Best Bones Poems
If we could peel back the blanket of earth
To expose the bones buried there
Mix them all up in a great big pile
To say they'd all look the same would be fair
The rich man, the poor, the blind and the weak
Each gender, religion and race
The short, the tall, the large and the small
And include every shape of the face
If we had to choose one bone at a time
Not knowing who's bones belonged to whom
To make ourselves over new again
I wonder how well we'd do
Not judging by color, size or shape
Or status of high IQ
The bones might fit together just fine
And stay together till the end of time
©Donna Jones
Angel Bones
Two Hundred fifteen angels (Narration by an elder)
each buried in a shallow grave
The monsters said the Angels were savages
that they were there to save
Each little heartbeat
cries up from the earth
“Come seek out our answers. (Narration by child)
please prove that we have worth”
“Those who survived us
have tried to be our voice.
Why have they been silenced?
Please listen it’s a choice.”
“Return us to our families,
so they can beat the drum.
Then our spirits will find peace,
in the place that we are from.”
“The world must know the truth,
the Government didn’t know best.
They fed us to pale monsters,
we were cursed instead of blessed.”
“Yes cruel pale faced monsters,
robed in uniforms of black.
Pretended to be Godly,
while perpetrating their attack.”
“Touching our little bodies,
telling us we were blind.
Deriving their cruel cruel pleasures,
monsters of a different kind.”
“The school was their playground,
these monsters had their way.
Each time we tried to speak,
there was a price to pay.”
(Drum beats)
thump thump, thump thump,
Thump thump, thump thump
Thump thump, thump thump
(Native elders singing)
The bones of our innocent Angels (Narration by Elder)
that they buried beneath the ground.
Their spirits speak in unison
Without emitting a single sound
Each little heartbeat
Cries up from the earth
“Come seek out our answers, (Narration by child)
please prove that we have worth.”
May God bless all, of the children,
and ease their mortal pain.
I trust that you have your reasons,
and this life has not been in vain.
They say that our life is a gift,
could that really be true for all?
What about incest and rape,
or the fuel driven rage of alcohol?
Many children will live their young lives,
without a hug or even a kiss.
Most of us won’t even notice,
I guess ignorance must be bliss.
Instead of passing swift judgement,
or picking up and throwing those stones.
Maybe reach out and help a child,
before the bruises and broken bones.
The drip is connected to my right arm
It works, as they say, just like a charm
I'm delirious with joy, must be morphine
Here comes the best nurse you've ever seen
My knee was connected to my thigh, they say
My back once connected to my spine, but nay
No more, they're disjointed now, I feel good
My legs, if I have any, are sticks of wood
The bedpan gives chills up and down my skin
Turn my head , let loose, it feels like a sin
Reruns on TV, watch the news ten times
No peace in the world, nothing but crimes
My ankles are swollen, I got a new cast
When can I get out, I'm having a blast (not)
The food is amazing, the soup is split pee
I call the grim reaper, " come rescue me"
Pressing the button, does this even work
Singing loud to a chorus, I wish I could twirk
I'm so gonna sleep now, have the wildest dreams
'bout my skeleton dancing alone with moonbeams
My stay on the fifth floor is finally done
Wheel me outside, I need to sit in the sun
Only one final thing is left here to say:
My much kneeded vacation, wasted away
the trees outside
my window
stand like fragile bones
reaching
moaning&
groaning
all their leaves
blown away
they stand naked
of beauty
withered&
brittle
their broken branches
cannot be hidden
as snowflakes drift
covering the ground
I hear them
whispering&
whispering
we are not dead
&soon
we will be
wearing beautiful
snow white cloaks
we are but
sleeping
What stardust in our bones cause all these words to flow
From out of you and I like mountain streams?
What moves us to find writing
So mystical and exciting
In all our inner thoughts and night time dreams?
And I wonder what’s the potion
That gives the mental motion
For you and I to sing and rhyme along,
Like children in a choir as the music climbs much higher
We grapple with our words before they're gone.
I suppose we’ll never know
The secret to our quest
For expressing what we think and feel
At both our worst and best.
While seeking, striving, reaching, thriving
With every fiber of our being;
Something you and I possess
Moves us to express
Much more than what we’re seeing.
And perhaps we’ll never know the truth
That drives us to our callings;
Like migrating birds we seeker of words
Know all about rising and falling.
Until the final curtain call and all
Is plain to see: The words we share
Show how much we care
About each other and
Our humanity.
...He said: "I believe there is a God.
Something ingenious was most definitely
at play.
But, I've asked some other
reverends, pastors, and ministers,
where are Jesus' bones?
Not one convinced me, which repulsed
my eagerness to fellowship.
We have
dinosaur bones, giant and dwarf bones,
archeologists artifacts and a slew of other
things that prove that these historical events existed
or occurred.
I'm a total believer of proof!
(with a grin on his face)
Can you answer that"?
The other guy paused and prayed
before taking the quiz!
He says: "the miracle is prophecy since the Old Testament.
And the sacrifice of foul offering
became displeasing to the Creator's taste buds.
And, don't forget about Abraham who was willing
to sacrifice his own son when God asked him
to pledge his allegiance... an Initiatory joke
that the creator ante up one
with a pure scarifications and sacrificial lamb;
his own child!
You and I have bones from our parents
meshing. The sperm penetrated the egg.
Mary, a virgin,
impregnated by a message
that she would bear a child.
Without the meshing of two
those bones
left the same way that they arrived... Miraculously
with dominion over hell and a graveyard".
My dreams appear as nightmares.
Delusions I am told.
A taste of bittersweet memories
from a past that's getting old.
A past that's rushing past me
and will not deliver the mail.
An ex-mailman with a future
that's now crawling like a snail.
Digesting my lifes horrors
is how I once made my bed.
Chewing on the substance
of a future left for dead .
Memories like invaders
attack me in a dream.
So real I can't awaken
before I slip inside a scream.
Why should I care
just how my bed was made?
Gather all my broken bones
at the open mouth of the grave.
Wordsmiths, take heed ...
Letters of the alphabet,
By themselves are but harmless shapes
Of ink or graphite or digital information,
(Placed in ordered variations of ones and zeros),
But when combined in specific patterns and placement and propriety,
Become the most powerful weapons and tools known to humanity.
How many countless lives have been changed, worsened, improved,
Manipulated, darkened, brightened, ended, or even BEGUN,
As a result of their use by an intelligent mind and deft writing implement?
How much love, hate, kindness, vitriol, care, apathy,
Truth, hypocrisy, forgiveness, jealousy, joy, or even horror,
Has been carried to its mark by the thoughtful control
Of their placement and structure and management?
Oh, what horrible irony there is in the assumption that "words can never hurt" ...
They are, without a doubt, the most hurtful things ever created by man,
And yet their keen and acute ambiguity make them their own saviors,
And by positive application and intent,
Can be the most magnificent and wonderfully
Exquisite creations that we are capable of.
Be ever vigilant when you consider their organization and use,
For by their very nature you may be sending forth
A thoughtful work of fascination and beauty,
Or unleashing a monster of incalculable horror and venom.
WE are the bows that send the arrows forth,
WE are the guns that let loose the bullets,
WE are the catapults that let fly the burning stones,
But we are also the hands that pick the flowers,
That gently part the hair, that hold and caress with tenderness,
That encourage and help and touch and feel and explain and honor ...
ALL by the ways we form and group those individual letters of the alphabet,
ALL in the mindful ways we arrange
Those seemingly harmless little squiggles and lines ...
If we only treated words with the same care and respect and caution
That we allow weapons and miracles,
For they are easily as wonderful ...
And easily as dangerous.
As a star to a child,
Far from earth,
Born in the wild,
Nurtured from birth,
By an addict within,
Leaves behind a mistake,
Forgiveness for her sin,
Sympathy she'll fake.
Disbelief arose the town,
Betrayed by their own kind,
Picture torn down,
No more body to find,
The departure was planned,
By an indecisive soul,
A printed story to stand,
The bones in the hole.
Trash Night
Our street is lined with
overflowing garbage cans
because you have to pay extra
to have unlimited pick-up.
The poorer class stack their trash to overflowing
the mouths of the cans propped wide open.
Like a wino purging last night's fun.
The raccoons will move in
toppling cans -have a grand feast.
The remains of which blow into my yard-
I read their junk mail just because I can
The toll they pay junking my land.
and let me tell you this is one
junk food munching
fornicating
unpaid bill delaying
***** reading
corona drinking avenue.
Your making me walk on broken bones,
I’m breathing through punctured lungs
put me to the tight rope time to cross,
off you go, this is the grunge,
of my life, will it pay off?
Take out rent on my heart
and hide yourself up in the rafters
start the decay then depart.
I can taste bitterness on my tongue
feel it rot within my teeth
you’re making me kiss with bloody lips,
the ghosts are waiting just beneath.
Your making me walk on broken bones,
I’m living like a ghost dies,
Put me up to the pulpit,
I will recite the preacher’s lies.
Waterlilies brighten black
ripples, reeds, and rocks below.
An even flow, bane and blight
recedes to bare raven’s bones.
A grave of darkness blanches
In austere light on bloodless
banks, but blue eyes cannot flood
its once watery coffin.
Dew on the waterlilies
reflect these absurdities -
the woeful bones glistening
alone near floral beauty.
Written 5/23/20
N/A in
Genuine Englyns Contest
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.
We’ve not dreamt the crystal morn,
the tinkling ping of sun warmed ice,
the egg white branch of lilac dipped,
the magic of the wintry day
which fills the heart with awe.
Such days of silver ice and blue white snow
the lancing spears of ‘cicle formed
awake are we to majesty, that all too soon is gone.
Gone in graceful austerity, a loveliness all its own,
the white of skeleton, these beauteous bones.