Best Cornering Poems
*Image of World Peace by Pixabay.
Our Ring of Peace
There is a reason
the world is round and not square,
no cornering or
boxed-in, but let peace ring free
all around this world of ours.
2022 March 08
*1st Place*
World Peace
~~Robert James Liguori: Judged 2022 March 10
*HMS: 5,7,5,7,7.
Now you know all of us
were endowed by our Creator
with different various gifts,
some of us can write, some of
us can draw, some of us just sit,
but there's a special brand out
there that are very good at chit-chat,
they're partly vegetarian but mostly carnivorous,
as you try hard not to roll your eyes and scoff,
they stand there and like a hungry cannibal
slowly chew both your ears off,
cornering you as if your their prey
like its chit-chatting hunting season,
you look at them and try to leave
while you think up a good reason,
these people I'm talking about
were endowed with the special gift of gab,
while their one person conversation
turns from pretty interesting to boring and drab,
all the while thinking of your small bladder size,
you try as hard as you can to get
a word in sideways and edgewise,
you look at them and wish a
cat would claim their tongue,
all the while thinking they have
an awful lot of hot air in their lungs,
and when I finally escape and make
a bee line for the restroom,
the gift of gab person is once again on the hunt,
while innocent victims notice and like
Forrest Gump scatter and start to run.
trigger warning Rape, sexual harassment
you were 6 when the boy in the desk behind you kept pulling your ponytail till he made you cry. It was okay though,it meant you had pretty hair.
You were 9 when the ball kicked at you by the boys in the field coloured your eye instead of the makeup you were not yet allowed to wear. It was okay though, they did that because you were so pretty you intimated them.
You were 12 when the filthy fingers of the boy next you on the bus marked your thighs blue. You didn't tell anyone though. You knew it was your fault really; that skirt was too seductive.
You were 16 when the man on the other side of the street had the brilliant idea of following you down the road, cornering you in that dark aisle and thrusting himself inside of you. Only to leave you there, a bloody half-naked carcass, repeating to yourself again and again that this was okay. This was okay because boys will be boys. Girls? Well, we just have to take it like a man.
Ache—
Let it sink
Deep
With quiet and unfathomable rage, every word shown
Black ink, black intent,
Yeah, she was done
The black nail polish on her nails chipping
Stupid, cheap crap…
The color black burned through her soul,
Giving her slight satisfaction in her furious state of mind
Always angry
Always sad, and hollow
She wanted desperately to get back at the wretch
Because of him, she wished she never existed
Lying there cold,
Stark-naked on the bathroom floor…
Standing outside the chipped, wooden door
He wanted more
Waiting to feel her flesh upon his own
The demon…
The monster…
You’ve heard the tale
It’s nothing new
Hearing him breath heavily,
Listening, his ears pounding with his heart
A beast awaiting his prey
Cornering her, despairing her
Nose pouring forth snot and blood
He had hit her very hard,
And there was surely more to come
But she had to resist the monster.
She just had to
Glancing at the boarded window in agony and despair,
No one would ever know and there was no one to tell
He’s a good man…
It’s her who’s the bad one
God is mad at her…not him
It’s always that way
Her fists slammed on her desk
After it all, he was coming back for her
She kept telling herself he was going to forget
He was going to leave her alone,
But he soon would be back for more,
Just like the old days
He didn’t give a damn about the ache she endures every day of her miserable life
In a frenzied fury,
She tore up the paper with the short poem on it
He would never feel the ache…
It would never seep through his marrow
Her phone rang loudly, startling her
She let it ring three times and then begrudgingly answered it.
“What?” She spat, clenching her teeth in irritation.
“It’s Mr. Rickman. We are ready to see you in.”
She gulped. The time was upon her. “Now?”
“Yes, of course. Everything’s going to be alright”
She hung up the phone.
She put on her darkest of shirts
She slipped on her black, studded sweater and her spiked collar
Black boots
Black gloves without the fingers
Black skinny jeans
She wanted EVERYTHING to be black today.
A night's jog through a quiet town.
The strange warmth of an old familiar church.
The morning sun and outside sounds.
Picking the proper jeans, beguiled and besmirched.
Cautious steps inside as anxiety melts off from incense.
The light from the window above my pew.
The love from a girl's eyes aching and iridescent.
A cymbal struck as faces work like brightened ghosts, the heart's early hue.
The flow of a smoky-lighted hour, from soil to sinews, soaks the sodden rag
of the spirit dry, as the walk back into the sun and out of the Mass makes love lag
in the mist of living.
For every cornering thought.
For every bend of the heart.
For every shade of a tree.
And, in stabbing, singular rushes,
For every level of light that I might be.
Ann-Marie
Tombs for teeth stuck out
On stocks overhanging
A trembling lower lip the
Impression of permanent snivel
Impeding would-be normal childish speech
Should such a thing ever have been desired
Passionately pleading
Dark brown eyes - doe I think they’d say
Both avoiding the straight ahead
Poised always
Glistening ready to tear saying more
Than dental excavations ever could
The bowl cut - affectionately known
A burden only the wearer owns
Tatty coat delicately worn
Cloak of poverty faded brown check
Perfectly in keeping
With grimy socks
On slim grey legs
Offering protection no mean feat
Cornering the cornered
We hoped they would retreat but
The boys used their hands superior
Body strength feet
In urgent proliferation to reach
The tenderest of all to strike her pure cheek
Daily battles we fought
Crushing defeats all yours to bear
Carried alone with the scars clinging
Even in the air
At home with the stigma and cruelty
That delivered you there
The honey was very well aware
As she went flitting by
That all the goof-offs hanging out
Were giving her the eye.
She didn’t mind they stole a gander
As she saw them standing there
Admiring her newly shortened skirts
And giving her gams a stare.
As long as she wasn’t a real armpit
And hadn’t been around the block
They would try to out do each other
In cornering her stock.
She knew if a hot dog made a pass
She could hail the black and white
And he would do some small time
In the town joint, over night.
Joyce Johnson 01/12/12 For Craig Cornish’s “Talk That Way” contest.
Won a 3rd in contest
Anytime is good for loving .
It is a good time to love
now with the mountain peak
bulging forward steely
and the late afternoon sun
piebalding out a pink
like a body flushed
It is a time good for love
spread out over a table
tomatoes red-cheeked
against aubergines
knobbed purple
with the sizzle of unions,
garlic and a trace of cloves
cornering the giddy secret
of detergent
somewhere
Love would be good
as the garden- corner darkens
around the rose`s virginal white
and the fathomless mouths
of the hibiscus trumpets
simply red
Timely would good love come
with the gibbous head
of the moon bulbing
over the mount
over the still mouth of the rose
rooting in the dark flesh
of the brooding black earth...
Surely ...
It`s a good time for love
like any other.
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Anytime is a good time to love
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Save your energy...
I've found my center a place to sit amongst the absent.
My mother-my best thought; says she made this all just for us.
Love your enemy...
My father killed my dog-my best friend, lost.
My father killed him then disinfected both hands in our kitchen sink.
A place to sit-to insist the other exists.
Consistently I forget my missing leg; perhaps with the proper measurements
I could fashion myself an adequate replacement...
Save your energy...
My mothe stood by-my father knows whats best for me.
He says he made it all up for us-that'd we'd better make it up to Him.
Love your enemy...
My mommy is secretly my most cherished memory.
I've found my center.
I dismiss those cornering me, gladly
burning down my home in the name of the one re-assuring me.
Save your energy...
I hate myself and everyone else.
I love speaking about myself; yes, I'm even a master at slaving myself. I service the help-first I self service myself heaping portions of self help. I hate myself and anybody else discussing my health. Accomplishments? Laundry lists!
Here I am in town
With my sniffing dogs
And wearing eagle’s eyes
I climb over bomb blasted ruins
Searching for survivor jobs
From every cornering street
My dogs I scatter all over
Hoping they will un-earth
An opportunity
For me to be used
But all I hear is only
A barking silence
I continue to wait and hope
That time will lick with a difference
For me to swing my tail
But now without fail
My tail is locked between
My thighs waiting with
A chained impatience
Like a gold digger
For the dog they say
Every day has
Form:
My narrow spine draws up
like a creaking cold floor
cornering confines, facing vacancy
While my father is as a sharp rain that
pounds down on my skin, grey tin
a shed to my life and its
sticky alcoholic stew
like a Jew, cemented sorrow
and in my shoe, a dead furnace
It's better to be alive
but this reality's hard to wake up to
If my mouth was blue
and wore blood's debut
I
could be
viewed
at least this day
before I cut my father's heart
in two.
But his tears reach me
even near my torrential eyes
and they burn clean like
acidic water's guise, my lies
fall away like flies
I have nowhere to hide
and I've certainly tried
I can only blink back
without excuse and cry
My father loves me fiercely, dearly
and clearly, my disease holds no hostage
he washes my toxic heart with cool hands
not an eye for the grime, but for me,
a child, marred by fire,
his very object of caution
but he makes me a wound
set to heal, so I kneel
awake in a wake
my father's grace.
As l look around and gather things for my journey
l realise that l havent reached my tally
As the trials and tribulations sweep me across the valley
l breathed heavily, in and out , as l reach for my Yahweh
My mind twisting and curling as l recall sadly
The events that captured , fascinated and ;
and left deep cuts into my heart
The definations and evaluations of sin that l calculated
Only managed to land me in theft, prostitution and murder
Drugs , alchahol , rapist and liar were my middle identities
All l knew back then was that l had to
jump fences, duck cops and shoot back to survive
ln my fast diversion and quick cornering of the lane, l had the church choir
singing salvation and how much he loved me
Or was it me they sang to or just for themselves?
l cursed the melodic voices for singing lies
and yet as we the sinners live they are supposed to be saved
l was running further and deeper with the
wind blowing my frail body like a plastic bag
My heart was giving in, my knees were crumpling
l needed rest and immediatey l found it
l heard a loud, deadly and dreaded sound
And then there was silence and then darkness
They later told me that l woke up after a month
The Saints had found me and like the good Samaritan
had done all they could
with all their belief and might to save my life
They told me about the grace and kindness of Yahweh
And l cried, and cried, and cried
Because l had never known that he not only cared
but had feelings that swept across oceans
thoughts that rose to the heavens
dreams that conquered all nature
and love that exceeded humanity's
For me
There and there l looked at my Yahweh
And realised that l am saved
And my past is over
when a parent of a child
experiences
with an odd mixture of shame,
humor & wonder,
that very first lie
which their children tells them,
does this parent experience the same feeling that they
themselves did
when they found out that
santa
wasn’t real?
like the slim difference between
a hysterical laughing face
&
a hysterical crying face,
that flipside reflection
of being let down by
reality,
comes swinging in your direction,
cornering you in the ring---
and do you believe in some kind of
creator?
as a parent who will lie to their child about
santa,
will you continue to conjure,
piggybacking on that greatest of great lies---
passing it on like an
std of the heart & mind?
in remembering the insignificance of
praying to a work of fiction,
why do you perpetuate that same
dissatisfaction that comes in perpetuating
your own perceived societal obligation
to
believe,
when in all honestly,
you are lying to yourself every day of your
life?
paraphrasing mr. maher in his work of genius,
“religulous,”
certainly, not believing that a fat man with a beard
could possibly deliver presents to every good little
boy & girl on this planet
in one night,
has a familiar ring to it,
when you consider the possibility of an
omniscient being
answering all the prayers of everyone that is
praying
on this planet,
every single time they ring in.
in a related
tangent:
it seems justifiable that when churches, temples
& mosques get tax breaks,
that in return,
the believers who attend weekly,
should have to wear some kind of prophylactic suit that would
keep their children from being
infected with
disease
before they have a chance to protect themselves
with rational
inquiry.
As my bowls moved from one solitude to an other, my thoughts resonated to a topic of most
prolific discussion. The rights of man came into light, true nature being expressed
through the passion of my exercise. My vision lay upon the world is a sight to be seen.
Utopian fields of grass and shade from the trees, church houses cornering every abode,
people passing one an other in joyful delight.
But as the pain of pressure killed my fantasy and reality lay in front of my eyes, a
system of government and order contemplated my cerebrum window.
Knowing that not all individuals act accordingly to civilized society, that some must be
enforced, and others must be eliminated. Perfection is a word that might as well not
exist, for it is just part of a child's wild imagination.
The tissue softly caressed my forbidden garden as the dream of happiness escaped through a
dark tunnel of solitude, as the waste of the masses journeys on a journey through the vast
unknown underneath our very feet.
Form:
I have a sister
who once had sex with a mister
she once was an angel with flapping wings
now she's a witch
who cares about mean and ugly things
in nightmares
i see with big, twisted horns
her garden is nothing but dead roses and thorns
her heart is bitter
she deleted her twitter
her eyes become red in the moon
the angel will disappear very soon
oh look!
she has to deleted her facebook!
does that mean that i have my own thing as mine?
it is annoying when she copies me
does that mean when i'm older,
she'll drink my red wine?
gee, i hope not
her demon chases all innocents down the streets
cornering them in a parking lot
what a witch she is
my sister?
no not this
qualities this creature has are hers,
qualities that i miss
my sister
this creature
my sister
Form: