Best Concussions Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
concussions, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Categories:
concussions, lovegod, light, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
concussions, anxiety, art, depression, suicide,
Form:
Sestina
Madness, the Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's complaint**,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by....
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on Dorothy's thighs...
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Lenore's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
Reference Poem Knock Knock by The Archaic Poet - topic madness
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome a type of
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist who autism.
extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.
Categories:
concussions, confusion, fantasy, funny, imagination,
Form:
Rhyme
The Punching Bag - Through the Eyes of a Child
Each day the pattern was the same,
for all Dad’s shortcomings, my Mom got the blame.
WHACK! He cursed her for all his lost dreams…
WHACK! For missed opportunities, and failed schemes.
WHACK! Dad would hit his punching bag again,
to release all his pent-up frustration and pain.
When he felt inadequate and couldn’t cope with life,
he resorted to battering Mom, his “beloved” wife.
Of course, it was always her fault that things were bad;
so he made her suffer for all the troubles he had.
Inflicting her with insults, black-eyes, concussions, and cuts,
he claimed that she deserved them because she was like all sluts.
Craftily he played on her bully-enforced meekness,
getting down on his knees to beg for her forgiveness.
Moods swinging like a pendulum from night to day,
his promises were empty - he would never change his vile ways.
Predictably, he continued to torment her as he pleased,
degrading and abusing her…he never ceased.
He figured low self-esteem would prevent Mom from leaving;
and that she was a nobody, he really had her believing.
He was oh so convinced that needed audacity she lacked,
to ever think of opposing him, or of fighting him back.
Besides, with no family around, no job, and no dough,
he smugly concluded that she had no place else to go.
God knows she was weary of existing in this hell on earth;
and I was tired of seeing her endure all that unbearable hurt.
I had had enough of being terrified by that despicable monster,
who had ruined her and made our lives an utter disaster.
After convincing Mom that inevitably I’d suffer the same fate,
one night, we finally escaped to a shelter before it was too late.
*** Note: Thank God, nothing like this ever happened to me. But this piece is dedicated to those many women and their children who are victims of domestic violence.
08-31-2015
Contest: Through the Eyes of a Child
Sponsor:
Placement: 2nd
Categories:
concussions, abuse, hurt, violence,
Form:
Rhyme
Madness, the Mad Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's Complaint*,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on the wicked witches thighs.
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Poe's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
It drive me crazy just to think!
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome.
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist [has autism]
he extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.[Really!]
Categories:
concussions, funny, imagination, inspirational, introspection,
Form:
Verse
Feel the winds of change, dear friend,
They are a blowing.
Brethren beneath a common cause,
Kindred spirits, gather united.
To stand tall against opposing
Factions,
Yet we remain strong survivors,
Of justice and right.
Adversity challenges indifference,
It is so written good shall over,
Come evil.
The truth within us all shines,
Humanity achieves enlightenment.
Ignorance shadow fades in
Reality's view,
Life relishes difference,
Freedom flies soaring mankind,
Towards a higher plain.
What a magnificent future,
Lies ahead of us.
Individuality blossoms, fulfillment,
Becomes a human right.
Forgiveness, compassion, and mercy,
Shall be theirs at last.
Let no mans options to believe,
Dismay conscious choice,
Carry the banner of beliefs no matter,
What the cost or price.
Your inner self reflection captures,
Truths mirror image.
Acknowledge separate half's,
Making one complete being.
Behold his name is called,
Social exceptions.
Resolves concussions shows a,
Brilliant phoenix rising,
From hatred's ashes.
It spreads deliverance’s wings,
Embracing a majestic legacy.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
concussions, conflict, confusion, courage, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
M o T e L
Blinking from my bedroom
Streets filled with unknown endings
The world outside screaming neon questions
Behind dirty sheets and peeling paint
Gasoline scents the air with turquoise perfume
Butterflies dance in my head from too many concussions
Sirens wail at midnight, selling news print by day
Friends pass by whispering, only ringing in my ears
In the distance…still blinking
M o T e L
Categories:
concussions, introspection
Form:
Lyric
slipping
when the wallpaper walks
and the floor
pulls the wind out of you
*saccades: a rapid movement of the eye between fixation points
(impaired, as with concussions, causes vertigo, anxiety, fatigue)
Categories:
concussions, health, humor, me,
Form:
Light Verse
How Do You Feel?
I don’t feel great on any given day,
I know that’s not a too great thing to say,
but were you in my shoes, you’d understand, I’m sure
because I’m cursed with something for which there is no cure.
Therefore, don’t ask someone, “How do you feel?”
The answer you get back might be too real -
leading to in-depth and boring discussions
like talking about the person’s concussions.
To ask how someone feels is just for a good friend
or siblings you know who’ll be there till the end.
But with anyone else you should simply say,
“Hello there. I hope that you feel well today.”
Jan. 23, 2023
for How Do You Feel Poetry Contest of Mystic Rose Rose
Categories:
concussions, pain,
Form:
Rhyme
Physician’s convictions to poison their patients,
Procedures with Ether, cold X-Ray stations
A thousand scans in milligrams,
Lobotomies and Amputations…
Surgeries to transform me,
Imperfections to augment
Blood Transfusions, concussions, contusions-
For just a small improvement!
Categories:
concussions, sick,
Form:
Light Verse
Bed.
Bedlam.
Bethlehem.
Chronic traumatic encephalopathy:
Something with football and clandestine
Conferences, like political campaigns.
Suicides just outside the bride's bridal shower,
Because of a concussion?
Numerous concussions? In London?
Perhaps it was rugby.
Poor groom, with blood across his tuxedo.
Poor bride, reeling at the sight.
This is Bethlehem, home of the hurt, the dead, and the insane.
Beds that are bedridden in a bedlam of Bethlehem.
There are no people. Only emptied guns across rotten sheets and old clothes.
It is not abandoned. It is simply uncared for.
Categories:
concussions, anxiety, conflict, football, horror,
Form:
Free verse
The True Form of Life
Life: A timeless adventure from beginning to end.Beginning as an infant with no worries or secrets,To an elderly senior with desires to live and explore, More than it’s given time.Seeing the great values of life and beauty, Through the eyes of which never grow old,And is the strongest muscle in our bodies.Using our voice to make an input into the world,To finding the answers hidden deep in our souls.Our minds take on the hardest quest,Than any life obstacle could ever thrust before us.But in time, our minds will disintegrate,And all those adventures will never be told nor uncovered.The memories will fade, and the love and strength we control, Will cease to exist.It is the greatest struggle we all fail to accept.Life ends one way or another.Our lifeless bodies become grass and get to live on whether we know it or not, Until the world ends. From traveling coast to coast and,To clinging on to life possessions earned overseas.It is the ruins of the adventures and passionsthat we try so desperately, to express.Seeing your thirst for beauty expand,Then learning gratitude from our hearts and minds. In a new perspective.One day, the concussions and internal memories,Shall be fulfilled and placed into an eternal tomb.The secrets, hopes, and dreams, may never be fully reinstated,But it shall be recognized.Once you tell someone,Once, you let your guard down,Once you let your person be known,May you truly share a place in this world.It is known as the true form of life.The journey you started and want to continue for years to come,Will be not forgotten,But embedded into the minds of the new generation.Then, finally the struggle to life, Will be no more.
Categories:
concussions, age, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
Bottom of Totem Pole
Oh my gosh and do bless my soul
Someone is at bottom of totem pole
Then try to control way they vote
Making them become a scapegoat.
Are always rocks and a hard place
To find each difficulty we must face
All the obstacles and obstructions
Can possibly result in concussions.
So after much further inspection
We should go in a new direction
Follow two points with persistence
Straight line is the shortest distance.
Jim Horn
Categories:
concussions, allegory, analogy,
Form:
Couplet
1Hundred6
1Hundred6
CharlaXFabels
Easter2
Christ Crucified.
The Cross
They took him from the crowd apart and nailed HIM both hands and feet unto the
instrument of torture the cross of Golgotha complete the scriptures had prophecy
concerning this event to complete the salvation of all of man. The LORD of all
creation hung and suffered ridicule and thirst and hunger of a different sort for
Heaven he was thirsty then. They cast lots upon his garment.
The prayers were hardly out left far behind when eye began to reap the benefits
of health improved my finances of wealth increase can be explained away by
fools but ewe we knoe the truth for JESUS gives. My target Heaven my wealth
health and all my food my found and scrounged and Easter egged 2 all come
forth from HIM. A Poor and sinfilled man quite given to the drink may lie and steal
and say he found it near his drink he “assumes someone has left it there” is
what he barks at the beertender the drunk outside may soon die from his
concussions the man left near the bathroom door he took a wooden batted
thatch knocked upon the drunken noggin put the man all out took from him his
wealthy purse to pay just for one more night out seeking oblivion again to drink
perchance to dream the detectives came to task the man for overall complaints
the thief he muttered “HOW? did you know that it was me ,yes? HOW?” Detective
Fabel was on the case he was pushing by the place the alleyway and heard the
cricket paddle whack the commoner went down he is bound to get better now in
the hospice we have found for him but you will only get worse in the old
hoosegow. The old banded man in the alleyway digging in the trash can has
more hope than you as they take the thief away the scrounger finds a basket full
of boiled eggs left there an Easter 2 colored all purple and white inside the
yellow yolk looking like a big surprise the color of a dandylion sunrise.
Categories:
concussions, adventure, devotion, faith, father,
Form:
Prose Poetry