Best Bloodstains Poems
Note:***This poem is meant to be read from the bottom to the top, left to right
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Never Again
and you remain—
For the World has gone from me and fled
The stairway of my mind shall never end
I accept the fate with the grinning dead
Hello again demons, hello friends
I remain
Alas! I fall and I am done
Tell me where have you fled, my love, my friend?
For a moment I gaze upon the sun
Here I am on earth again
1 Stair Remains
Why can’t I be free?
Tell me, why aren’t they looking at thee?
Why are they looking at me?
2 Stairs Remain
The garments of comfort I long to wear
Knowing in my heart that I’ll never win
I skip that grimy third stair
Like most of my life has been
3 Stairs Remain
Though my infected feet leave bloodstains
I can’t release even a single tear
The poisons encompass my river of veins
I step on thorns of wrath and fear
Enshrouded with pain!
4 Stairs Remain
Oh, how am I to survive?
Relieve me from this ever-fixed sadness
Why can’t you just be alive?
Cease this madness!
5 Stairs Remain
As you breathe your very last breath
The devilish fiends laugh at me
They are blaming me for your death
The deaths of the masses are calling me
6 Stairs Remain
The carcasses you feed upon are glaring
Oh! vulturous world so full of greed
When everyone is staring
God, redeem me!
I just can’t succeed
7 Stairs Remain
Of other fiendish sins
And I feel the shivers
Drowned by the turbulent wind
My stale breath quivers
8 Stairs Remain
Though we all aren’t free
They laugh below in the hole where I fell
The demons are haunting, taunting me
Alone I wander blindly out of hell
9 Stairs Remain
And my will is close to gone…
The stairway continues on
Forever hungry, forever stale
I toil through death’s dark vale
10 Stairs Remain
Why can’t we be free?
My resistance is nearly gone
The wretches are watching, stalking me
I’m too exhausted to move on
We read about the slaughter in a place far overseas,
where the multicultural blending has been there for centuries.
Where church of all denominations have been standing side by side.
Where neighbours have been neighbourly; respect seemed to abide.
Seems that politics and power can infiltrate a settled mind;
dig up and open wounds of what is yours and what is mine,
take citizens back into time and drag out all their roots …
be wary of your ogre neighbour, they have a gun that shoots.
Begin to see those simple folk who lived their simple lives,
follow restlessly and blindly as belief or race revives,
those that helped them yesterday really had a cunning plan,
all they really wanted was, to find a way to cut you down.
Throw them all out on the streets; run them out of town.
Ethnic cleanse the country to make it pure and sound.
If they refuse to leave our home and opt to make a stand -
build a force of vigilantes, to roam and cut them down.
What started as a trickle soon turns into a flood.
The cup that fills with honey can also be filled with blood.
The taste that once was bitter now is the taste that's lusted for,
when seeking out the enclaves to go killing more and more.
A house, once a home of peace stands a shattered monument,
to let the remnants hanging on know what to expect.
Heads displayed on pikes are cheered; graves hold hundreds more.
Babes are sport for bayonets; forgot is what we're fighting for.
Can't live side by side now; there's too much terror going on.
Battle lines are clearer; the sane have taken leave and gone.
Cannons roaring day and night; lines must stand holding fast.
For anyone that's over-run, that day becomes their last.
When the dust has settled and the criminals are hung,
Hate subsides back to the memory; the clean-up has begun.
Do we realize as bloodstains fade; we have a deep rooted call …
needing one spark to set us off - there could be murder in us all.
Before the faint feathered light of dawn becomes airborne
and the world around me lies hushed in peaceful slumber
I often ruminate on the rose and its weaponry of a thorn
equating them to thoughts that both please and encumber
I delve deeply into my soul where passion has been worn
How resplendent the petals of a bloomed dew-kissed rose
Velvet to my finger's touch, in its long-stemmed splendor
Like tender blessings I receive as I reflect in quiet repose
the echoes pulsing within my heart, in grateful surrender
It's there I remember whispers of love and its tragic woes
Uninvited comes the sting of thorns; my cause for bleeding
Deep scratches that inflict mordant worry and sullen pains
but never have they breached my stoic faith by misleading
my heart to cast asperse shadows of scars and bloodstains
on the life of this servant who for God's mercy is pleading
I hear the love song of a wood thrush, calling to its mate
Through a window glows golden glimmers of morning sun
I'm imbued by a breath of warmth, garnered as I meditate
on the generous gift of a new day, sovereignly being spun
I humble myself through life's rivers that I must navigate
6/24/20
Reflection in Silence Poetry
I Was The Sun, You The Vanishing Frost
I will listen to you but will you talk
of sorrow's night, you took that leaving walk
sun-burnt memories all that remains
and tragedy of Love's saddest bloodstains.
I can beg but I know the cause is lost!
I was the Sun, you the vanishing Frost!
I shall pray, your life was later set straight
gone the jealousy that gave you your hate
now ash born, book of lies you believed
healed now, heart's wounds once so aggrieved!
I can beg but I know the cause is lost!
I was the Sun, you the vanishing frost!
I will send, Forgiveness and Love your way
ask the same as I bow my head to pray
your release from the demons in your mind
begging you again, please reply in kind!
I can beg but I know the cause is lost!
I was the Sun, you the vanishing frost!
I was the Sun, you the vanishing frost!
I was the Sun, you the vanishing frost!
Robert J. Lindley,
Sept 17th, 1979
Rhyme, ( Where The Wildest Shining Flower No Longer Glows)
Note: Found this poem this afternoon. Written on the back of an empty envelope stuck in the middle of the second old poetry journal I am now editing.
I have decided not to edit a word of it, as it represents a heartbroken time in
my life forty years ago. I hope you may enjoy it as a poetic piece and see that
even in true abject despair, one can write to show others that life goes on
and life can and does later reward its blessings to those that survive its
horrendous and massively deep gut wrenching blows!
Posting now, least I forget this one and it never again sees light of day.
The corner of the room
Is as dark as night itself
There is where I find my comfort
There is where my pain will be rescued
For in this corner is a table
And on this table is a knife
On this knife is many bloodstains
From previous actions that have occurred
Slice once, it stings only a little
Slice again, ahh the pain is such a relief
Slice a third time, oh watch how the blood comes out
DRIP!
DRIP!
DRIP!
Oh watch how the blood comes out
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
It was a miserable existence,
that of a battered wife
It was a never ending cycle
of a hurt-filled violent life
She always walked on eggshells,
avoided direct eye contact
Did nothing that would get him balled-fist riled up
She always spoke in a timid voice,
deferred on every household decision
Never did complain when the sex was too rough
Ofttimes it wasn't even her
that would get his pot boiling
Get him steamed and hopping mad
It could be the telly news,
the neighbor's cat
Or the photo of his mum and dad
It was a daily chore,
washing away the pain
that was mixed in with the bloodstains
It was a daily chore,
rinsing away the tears
that was mixed in with the whiskey and beers
And each night before turning out the light,
she has to take her daily dose of verbal abuse
Then tiredly arise with swollen, sullen eyes —
rehearse to neighbors another recycled excuse
And for a few hours she gets to enjoy
a quiet space that is blissfully sweet
Escape in daydreams before she faces
the daily grind of wash, rinse, repeat
This is one of my never-commented-on poems.
It deals with a disturbing issue, domestic violence.
Originally posted on 10-7-2016
— Romantic Warrior
salty tears from wars fought
overflow, filling an ocean
blood that was spilled, gets mixed in,
staining virgin stones--
or are these lost souls?
time and tide try to wash them off,
but the bloodstones remain--
haunting reminders that one must not forget
06122011957p1015
** inspired by the "bloodstones" found on Corregidor Island--
these stones literally look like they have rusty bloodstains,
and some say that these are from the blood shed by
the Filipino, American and Japanese soldiers during World War II
-- I was able to get some of these stones before but sadly, I am not sure
where they are now...
today, June 12, is Philippine Independence Day
--for Rick's Stones contest
In the attic, above wooden floor,
through the hallway of psychotic, locks upon my door,
near the broken window and glass of the sore,
hiding in the shadows,
bloodstains on the wall.
Number nine,
house at the end of the street,
where lights are low,
where silent never sleep.
All the kids at school?
They say writing poetry must be easy; after all, so many words rhyme with ‘love you’.
If they, with fists covered in your blood, only knew.
An art of letting yourself flow into the page,
Of giving in to the forces that define human nature.
That, at its finest, is writing.
Who really cares about your writing?
Would they notice if you never showed up at school?
No. It’s only a human’s nature
To forget anything unimportant, like you.
Maybe you should just turn the page
And descend into your story you never knew.
Nonsense. Don’t tell me you never knew
Of the many anonymous writing
Their broken souls onto the final page
Of the old history textbook they stole from school
Little postscripts of life left for you
A product of nature.
Nature
Mocks the men who knew
About you
Sitting alone in the attic, writing
About the woes of school
Tear and bloodstains on every page.
The book’s final page
Grown into nature
Far away from the school
Where the first pages flew, they knew
All their writing
Inspired you.
It’s you,
This blown-away page,
A scorned piece of writing
Tossed around like trash by nature.
If she knew
What happens at school.
Writing is what kept you in school
Wither away, you, against your own nature
Maybe you should just turn the page and descend into your story you never knew.
The element of handkerchief in the plot
Becomes its important pivot symbol
A heritage he got from his mother first
The Desdemona’s virtue sexual.
Losing or giving away meant her fall
Was laced with strawberries’s image design
On a wedding sheet bloodstains recall.
More interpretations one can define.
Iago used it on Desdemona divine
With the help of his wife stealing it
And placing it in Cassio’s confine
Enough proof for Othello to excite
He kissed her, killed her by smothering her
Then killed himself too lying near his dear.
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A Spenserian Sonnet:Rhyme scheme : ababbcbc cdcdee, with Iambic five feet
Wow, the weather sure is cold,
Days are short, the wind is bold.
The season isn't a favorite for sure,
Most in the cold, aren't begging for more.
This testament to the winter, is short and is sweet,
Its brutal cold, upon you does beat.
And beg for spring, and longer days,
And new found fun in different ways.
But back to winter, now let's explore,
Its wondrous beauty, many do adore,
The frosty nights, a blanket of snow,
Untouched and virgin, a skiing we can go!
Take the kids to the local park,
Sleigh ride with them, a youthful spark,
May be rekindled, inside your soul,
This surely is fun, never is it droll.
Build a snowman, with coal and pipe,
He may come alive, frosty isn't just hype.
The alive that he comes, is not in the snow,
But in the hearts of the ones that help make him grow.
Spending time with the family, this bonding is good,
Feeling alive and well, with your family you should,
The wondrous winter, has the holiest of days,
A time to be kind, and have gentler ways.
The birth of the savior, the greatest of men,
His spirit reborn, and we all know when,
This holiday comes, its time be kind,
Good deeds and good thoughts, cover your mind.
The new year comes in winter, a time to start new,
Cast aside bad habits, and with them your through.
Good cheer and good times, and drinking some wine,
Kissing and hugging, and playing Auld Lang Syne.
Presidents day is a time to give thanks,
Lincoln and the north, and the fighting yanks,
Put an end to slavery, blacks are free as whites,
Another century passed to gain civil rights.
Praise to Washington, the first to lead,
Our country from Britain, his troops had freed,
The people of the Colonies, America was born,
Plains full of plenty, many acres of corn.
Valentines day, the time for romance,
Put yourself out there, ask a girl to a dance!
The celebration turns history around,
Originally on this day, many bodies were found,
Dead in a garage, in the Chicago town,
The pictures are gruesome, bloodstains on the ground.
These are the times in winters' cold,
That have special meaning, and memories they hold.
Look kindly on winter, its end will bring,
A time of rebirth, more commonly known as spring.
Visit poemsbypaulie.com
Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
for being born with you to begin,
its been a long time since my last confession,
I don't wont your blessing,
lies and resurrection.
I don't believe in love, I don't believe in faith,
cant stand my own kind,
humble in hate,
I don't believe in truth, I don't wont to be saved,
erase me from your list,
buried, unmarked,
graved.
Abused as a child,
bloodstains of a man,
only shovel awaits,
forgive me if you can.
They say that success is a sharpened blade,
And I whet mine each day so carefully.
In the steel my reflection ever ablaze
My eyes glint with blunt functionality.
Slicing precisely—a delicate process
of practiced strokes sliding back and forth
each gesticulation into the pith causes
the blood to gush under the traumatic blunt force
and to splatter upon—ever so faint
the bleached cutting board, collecting the bloodstains
and the inscriptions of countless knife strokes.
Relics of the grind—the daily rituals—
—Wherein I often lose myself, and become like this blade
more and more dull with each passing day.
As I stumbled on the pebbled road
I broke a toenail and it left bloodstains
On the humble stones.
“Why did you let me get wounded,” I asked.
A voice from behind the obsequious hills answered,
“I did not,” the voice said reassuringly.
“I desired that you take the other road, but you didn’t listen.”
I trod on. Pained.
I searched for a band to stop the bleeding.
A long black thing lay on the grass.
Serpent!
“Why did you allow that devil bite me?” I cried.
“I did not,” the voice uttered.
“I sent an old man to give you a handkerchief
for you to bind your broken nail but
you said you weren’t crying.”
“Why can’t you just warn me at once?”
“I tried to.”
“You did? When?"
“I called you but you thought I was your girlfriend.”
Adjudged 8th Place in Destroyer~Poet's COLLABORATING IN THE CLOUDS Contest
June 20, 2012