Best Bone Poems
I Am Mortal Man, Made Of Mere Flesh And Bone
Sad and lost soul walked in his old worn shoes,
dark clouds covered his bowed and forlorn head.
Life had beat him hard, made him pay heavy dues,
cast jagged stones into his every night's bed.
He looking back at all his dear family now gone,
his broken soul cried- God release me please.
I am mortal man, made of mere flesh and bone,
my every path hard, nothing comes with gentle ease
Yet the spirit was strong and his heart held dreams,
hope that another day would great blessings bring.
Each night's prayer he found new flowing streams,
such that morn's new light made his joy sing
As each day brought its bricks and falling stones,
Hope, his greatest shield, prevented any broken bones.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-15-2016
Dedicated to all my friends here that give me hope each day.
Hope that life will give future blessings and my family will
be well and safe when I am gone.
Oh, how we are poisoned!
The Yonega, the Wasichu,
a new creature,
different from us in more than just their
white skin and sunflower hair.
They come to our people with gifts of death.
Their ulcers wrapped in calico cloth.
Their fevers traded to us for our good food.
Baskets of evil spirits in jars of glass
and crockery made by hands not their own.
Pouring toxins, shame and sloth,
into our proud warriors.
Our people are blinded by their shiny metals
and made deaf to the ancient beat of our ancestors drums.
We weave their stories into the braids of our youth
who forget the stories of our people.
Oseronni eyes of blue and green
cannot see the wind that moves the land,
shaping it and making the soil sing.
Sunlight steals their sight.
Mother Earth and Father Sky, and Brother River
nourishes the Three Sisters who sustain us
with their corn, squash, and beans.
They are offended and leave us to our folly.
The white man teaches us dishonesty and sloth,
making of our backs the bow
that draws the arrows
that break our hearts.
The bone in our back bends our faces to mother earth.
The only color left to us is
the crimson in each salty tear that falls.
Oh, how we are poisoned!
where he takes his dates
is undisturbed and concealed
by myriad pines.
left behind, their flesh decays
over time . . . into the sand
I tickled funny bones of five Souper men
So I gave thought to trying it once again
In the order they replied
My sarcasm was applied
As I gently heckled them with ink and pen
First, Tom Cunningham, who "liked my collection"
To femme limericks he had no objection
But now it's his turn
Tom, forgive the burn
I heard you're headed for a house of correction
Jerry T Curtis said to "keep them coming"
But I think that lately he's been slumming
He's all aflutter
And starts to stutter
When his lady friend starts his heart strumming
Then there was the poet of romance, Tim Smith
His sweet words of seduction are not a myth
I know it to be truth
Don't ask me. It's uncouth
I don't kiss and tell so I'm pleading the fifth
John Gondolf said my limericks made him "chuckle"
His comments are always filled with honeysuckle
But if he wants a date
I'll have to castigate
I have a black belt in the use of my knuckles
"I needed smiles and giggles," said Greg Barden
His poems are flowers blooming in a garden
But some words are couture
Fertilized with manure
Now I guess I'll have to beg for Greg's pardon
Gentlemen, I ask forgiveness for this spoof
My humorous parodies should be the proof
That I like all of you
And don't mind if ya do
Get even in your own limericks of reproof
Many are the miles you snake along the hillsides, through the valleys,
conforming to the highways, partitioning pasture from pasture
neighbour from neighbour, friend from foe, son from father.
a face unperturbed…
one inhaling scenic grace
spring chattering birth
Sanctuary to winter flock shelter for the beast,
many characteristics embraced within your tenacity,
while countless shapes formulate your strength,
crag face monument a testament to this place, stone the essence.
breaking dawn’s sunrise …
golden threads breaking the mist
surfing nether clouds
Many years you’ve stood against sweeping rain, hoarfrost nights,
the heat of summer, the inane rambler that mounts your very strength
rests wearily for a while, never a thought for whom created
you, from out of the very ground you now preside over.
there are no concepts…
only seasons to embrace
and generations
© Harry J Horsman 2022
The cult of the bone
the bone
the bone
Chalky and porous and white
as a stone
crushed in a cauldron
in flames in a fire
brewed as a potion
to cure my desire.
Inspired by Anthony Slauson
Dredged from the depths of a shaken Sennen seashell
she hears once more his voice, low, sonorous tones, sees the bones
of her past laid out, splayed out, another story
playing out, can feel it in her bones,
his voice burrowing in, deep beneath skin,
cold blade digging in, the tide coming in,
shrouds of sea mist closing in, the veil blowing thin,
membranes of memory breaking...She sees anew the drowning seas,
sees for the first time his strangling hands,
pebbly skulls, seaweed ropes, skeletal fingers of coral
forcing bone-white wrecking lights into her cove...
Bone-bleached semen strands, Sennen's strand stretching
soiled sand before her like life or fate, grains like pulverised bones.
His dark-dune lurking, water-window watching,
waiting for riptides; a ripping of fabric, ripping of hymen,
sea-hymns now silent on salt-sheened lips
plump-pouty with youth. It's sordid, uncouth,
the salt sprinkle of sea-sweat sheening his skin,
the breath and the fingers quickening,
the coral's rough rigidity piercing, ejaculation of sea foam...
Buried deeper than bones, the sudden rush of memory waves
rattling bones of the past, shaking Sennen seashells.
Gulls screaming into the guilty hush.
Secrets hidden by sea-silenced sand.
I walk along the shores of dead daffodils and daisies,
tangled in cursed roses and beach bones, in your absence~
reminiscing redolent sparks of skeletal silence,
while my heart aches to be within the arms of your midnight phrases.
But our love has stolen the moonbeams from the air,
only to be cast amongst the demons that fare,
fragmented fangs ready to inflict unearthly pain,
dancing in ritualistic reveries under the suffocating rain.
I still weave sequins of serenity into the tortured twilight,
to illuminate blazing bruises between blushing starlight.
For in this island of desolated shores,
I dream of spider veins,
screaming for a release from the tides of toxic refrains,
mirroring the voodoo iris~
within the somber soul of Medusa.
So let crimson remnants of our romance
carpet seething shells grieving~
in the bioluminescent haven of fallen angels,
where whispers of woes and abandoned ink,
translate the aroma of decomposing pleasures.
Remember I am thunder, singing the songs of the storm,
dressed in skin of sea and sorrow.
I wear the ocean like armor;
maybe one day, from the eerie sandcastles,
left along the corpse corals and plankton,
you’ll find my bleeding pendulum ~
buried in ivory stillness.
Imagine an oil stroke on a virgin canvass
an image coaxed out by a velvet hand
pas de deux artist and brush
here comes the wind
and suddenly, I appear out of nowhere
Imagine my memories invisible as air
a non violate kiss somewhere out there
here comes the image,
of a two step process, the artist and I
wonderfully etched, I pop up;
Imagine my visage, aging flower of old
existing in a turbulent rotation
eyes of a cougar, soul of a lion
I am Virginia Woolf the writer
like a binding book I appear pressed
Continued survival on a canvass of dry,
parched as a stone in a pocket, alone...
Bone Lady.
Pippa Gray
If you have come for romance, please leave.
Follow the fireflies and they will lead you
back through the woods, to your manmade path.
There is no sweetness or solace here.
I am a thunderstorm, a fierce force of nature.
My heart is a patchwork quilt of tattered skins,
Hand stitched with lengths of bloodied sinew.
I shall decline your perfumes and silken robes.
For I have my bones.
I throw them upon my thighs and listen
as they whisper of your future.
The dark to come,
Creeping in through the corners, from all directions,
To disturb the parts of you, that you refuse to examine.
As for necklaces or gold
I have no time for tin trinkets.
My jewels are mustika pearls,
Dug with my hands from the corpses of snakes and foals, from red fox remains and oak tree roots. As I roll them in my palm,
their spirits share secrets such as you'll never know.
There's no polite conversation in this space.
Tell me of your descent into madness,
Where your mind wandered through worlds
not known in your pleasant awareness.
Where your limbs were torn apart by
winged shadow creatures,
Who devoured your flesh.
Do not ask to stay the night.
For salamanders sleep with me,
Gliding through the embers of the fire,
caressing my skin with their warm licking tongues.
And my journeys to the other worlds
are not to be disturbed by lonely, snoring men.
I am not to be rescued or conquered.
For I am vast, unchained...
Indeed, freer than you could ever hope to be!
You there, shrinking, stinking in your self imposed conformity,
while you weep at night for the lost parts of your soul.
They flew, my friend!
To be with the talking swans in the faery glen,
Where they could live the life that they deserved...
I spoke with them in the lowerworld!
And they do not wish to be returned to you anytime soon!
So leave quickly while you can.
Return to the old sprung bed where you were born,
Before you are forever changed
by the reflection in my eyes.
For once awoken,
You can never sleep soundly again.
Tears trickle
from the branch
to the ground
digesting
my love by the pound
leaves of sorrow
browsing at the sky
sad songs, stilled!
mourning the last
of autumns lullaby
I,
a lonely tree
bending at the
elbow and the knee
bending in the naked breeze
crying at reflections
only she could see,
naked and alone
the grey cast sky
is still as lonely as
tears on bone
17th November 2020
Beating muscle beneath frail skin,
Rigid bone beneath strong muscle,
A warm full of life fleshy heart,
Thumping with feeling and passion,
Taking a stand on your sleeve,
No lies can be told in flesh and blood,
A cold, worm filled, empty rib cage,
Cracked gnarled and hollow,
Hiding away beneath veins and sorrow,
Whispering sweet lies into your skin,
Frail flaky bone,
Brittle stretchy muscle,
When you’re dead and when you’re gone,
Who stays?
The bone
Who withers away?
The heart
Even in death the empty chasm lies
Even in death the empty chasm consumes
My feeble beating heart devoured by the earth
And the bones who lied their way out of it
I would say by the skin of their teeth
But we both know they don’t have room for it anymore
The Bone
Have you ever seen two people argue over something?
You know like a shoe at a sale,
the last piece of cake,
who deserves a promotion or raise,
who did a better job,
who served harder,
who painted more…
the list goes on and on,
all in order to obtain…
the prize.
Was it worth it?
Really?
Are you sure?
Most of the time the things that we “fight” over have less value than perceived.
It is the not having of it, and therefore wanting it more, that adds to its weight.
At a sale, when people slow down to look, others gather to find out why.
Creatures of habit are easy to follow and even lead.
Don’t be left with the bone, if it is not truly what you wanted.
Be sure what you are after, is exactly what you believe it to be.
Ask others. Vision can not always be trusted.
Especially in matters of the heart.
Damn old worthless dog.
Lazily, he lies in the shade of my porch
by my rocking chair.
Useless but for tick food and flea fodder.
Too old to bark at a cat or wild rabbit.
Asleep he lies with one eye open
as if to protect me, if he still could
like when he was an overgrown pup
back then, so quick to pounce
on a troublesome snake or wild hog
gone them days -long gone.
We all should pay for our keep
I should put him down for his old age
A kindness.
He's just old.
He and I lost some weight since my wife passed on
we miss her biscuits but he still gets the house,
to sleep by the fire she started that bad habit.
Now when inside he goes, from room to room,
looking for her, always her
and the kids, he loved the kids.
Grown and gone a long time now they are
and he knows still he looks for them.
I am sure he misses them more than they miss him.
I will have to tell them. It has to be done!
This kindness
I don't think they will cry. I will not; no, not I
"Hear that old dog? Not one tear from me!"
The kids will have too understand.
Damn old worthless dog.
We all should pay for our keep.
I should put him down for his old age
a reward, I think, to keep him from pain,
Just a kindness,
a thank you for nothing,
same as a gentle pat on the head.
A sad job this kindness
but not today -no; not today!
I've too much rocking to do; today!
Maybe tomorrow!
Or the next; maybe soon-
Yes,
I see no rush to this kindness
no rush at all.
Soothe the mind with troubles past,
pain and suffering that will not last.
Understanding simple facts,
relates your thoughts to heart attacks.
On the brink of chaos' siege,
this crippling pain drops me to my knees.
Take my soul, but leave my heart.
For its been severed from end to start.
Relieve the pressure from under my wings,
and let my eyes feel nature's breeze.
Slowing time, or timing slow.
Erratic emotions erect and show.
No more hiding beneath the soil,
beyond unsheathing this hellful toil.
Reflectively shown the sun will beam.
Above your sins, He's on your team.
So rise again but do not fall;
allow your fears to dissipate small.
For when this misery has left its home,
there will be life in every bone.