and jagged underneath
Push back against the grain shows true texture within
       reveals bristling hairs and quill barbs of feathers
          It's the grit within that shapes us
A pearl is smooth but inside is a seed of grit
We need the bumps knurls and gnarls to grip and hold
Slick things slip through silky wet and wanton fingers
          Most natural things are rough at birth
Stones and gold nuggets are fractured rough at source
They're smoothed by wear and tear of sand rubbing in streams
        Babies are smooth at birth but age roughens them
Humans grind away all day at nature's roughness
seeking perfection in shiny smooth and faultless
      Blissfully they're unaware that
it's the faults flaws texture and roughness within
           that glistens shiny the pearl
It's the bumps and gnarls outside that knurls the grip

Desert Love

I met you in a season,
as I recall, it was cool;
we dated through the warmth,
not the hottest of the 4 -- 
Falls I can’t recall...cactus
have no leaves; and summer-heat 
bakes away all thought -- 

Yet, deserts, though little water,
have an abundance of romance:
wet kisses between the barbs.  I met
you in a season, 2 stray saguaros
locking arms.

anonymous warrior

the faceless strikes keyboard hard
shooting opinion barbs 
inside the church he prays to 

this anonymous stalker hunts  
his unseen victim-cries  
he-the faceless remains faceless  

# for Bite Size Contest No118 Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Line Gauthier

lone is the boy

the peasants shed their tears alone,
while the kings and queens
sit upon their judging thrones .

come down and take the child by the hand 
show him the way.
for time has come where the light
upon his path,
        is starting to turn dark.

put away your minds prejudices.  

the prejudices that hides behind 
      the illusions
and the contempt that hides 
      inside the delusions.

in the core of the hollows heart
 is where insecurities,
             feast.

sometimes silence cuts deeper 
     than a stabbing knife.

shooting stinging barbs. 
cutting through to
        the bone.

a soul destroyed cry
 breaks the nights silence.

     listen to its laments.

the wounded beast is easy prey
to the contemptuous  
 who sit on
 thrones of high.

these throne occupiers don't awaken to the pain
from their downpouring 
                                  rain

Trident of Living

Yesterday is wrapped loosely
in the barbs and silky vapor of memory
Tomorrow is a Mahogony wall of steep hope 
slippery anxiety -
the what if ascensions and virtual vertical falls
the Present is a awkward roll on an ocean
of crimson crests and sable troughs
perfumed sails and bow crushing sirens
flashes of flippers and fins-
sudden slashes and clicks
the tapestry of grand sudden sorrow.

Row on Row the Nettles Grow

Row on row the nettles grow
And circles do surround 
Hairy stems the prison wires
And jagged leaves their barbs.

Cry out, forsaken sinner
Your voice shall not be heard
We listen to the wind song
And hark its piercing sound.

Your poison nettle vapours
Cling to my moistened lungs
And acrid nettle juices
Drip from my swollen mouth. 

Alone, now in death—
Eden’s angel looms
Sword aflame in hand
To keep you on your own.
Cry out your purgatory 
Futile ring your pleas
You beg to rise at morning
To crawl out from your tomb
Longing for light of day
Immobile in that room
That blade your only sun
And guardian your god. 
Cry out, cry out
You nettle-captured fiend
Cry out for life
For banished liberty. 

Cry out, cry out, vanquished foe
Your lies now hold no weight
I from serpent’s lips released
For it is finished, so He said.

The Mockery Garden

The girl, new, fresh;
         wandered innocently 
   through the mockery;
             the type the English 
      are so fond of building.
Fronds of false friendship 
brushed against her virgin skin
        leaving seeds of doubt 
  within her delicate folds,
        to be harvested;
                in time.
She was tempted
       by the alluring,
            plump, red fruit;
  whose juices now mingled
           with her blood
       upon the thousand
                tiny cuts
     their barbs had made.
And as she walked
            the brambles
      rustling whispers
                       of deceit 
 followed in her shadow.
She quickly turned around
            to find
         a glorious array
               of Gladioli
      their bright colors 
    embroidered by the sun;
                   in the breeze
bobbing their approval.

my friendless Cousin Betty

thinks she is witty
sarcasm her daily fare
a nonfriend maker

cannot help her barbs
alienates all she meets
my cousin betty

What’s It All About Alfie?

Arrows, what are they good for?
In an embodied dungeon very near to
my molested liver
arrows pile up, bundles of barbs,
each one a love letter
that missed its mark.
Some older ones
still drip an attenuated poison 
from their blunted tips.
Yes, love can be cruel
but it is rarely accurate.
It lives only to maim you
until you know how to live
with yet deeper wounds,
those piercing near misses
lodged between heart
and hope.

Tailored Barbs

They say words shouldn’t hurt,
but mine are crafted,
a perfect match for the tender places
you believe no one notices.

I don’t need to throw punches;
the right words can strike
with more force than a blow.
The best part?
I can smile afterward,
clean hands, no marks,
just your pride,
folded like a flimsy chair
at a backyard wedding.

Perfect Illusion

within the oscillation of melting clocks,
our poltergeists of times long expired…still reverberate~
tainted ticking echoing
in an everlasting tug of war,
pushing and pulling,
throwing barbs at bleeding hearts 

oh, how the echoes distort reality,
haunting perfect illusions~
remnants of misunderstood souls
caught in constant conflict…

what was once a beacon of love~
transmuted inhospitable confusion

words, warped by borderline delusions,
each syllable twisted and contorted,
blind rationality,
unraveling the ties that bind,
wrapping them around suffocating throats,
choking on harsh accusations~
until we became irrelevant
irretrievable phantoms~
perpetually confined
within stupefied misapprehension…..

A Clash of Titans, A Bond of Respect

Across the aisle, a chasm loomed,
Reagan smiled, O’Neill boomed.
The Gipper’s charm, the Speaker’s grit—
Two titans clashed but never quit.

Ideals at war—left against right,
Taxes and spending, day and night.
Yet through the storm, respect held fast,
A bridge of trust, built to last.

Barbs and backslaps, sharp yet kind,
Irish fire, Hollywood's shine.
Deals in smoke, with laughter's ring,
A gentler time, when truth could sing.

For common good, they found a way
To heal the rifts and clear the fray.
Through fiery words and firm debate,
They shaped the nation’s course and fate.

So raise a glass, let lessons soar:
To Reagan’s wit, Tip’s Irish roar.
May leaders learn from their accord—
In compromise lies our reward.

A Wake on the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, and insomnia befell,
No creature was stirring, but my thoughts are pell-mell.
Would the family squabbles and feuds come with the cheer?
Would I have to drown them out, with too much beer?

The smile and wave diversion has limited worth?
How long can my mirth defray my feeling good dearth?.
I flit like a butterfly, I sting like a bee. 
But, my hands can't hit what my eyes can't see.

It's all so jovial, with all folks tongues tied.
Letting slip barbs tongue-in-cheek that lied.
Lips forced into clenched fist clamped smiles.
With forget-me-knots shrouded as wait-a-whiles.
 
The reindeers were laughing, stopping on the roof,
as I downed another draught of whiskey high-proof.
A hangover is a sure-fire cure to help me cope,
with the downhill slide to the slippery slope.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and I'm awake,
fearing the family feud sparring earthquake.
My mind is churning over past disputes, give-and-take,
and how to avoid ruining the day with a silly mistake.

Woven arrows of bleakness

1.
Raucous winds sweep pristine waves 
against gods' sepulchral canvas as
stagnant, sharp wings' frames rose from malnourished hearts;
ends of elongated crosses marked beginnings
of rotten, venomous roots plugged into dead matter.

2.
Hollowed caverns invaded by calloused fingers 
coaxed bitter nectar and pellucid beads:
thus, gashed, aqueous sacs polluted by darkening crimson 
rolled down the silken passage.
With each bite, a story is devoured as 
monotonous beats of the gnawed linger in the air,
a saccharine image of carnage and raven barbs.

3. 
Rough trunks and polished branches - that reached for the fleating dark 
blended into mirrored snowy and sickening magenta -
tell stories of woven arrows of bleakness and despair,
a myriad of similar, blurring threads plunging: 
upon the lost and benevolent,
upon the putrid and vice,
nonchalantly.

4.
Yearning, bony grip interrupted hasty steps;
despite their current state,
these wane pits easily found mine
(like never before)
their intimate, lost vigor fueling my disdain as 
superficial longing clashed with a guarded soul
finally certain of similarities and your self-induced downfall.

• Short Barbs Poems
• Famous Barbs Poems
• Best Barbs Poems
• Read Barbs Poems
• Long Barbs Poems
• Barbs Quotes