sad children spyin'
a storm of conflict brewin' ~
mom and dad trade barbs
with bliss at forefront
we take no affront
at barbs, jibes and taunts
of ego that flaunts
light in each node etched
our hand is outstretched
impulsed by heart thawed
as servant of God
betwixt bliss beat’s chime
we lose sense of time
dwelling in the pause
in sync with God’s laws
There is a thorn - a nightmare thorn -
that cannot be pulled from the skin.
It is covered with tiny barbs
that allow it only to be pushed deeper in.
It burrows when it is touched.
It seeks the fleshy core.
It is never happy with a surface wound.
It always wants more, more, more!
It never attacks alone, as well.
It bristles and waits for the unwary.
It is a jumping cholla spine;
and yet it is far less scary,
because it doesn’t pretend nor hide
and then stab the world from the left-hand side.
See how frozen rice brings gaiety
from the weight of a half-starved life ,
palms etching the barbs of terrorism;
Already the villainous hours smell of puss,
ripe lesions , and unbearable heat :
dried bones snapping from gun-barrels
of greedy, power- laden pillagers --
the hissing growl of wars
rake bloody sky from its quiet days .
So chidren , listen well...build
A new earth blessed with peaceful hearth
and fresh broth,
clutch all neighborly moments endeared,
whispering prayers for safe glide
soothing night's guardianship ... and as
You lay on pure lights from angels' wings,
live each hour with grace of integrity
to hold not a chaos brimming with envy;
as Spirit renews a world lulled by love,
fly flitting on wall
listens to loose tongues babble
spinning prayer wheels
flinging barbs at absent foes
behind walls, out of earshot.
Soon the fly grows bored
of vain drivel chasing tales
sense left long ago—
so it slips out open pane
to sense truth in rubbish bins
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.
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
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.
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
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
Yesterday is wrapped loosely
in the barbs and silky vapor of memory.
Tomorrow is a Mahogany wall of steep hope
slippery anxiety.
The Present is an 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.
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.
thinks she is witty
sarcasm her daily fare
a nonfriend maker
cannot help her barbs
alienates all she meets
my cousin betty
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.
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.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.