Best Clenched Fist Poems
Man so mighty and wise
still has to define this
that another living being's life
has the same value as his
Boasted, brazened
written in stone
raised above
these highest places
where power reigns
crushing down
in white
clenched fists
gripping so tightly
to "history"
squeezing
draining the meaning
out of good intention
Those stones are weeping
as grass grows quietly around the edges
The future
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Differences
are best listed
to be used like lines in the sand
some seen on the skin
most are though beneath
tracing
tearing
a cross marking
the surface
this land of the free
that the privileged paid for
from sea to sea
with the lives of lesser men
and their women
up for "grabs"
The women
best when big breasted
beautiful and begging
feeding their daughters
dreams of a better tomorrow
when that white clenched fist
stops squeezing her ****
before slapping
lips against her
drooling over her
in her ear
whispering
something sweet
like
"Honey
you're mine"
What lines of defense
Those lines lie on paper
written, signed and etched by those
elected and chosen
statesmen stating authority over your body
their dolls
their toys
smiling
serving their purpose
the good Word stenciled in stone
Equality
carved out in flesh
fresh cadavers
swept under the rug
serving their purpose
Gravestones weeping
as grass grows quiety around the edges
The memory
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Keeping their hands clean
they wipe their mouths red
blood on their stained sleeves
the polish from their shiny shoes sully
the stars
and stripes
stripped of the value they once held
when they stiched us all together
and brought so many strangers home
How white clenched fists
hold power and privelege
held so high in esteem
like our stars
and stripes
teetering, unraveling
the threads shaking
as if stripped naked
and forced to wave
above that Capitol Hill
pivotal
and still
unchanging
unmoved
Our Lady
liberty
holds a tattered gown
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
That’s so gay.
You say,
As I’m brushing off the slang you defend.
My cheeks burn red trying to comprehend,
But I wont.
I wont grasp this trend.
I wont hear the monster.
I wont permit your condemn.
I wont drink the water.
Thirst. I crave acceptance.
I need the peace.
Allow transcendence,
Compel the hurt to cease.
That’s so gay
Unaware of the violence you assimilate.
Unaware of the arrogance you demonstrate.
Unaware of the intolerance you pontificate.
Unaware of the ignorance you perpetuate.
They’re just words.
You say with a clenched fist
They’re just words.
Whispered to the blade at her wrist.
That’s so gay.
7/16/15
Form:
Beauty, yes I have striven to be you, before hibiscus fades
Before the stars sprinkle night that covers ocean sunset
After the icicles thawed and swans inhabit the blue lagoon
We cannot know the perfect thing in our finite dust
The lesser never comprehend the object of lust
Beyond us bright, yet upon imaginations trust
Beauty, what are you? From what strange world you come? Tell me
O truth to know, unknown. You who make me love and not see
And yet know enough to pursue walking a thin sea
Yet still I believe that absolute beauty does exist
And I look for it to come out of stars or morning mist
Or out of bright imagination's tightly clenched fist
Every flower I love ever like a sunset fades
Every dream of old I cherish, like a leaf is marked for death
And sometimes at nights I only see one half the moon
In believing there is seeing
And a hope of understanding
That black strength is power
Of our black brother and sister put together
As they carry forever
As one kind of race
Putting many minds in place
Commanding, demanding
With the most high respect
And pride intact.
Demonstrated:
By high knee and clenched fist in the air
Motivated:
By a loud cheer, "ASIBASABI!"
We don't fear them!
Taking obstacles as they come
Crying, "WE SHALL OVER COME!"
'Cause the district where they are from
Is where poverty reign
Being the kingdom and domain
Where they'll remain
And that is why I'm saying
BLACK STRENGTH!
Inner cities churn like a dark raging sea
Where fear stalks the rusty broken unchained door
where people wear masks of hunger plastered to skulls
they walk the cold cracked sidewalks of bewildering darkness
and never languish around the corners of shadowed evil
where heat from the streets rise like squirming dragons
as cars packed like rats pass men selling drugs
to the forgotten, some who sleep in wet cardboard boxes
surrounded by shattered glass and tossed empty cans
that lay scattered in the alley's where death moans
despair comes to steal
even the hopelessness held
leaving nothing to be found
in their empty hand
as it becomes a clenched fist
to a world, that doesn't care
10/9/21 contest Let's Mix it Up-"Life"
sponsor Constance La France
Comes a time of unbreaking
what's broken
maybe broken to the point
a thing can't be fixed
ever
forever
severed.
To be sure prayers can find a home
but not when a divine plan's mark
is missed
yet must insist
with clenched fist
I resist.
A simple woodcarver, be
like Mister Geppetto
fend off a life of despair
perhaps with a little help from
a Fairy with Turquoise Hair.
For a creator
nothing causes elation
like its finest creation
seeking salvation.
All may end in ruin
in stringed freedom's destroy
it's never easy
bein' a wooden boy.
Life's call is abrupt
so keep your dukes up.
Is there anyone who can explain to me
why someone in the Soup community
would gripe about those on the lists,
ranting on with their pen in clenched fist?
How important can the lists possibly be
to set someone's nerves off so repeatedly.
Why dwell upon them with such negativity,
screeching and wailing like a banshee?
I don't know what the fuss is all about,
but I certainly don't see a reason to pout.
If their name is not on the lists, no doubt,
could be they're just jealous as all get out.
I don't care who writes the most poetry.
I don't join contests for people to notice me,
but why do they impugn poets unpleasantly?
Just ignore the lists and drink some Chablis.
If you are guilty of this, take a drink or two
and put an end to your nagging like a shrew.
I'm weary of your protests and hullabaloo,
squawking all around the site like a cuckoo.
Contest themes give poets a place to start
silly limericks, or something from the heart.
You disparage them, tearing them apart,
but a poet's lines are treasured works of art.
What's it to you if poets want to compete?
Are you afraid that you'd go down in defeat?
Instead of bahing like a sheep with each bleat,
turn your sour scorning into something sweet.
You get poem of the day or poem of the week.
How quick you are to label yours with a tweak,
not the mark of one who's humble and meek.
It's a bit hypocritical. That would be my critique.
Entering contests is a poet's choice, not a crime.
If there's a laddered list poets wish to climb,
it's not right for you to sound off or chime.
Why don't you just find some other pastime?
Poetry for the blind
Songs for the deaf
An audience of living and breathing pulsating through the soul
they are waiting for the melody to push through the cracks
of gasps and moans
waiting for clenched fist that have never learned to fight
to ignite
and somehow
I won't be right below the brim, right under the surface, the light that never makes it through the blinds
I cannot be attempts
prayers
pleas
and then acceptance
of young dreams that never come to be
I have to be
something
Inspired by Leviticus 19:18
Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.
Let go the clenched fist,
the smoldering weight of old wrongs,
for vengeance is a shadow
that dims the light in us all.
See the stranger’s eyes—
they mirror your own quiet hopes,
their heart beats as yours,
a rhythm of shared, fragile dreams.
Love them as you would
cradle your own weary soul,
with patience, with grace,
a warmth that needs no name.
In this act, we rise,
neighbors bound by simple truth:
to love is to live,
and living, we touch the divine.
In an era long since passed, an Oriental carpet adorning the
floor from far off lands seems to object to the
leopard skin beneath a fair maiden’s feet, yet this English lass
seems oblivious as she stares blankly at the floor
in deep contemplation of her sweetheart and suitor
standing a respectable distance from her
with his top hat humbly held in his hand.
His countenance is one of uncertainty, quite ready to
plead his veracity and intention should her father care
to honor his sincerity with an understanding ear.
He feels a bit consumed and cold standing near
the grandeur of the unlit hearth.
He is attired in his finest to court his fair maiden though
little notice is taken from her stern yet loving father who only
wants to see his daughter marry into a dignified and wealthy
family that will elevate his own standing in the community.
The young maiden’s mother is trying to sway her husband’s
judgment in favor of the young man to appease
her daughter’s romantic affections.
The young maiden’s mother, dressed in an exquisite expensive
pale pink ensemble makes a stunning statement of breeding
and manners as she softly coaxes the kinder side of her husband
to appear by placing both hands lovingly upon his breast.
Her father’s clenched fist reveals his determination not to give in.
The lovely maiden spent hours readying herself for this special
occasion, the day in which her young man would come to ask
her father for her hand in marriage. She had been trying to calm
herself by embroidering his initials on a dresser scarf until
her young man arrived, as evidenced by her sewing container opened
partly as she hurriedly placed the scarf back in when he arrived.
Now listening to her father’s words of rejection she holds little hope
of a future with her beloved and contemplates her life without him.
Yet as her mother pleads her case for them to be together she knows
there is very little her mother asks of him he can say no to.
A Little Bird"
(Refer to= Matthew 10:29,31)
One of the first things that I hear
As dawn breaks in the eastern sky
Is a cheerful song, of a little bird
Another bleak night, it does defy
God instilled in it, the simple fact
That life and hope, still remain
A ray of sunshine, can be seen
Amid our sorrow, and our pain
The night before, the screen displayed
A clenched fist and angry eyes
As turmoil raged within the heart
Of those who voiced their battle cries
Although darkness may rule the heart
Of those who rebel against the light
In the end, victory will be sweet
We'll rejoice, that our choice was right
He who attends the funeral of a sparrow
Will not our needs forsake
When evil would engulf our land
A way of escape, He will make
I have faith that amid our trials
His love, He will always show
He'll guide us when the night is dark
"A little bird told me so"
Colan L Hiatt = 06-27-13
© All Rights Reserved
The first time someone called you brave,
It was because you crossed the street without looking.
You didn’t do it out of bravery;
You just didn’t think to look.
But you liked the punch of B on your lips.
At a time when you weren’t quite sure
Who you were, you knew you could be brave.
When your friends felt sick on a rollercoaster,
You had another go because you were brave.
When they dared you to go in the abandoned house
Everyone thought was haunted,
You walked right in because you were brave.
When you lost your grandmother’s necklace,
You told the truth because you were brave.
When he banged on the door, screaming,
You let him in–because you were brave.
When his fingers dug in your skin
Grip too tight as he pinned you down,
You didn’t beg him to stop.
When his clenched fist smashed your skin,
You didn’t scream.
When he told you the bruises
He left were your fault you didn’t cry.
You kept quiet.
When they asked about the purple patches
You tried to hide with concealer and hair
You didn’t tell the truth–
Because you’d be damned
If you let anyone call you a victim.
You’re too brave for that.
When stretched forever is my day
I while the empty hours away
in courtrooms dank with men of silk
proud and tall
lawmakers all
step lightly lest you meet their ilk
Attorneys and stenographers
lawyers and interpreters
each word they spake is tongue-in-cheek;
lear-ned judges, advocates
prosecutors, barristers
spew Latin which could well be Greek
The courtroom's packed
the gallery stacked
the charge is one of pilfering
the bookie sets
last-minute bets:
"10 to 1 his head will swing."
From the ord'ly
fing'ring his rosary:
"Court's in session! Silence! Zip it!"
His Lordship enters
sans his dentures
sucks his thumb and looks decrepit
Eyes his gavel
sneers: "You're evil!
my thumb is swollen and beet-red
you'll be detained
when next again
I miss and hit my thumb instead.
"The weather vane
predicted rain
today I'll suffer agony
you caveman's hammer
how did you
till now escape technology?"
To put it mild,
the crowd goes wild
but for the shifty-eyed accused
Judge Weatherstorm
stays true to form:
he keeps his audience amused
Th' accused meanwhile
with comely smile
winks at M'Lord to cut him slack
he'll cop a plea
of not guilty
tho' evidence against him's stacked
The star witness
non compos mentis
brain well-addled by Alzheimer's
mounts the stand
bows to his fans
with clenched fist vows the truth to utter ...
(PART 2 TO FOLLOW)
28.04.2011
(This is a work of fiction in its entirety and merely a satirical look at our corrupt
justice system.)
How often does your childhood memories
Haunt you? Deep asleep?
When you awake at dawn? Halfway through
The Rubicon of your daydreams?
In the thick of solitude, or just when
You wax nostalgic with your folks?
Do you hold happy ones so dear you wish to
Turn back the hands of time and relive them?
Do you remember them vividly
Or do they clog your memory like a fog?
How long do they fade into oblivion
Before they spring back again like a boomerang?
Do they keep lingering and floating
In your mind like a cloud, or do they
Steal away as quick as a flash of lightning?
Do the unpleasant ones stick to
Your mind like metal sticks to magnet
Or do they escape like grains of sand do
When squeezed tightly under a clenched fist?
Date written and posted: 01/18/2018