Best Brail Poems
MISDEMEANOR
A soft lisp runs through blonde summer grasses,
shoving at kites or the hems of long skirts.
Umbrellas and hats stir as it passes,
jumbling at picnics, it teases and flirts.
It picks up speed while playing with Marty,
and takes his land legs as he tries to walk.
The unseen source can raid a yacht party,
by strewing boats that are moored to the dock.
Laughing in whispers or screaming in storms,
a mythical being, felt but not seen.
Its guests are blind to the brail it performs,
it can be gentle, or just as well, mean.
Wickedly hurling a house in the air,
or docile enough to tousle our hair.
-Edlynn Nau
© May 21, 2018
Dancing With The Devil
Black postered silence as the shadows lights dance
A dark and sadistic waltz with evils romance
Unscented dead roses, bouquet of dried thorn
Grave ravens site the night sounds of drifting mourn
Underground dark chamber the evil buried listens in
A world obeys in silent decay as death craves new skin
Seen without vision for not all blind read by brail
Run for the door, jump in the elevator, next stop...
Oh! Damn it to Hell!!!!!
bmdavey@05/28/16
Amidst the stress and strains of life rejoice
Don't fold now, you still can play the hand
Forget old rules, make a new paradigm for choice
The brail and vang is in your will's command
In your heart, just know your cause with God is right
The stakes for all is everything you are
Where your hands toil, work with all your might
And point the stern towards your homing star
Do not quit your dreams now, do not complain or cry
Stand boldly at the bow and keel against the wind
What matters if in the great struggle we die
We could not live forever anyhow, and still we win
For we have opened a path unopened before, and shew
Men how, for the world will after us in glory
But not behind the whimpering soul will any pursue
The grimacing shame of a coward's history.
Know whose you are, and who you are reclaim
For God made you in his image, and set your heart
To have dominion here, to replenish in the flame
Subdue the earth, now with honor do your part!
Tell winds and waves be still, tell the fire break
You have God's glory to your name, stand and fight
Do not quiver, let not the sun-centered rod shake
Day comes the morning after the darkest night.
You came on a winter's day
tried to take my pain away
your gift of love and desire
you tried to light my dead fire
I was cold to your embrace
my heart had turned a blank space
days are now a grayer veil
that hangs on my heart of brail
seen the sun, and watched it fall
heard the sound when hearts grew small
love is gone and left no trace
my yesterdays were misplaced
I crossed a bridge, left my pride
found someone for love to hide
you're a friend to share a need
my heartache you won't impede
Quote by M Rose: If love had a thousand faces they'd all look like yours
Your visage is what I'd seek first in my lost and found box.
I'd feel for the corners of my box with nimble fingers
eyes closed I'd brail the contours of your missing face
like a schoolchild pining for a spark of self esteem, I'd linger
on words last spoken, before you faded out of place
If love had a thousand faces I'd see only yours for all eternity
lost in a sea of despair, I'd search for you far and wide
like a mother craving for a child's return, I'd scour the city
rummaging the streets, looking in places you could never hide
If love had a thousand faces I would never look for anything new,
I'd take delight in the likes of you and only you.
Apropos Genesis
(For The Apostolic Poets I Know)
Now I see
said the blind
brother
sister
as the brail
shed light
on the Word:
Truth—
I hear
said the deaf
brother
sister
hearing
the thundering
signed Word—
I feel you
said the paraplegic
brother
sister
who felt and feels
the written Word:
blinking
thinking
scratching
tearing
echoing
in every way—
What’s your problem…
brother!?!
sister!?!
Tell me!!!
Yo! I shall
see you!
Yo! I shall hear you!
Yo! I shall feel you!
Yo! I shall walk with you!
Yo! I shall fight with and for you!
Word!
No words, no expression just pure devastation
Here I am stuck sitting at square one
Thinking back, only because small conversation
Thinking I was problematic constantly reminding me how her needs weren't met emotionally
I was...Emotionally intertwined with someones emotions for their convenience
Living trying to please you, the romance and love dance we do only mistaken for pure happiness
The sacrifice that we made so we both can experience everlasting bliss
The physical is the great song we sing wanting no more than stimulation
but still in need and confused with deep conversation
The problem is the emotional, why can't I get these flaws out my mind
I'm venting to you but their no help only resulting in calling me mistaken and inconsiderately out of line
The style, culture of this love/hate is turning this once beautiful mural into individual tile
This thing we call love, is the unimaginable ghost, no one has seen but continue to search for like a blind man before the invention of brail
Our relationship is a game of pretending so no one outside can tell
Leading to failure, we hide important feelings because we can't verbally speak on due to our maturity
Surrounded by people in love only wants me to be alike but leaves me in a frown
Closing my eyes I see this women being my everything, possibly the love that will last for more than 16 rounds
Tears arrive in my eyes because days/weeks have passed and yet we still don't speak
Only wanted to work through things and speak on our problems so we can eventually leap
Leap into that love we once dreamed and Envisioned for us
Starting a new thing, Rebuilding a foundation starting at trust
Believing it's gonna happen is a lie itself, why continue to go down a unhappy trail I ask myself
Instead of sitting around and being blue, I can finally go outside and breath
Inhale, exhale, inhale and finally exhale
Our poetry...
A thousand times been read
Syllables contort tumbling
Under covers
Free verse unfettered
Beneath hot breath
Brail symbolic softens
As soon as alabaster wets
Lips’ reciting merely, what is
Or should be heartfelt said
Our poetry...
Sapidus is to taste
Licking walls
As licorice moisten
Is the dark, chocolate
Bar shadows cast
Through blinds
And legs of sunrise slats
Or perhaps, metaphor
Marinating passion’s hands
Our poetry...
Evermore in verse
Italic are the directions
Of sentimental waves
Strewn linen’s cryptic
Unmetered cursive
And letter lorn lavender
Stylish fashioned lace
Hence forth on and on
Withdrawn from structure punctuates
Our poetry...
Stanza’s line by line alive
Moves the throb muscle and tis’ heart
Further as the ballerina saut-de-chat
Etching out pass sweet
Tip brushed Dominican eyes
The mind is running after what
Shall merely be defined…as
Poetry reiteratively serendipitous
Clever as a serpentine
Your tongue forced like clothes pins
wetting cinnamon lips,
gnawing at the barrier of one another.
Sketching, Sketching,
Hands shaping you, catching you drawn paper
filed with the note no one left,
a skilled architect,
slowly tracing across your torso.
Dog- earring the pages of your book, inner knowledge;
pages written with pearl droplets of silk
incandescent from moon colored sweat.
Fusing pressed ribs together firm as tuning forks,
asthmatic breath paining the wind
rushing through your chest;
sobbing in, sobbing out.
Sheets twisting each other in quicksand
your brail fingers finding my spine
racing down my back like a fire pole.
A sculptor arching your neck, pausing
amethyst eyes impatient like pedestrian traffic
hurried to find nowhere
Stamping, Stamping.
My hand planted in the small of your back
a careful caretaker stripped to the bone,
keeping us pinned together carelessly
inside out, upside down
on his deathbed
he stares up at the ceiling---
a stale, supposedly calming
light blue, basks down upon
his now disease ridden body &
with all the tubes pumping
painkillers & poisons into him,
he’s finally fallen into submission,
giving up the last remnants of
resistance to the belief that the
doctor’s have been right all along &
that this thing is a final determinant---
this thing is going to be what
does him in,
probably much sooner than he had
anticipated.
for him, there will be no more trips
home, for him, no faces of family or
friends will be seen---unless they come
to visit of their own accord,
rather, these are the pondering hours,
possibly days,
in which even the gentle clicks & beeps
of the machines beside him
send his fuzzy mind into a series of
stream of consciousness memory waves
which connect pieces of his life
that he could have swore he had forgotten
up until now.
each one is burnt on the wall inside his
skull, each one comes up like brail neath’
the fingers---translating the minute details
of the rising glaring images appearing in
his barely awake state, the whole while
reminding him of the eons which seemed
to stretch themselves out into the years
that now have been rolled up into a bundle
of fleeting, flashing, seconds.
while not all the memories are positive,
as the darkness still creeps in, the fact
remains that an overall peace takes hold
convincing him concretely that there is
no more reason at all whatsoever to
dwell on those places in his head, those
nether regions which brought anguish in
the past & dragged on throughout his
life, bringing up new pain like the enduring
side-effects of a drug---instead, now, the
calming blue above begins to morph into
a gorgeous lake, one which he went fishing
with his father up in the Adirondacks,
when the green canoe was filled with
the essentials of the day (the bait, cokes,
sandwiches & of course, Lay’s sour cream &
onion potato chips) & time seemed to stop
completely, whilst the two of them shared
an afternoon coasting along the quiet waters
of a lake which they solely occupied, taking
turns rowing & casting out in hopes of a
big return.
The Braille of Cobblestone
Keeper of darkness,
of auras reaped from high seas,
vast is your harvest
of earth rumblings beset by molten tears
to charred obsidian made hard glass.
Such reflects primate-memory
once clamored upon by man and beast running,
dodging blade and spear
as wash water dumped from windows high
added slippery footing for predators ever lustful,
ever hungry,
ever historic.
At the high noon of one’s life,
we wonder among your melodies
amidst recent fabrications lining your path.
you the wrinkled skin of ancient masons
serve sunbaked feasts
from the past of pasts.
Your micro-canyons of irrigated seed and drift
send spirits aloft from grasses high,
reminding us that while calendars may crumble,
your stone of old remains young,
transcending the language of vowel and consonant,
acknowledging the touch of phantom eye to eye,
even whispered touches beneath a Nike sole
speaking the tongues of old,
echoing the murmurs of felled travelers,
the severed limbs of warriors,
the rivers of passion red,
polishing fossils within.
Still…
Others would fake Nature's setting,
even make ready counterfeit copies
to pacify the blind living without preference.
Such serpentine monsters of ignorance
whose Gucci laced feet now prance upon your offspring
sold into bondage, interspersed among the fakery
having not a clue of the Carthaginians
or Mediterranean isles of oar-navigated ports.
For like Rodeo Drive's cobblestone plazas,
where modern slavery prisons of today
masquerade as knockoffs once authentic for tomorrow,
your history is reaching fade out,
sans your hidden messages,
your quiet cacophony of silence
made orchestral for those who can hear,
those who dare see through the darkness,
those who can be moved and touched by
the brail of cobblestone.
You’re hieroglyphics
splashed against the wall
smeared paint
rocks and dirt
all crumbling
into the faint cracks
that only I can trace.
You’re a line of dots and dashes
I can’t decipher you at all
spilt gin
shaky kisses
now trembling
a silhouette in bed
that only I can feel.
You’re beads of brail
all the blind can read
thick frayed rope
A turned stool
still swinging
a soul and sin eloped
that only I can see ...
and I want to close my eyes.
Threaded history - boney fingered
Ancestries woven connections,
Stitched brail of wordless inscriptions
Meaningless decorative presence
Saturated with the timeless reverence of
Boney fingered storytellers.
6/4/2016
THE BEST OF 6 – Poetry Contest
visual #2
--Wallpaper portrait of lake effect snoW
--Icy conditions, back spasms cripple. I
-sNiffle. goose pimples, brail on my skiN
--Thin sheets of black ice line my streeT
--Erratic winds shoot ice shrapnel, I fleE
--Retreat, for the comfort of my reclineR
Jared Pickett
2/10/2010
Asavvy1
Books are a way of learning a trade
Books tell us stories, poetry, and plays
Books entertain our vast minds to the fullest
Books are in my opinion the coolest!
Books describe people of the past
Books are abundant at home and in class
Books bring home dragons and ghouls
Books aren’t apart of uneducated fools
Books represent a means to an end
Books are there when you haven’t a friend
Books are hard and soft sometimes
Books are in brail to educate the blind
Books will be here and with me forever
Books without you doesn’t bring us together