Best Cut Into Poems
I was once a little twig with dreams of being a mighty tree
So people would come from all around just to look at me
As the years started to come and go I fell in love with the wind
I would open myself big and wide swaying to the music of my friend
My rings became many and my bark was as red as red could be
Then the day finally came I was the tallest of the tallest trees
I stood tall and I stood proud and everyone knew my name
As my rings continued recording my destiny to fame
Then the fateful day it came my friend and I had a fight
Looking back I can't recall who was wrong or right
I said, "You are but the wind something people can't even see"
" And I'm the king of them all the tallest of the tallest trees"
That night the wind started to howl she really started to blow
And I the tallest of all the trees learned we reap what we sow
My roots struggled to hold on tight but without a soul around
She who had been my dearest friend knocked me to the ground
The loggers came and cut me up then shipped me away
To my soul that truly was a sad and lonely day
Torn from all I knew and loved wishing I didn't have to feel
I was cut into boards and post down at the local mill
Now I'm back here at home just a few feet away
From where my friend the wind and I used to dance and play
I'm the deck on which you stand I lay below your feet
There is a bench made of me would you care to have a seat
Sometimes in life our roles change just take a look at me
The trick is no matter who are what you are be all you can be
See I was once a little twig who became a mighty tree
And now I'm a redwood deck as proud as proud can be
And of my friend the wind she visits me everyday
So I can thank her once again for helping me find my way
Thanksgiving fast approaches
and the bustling has begun
in an enchanting house,
the House of Cinnamon.
With children home for holiday,
the voices that you hear
are sunny as the curtains hung
inside this home of cheer.
As words elatedly resound
through rooms and down the hall,
a glow of kinship grows to warm
each nook of every wall.
Two little ones on father’s knee
now listen to him read
while mother in the kitchen
mixes dough and starts to knead.
The daughters don their aprons,
glad to help their mother bake
while older sons outside leap into
heaps of leaves they rake.
And then the kitchen fills with song
as mother hums a tune.
Her daughters sing the lyrics
as the wee one licks a spoon.
Now the dough with sugar, nuts
and raisins all is rolled
and cut into as many pieces
as each pan will hold.
Inside the oven, butter-drizzled
rolls now ooze and swell,
and soon the habitat absorbs
a most delightful smell.
Outside in chill of autumn’s wind
the boys having fun
can smell sweet scent of cinnamon.
Into the house they run!
Now day has turned to evening.
From a chimney curls grey smoke
as round the hearth inside there sit
the first-arrived of kinfolk.
The children of the house are sleeping,
but when they awake,
they’ll greet the ones they’re thankful for.
Of love will all partake.
For in the House of Cinnamon
a way of life remains
untouched by what the world’s forgot.
Here harmony still reigns.
for The Enchanted House Poetry Contest of Nayda Ivette Negron
Wonder not
if my thoughts are thrilled and twisted
daily and deeply by the albums of your ways,
I succumb severely to the impulse of imminent interplay
so dumb with joy, grateful for the fusion of our fevers,
I've never let you leave my mind,
you haven't finished eating your portion of my heart,
there is so much more for you, still in my chest, on my eyes,
I am your rare happiness,
that bare beast of a woman's best distress,
trigger your storm sirens with a single drop of Goodbye,
serve you with the most sensational sadness,
replenish your youth with an admiration that won't die,
knowing that I am not a makeshift man, nor a loyalty within a lie,
that I'll punish your pulse with peppered pleasure
because I can, because I must,
pull your hair just to hear those breaths beg for big flares,
treat the smooth and sweet lascerations of love's lament
butterfly cut into the surface of a girl's search for sincerity,
we get intoxicated on performance of personality,
buzzed beautifully from believing in the addiction of adoration's affliction,
We know we can handle one another's hurt
as warriors bleed hard because they sell themselves the sacrafice,
that we can process history with humor by breaking the shame of blame,
synthesize epiphany with sympathy to nourish symphonies of Divinity
we realize that intensity is the regal implement of our tournament,
I like it when you tell me the tough truths,
that you want to be loved for more than one reason,
that being respected in segments isn't enough,
that he will never be me,
that words can outlast the disappointment of distance,
that the world overwhelms you when you most expect,
that sometimes you'd rather be a heart attack
before being a pretty song or a favorite memory,
I understand your need for absolute affection, absolute attention,
lets allow our love to be confusing, dazzling, on the verge of villainy,
it isn't steady as a sleeping heart beat
or ready for celebration like a " gee wiz " graduation,
it is our Love, and its undefinably volatile and lovely,
Your cosmos gives a question that feeds one answer,
that love is ours, safe in the arms of Armageddon,
I remember the ember of our future
spazing on the hearth of fresh earth,
don't ever miss me Babe, just keep lovin me -
J.A.B.
Harvey Denning
1909 – 1923
“I saw the universe a thousand times.”
I saw the face of God
Spread out across the sky
Like a million cities on fire.
Like Troy cut into little pieces
By the slashing sword of Achilles.
Cut to shreds and bleeding.
There on the ramparts
There inside the fissures and crevices
Of ten thousand unknown dreams.
I read the stories of Homer
And the tales of a thousand and one Arabian nights.
And I read the solemnly immortal words
Of Longfellow, Poe and Defoe.
And I decided inside my mind long before I died
To perhaps write the greatest story ever told.
But I fell from my tree house
There on Dorland Street
There in the cool shadows of the walnut tree.
What would have been my story I wonder.
What visions would I have conjured
For all to read and envision?
My friend, will you write my story now?
Will you take pen in hand and possess my voice?
Will you find the noble courage to speak for me?
This forgotten dead soul
Buried here in the dark dust of Clark Cemetery?
If you kindly consent,
Please begin it with these words:
“I saw the universe a thousand times.”
it might as
well be my birthday
as i hold nature’s gift in my hand
i pause to caress it before i indulge
its form shapely its skin fresh and smooth
there’s nothing like it to ignite all my senses
i gently cut into the skin and each time is a joy
as the fruit reveals its rich deep amber color
and its lush ripeness oozes with juices
a delectable feast for my eyes
that smells absolutely
divine
the mango belongs on a pedestal because
i swoon with delight
when
this
fruit
touches my lips
AP: 1st place 2021, 2nd place 2022, 2nd place 2020, Honorable Mention 2020, Honorable Mention 2021, Honorable Mention 2022
Posted on November 22, 2019
A fine poet and doctor is he
But my chats with him stopped suddenly.
He cut into me good.
It makes sense that he would
since his specialty is surgery!
9/20/16
I am Caroline Foster.
I am fifteen-years-old.
I am shortish.
I am rather thin.
I am intelligent I guess.
I am oblivious.
I am weird.
I am childish.
I am different and not in a good way.
I am the girl who sits in the front of the class because I am expected to.
I am the young actress who can only find her voice through being someone else.
I am the nerd people only become friends with so I can do their homework.
I am an encyclopedia, Google, and a dictionary all rolled in one.
I am an outsider.
I am the one who will never be accepted because of my social awkwardness.
I am and will never be anything more than a textbook.
I am only a tool.
I am scarred from the knives I have cut into my own wrists.
I am depression, a dark room with the light switch torn out.
I am anxiety that screams with deafening volume just to keep me chained to the ground.
I am the one who’s supposed to know all the answers.
I am expected to be a perfect little robot who should never step out of line.
I am afraid to accept myself for who I am because of fear of the judgement and rejection of others.
I am the girl who is taken advantage of because they know I’m too scared to say “no.”
I am terrified of failure and not meeting the highest of standards.
I am hideous.
I am disgusting.
I am so ugly that to attract a guy I have to hide behind pounds of makeup.
I am sick and tired of being labeled by my skin, religion, GPA, cup size, and my face.
I am done hiding in the shadows and letting the opinions of others control me.
I am waiting every day for it to be my last just so I can get away from all the hate.
I am suicide ready to happen.
But, I am beautiful.
But, I am unique.
But, I am still that wide-eyed dreamer who just wants to write.
But, I am a writer of stories that could change the life of one.
But, I am not what others think of me
I am not just another face among billions of others.
I am chosen.
I am a daughter of God.
I am here for a reason.
I am me and still discovering what being me means.
And I am okay with that.
I am telling you to rip off the history and stereotypes that you have been forced to lug around for so long.
I am showing that no matter who you are, there is still light at the end of the tunnel.
I am Caroline Foster.
Who are you?
Monsters Fear Me
The evil hand of Darkland stayed my play
punishing innocence in a most cruel way
Deep were the slashes cut into my back
No charm did I have to stop this attack
when unearthly monster crossed my track
Midnight Sun lit its fierce green eyes
flames belched forth from darkened skies
Roars so deep trees trembled in dismay
This creature came to kill not to play
would I live to see another sunny day
Tall as the mighty oak trees it stood
nothing about it nice, nothing good
Slime laden scales oozing out foul odor
Chills sent up my spine so much colder
would have ran had I been much older
Nothing to do but chant my power song
pray my courage lasted out that long
A bold cry to Skylord to quickly smite
This massive monster on this dark night
then hope for a searing hot beam of light
Seconds ticked on like hours dripping by
where was the Skylord's life saving reply
As my last desperate hope started to fail
Lightning bolt blasted that monster to hell
now live I to rejoice and so happily tell
Thanks given out for my song being heard
faith in goodness, faith in his mighty word
No evil dared again to attack God's child
My heart so strong, my spirit still so wild
Monsters fear me even when I am this mild
10-09-2014
I inherited a magnificent antique natural black diamond ring,
it is an impure crystal from Central Africa, it is entirely opaque;
a precious gem, absolutely beautiful and quite valuable,
a mesmerizing color created by nature, it touches my very soul.
It inspires me with it's hypnotic quality taking me deep,
and I see it's power in my accessories, always black and sensual;
the black diamond is mysterious and shrouded in drama.
many a death has been cast by a particular black diamond stone.
I did research and found out- a famous black diamond,
was pried from the eye of a statue in a sacred shrine temple;
in Pondicherry, India by a travelling monk thief, so the myth says,
the theft created a cursed diamond called the Eye of Brahama.
The myth then states that the diamond caused three deaths,
people would throw themselves off high buildings by suicide;
later the diamond was cut into three breaking the curse,
of course, my ring is not one of the pieces, yet is still lovely.
The days I wear my ring and my lovely black accessories,
I transcend this world, my makeup and hair become magical;
seeing the world with my third eye and it is so very amazing,
I am a different girl- dark, sensual, and so very mysterious.
And when I take off the black ring and accessories,
a mere girl stands in front of the mirror, natural and glowing;
the magic is gone but the inner peace remains and inspires,
I think what we put on our bodies should have a soul-
hypnotic and deep.
_____________________
August 3, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/Hypnotic and Deep
Copyright Protected, ID 16-813-746-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Black Diamond
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
First Place
When I was a kid, home remedies were the thing!
No trip to the doctor for a cold or bad cough..
Mama had a fix for near every hurt, big or small
or in between. The worst, the most dreadful, the
run and hide treatment..the Mustard Plaster!
Some flannel cut into big, big strips...Cover with
mustard until it drips..into the oven to get
steaming hot..then slap that sucker on the spot.
Around your chest, fastened tight..must keep
it hot..althrough the night...It burned, it itched, and it
smelled to high heaven..Who knows if it helped at all..
but I do know that we learned not to voice
minor discomfort..it had to be a real disaster..
cause if you complained.out came the Mustard Plaster!...
You see I've been misunderstood majority of my life
Its as though if living were war
then im the knife
Its not my fault society embraces suicide
Label me an aspiring mathematician
Cuz I have nothing to hide
but a simple substance I provide
for an affordable price
my life is nicked and dimed into a dynasty of ghetto capital
my product derived of natural organic matter
strategically cut and cooked for a simple way to provide
that get away you're after boo
Damage is collateral
See while you chase starts
I chase the dollars that make them
See I defy God and for a few
I can make you invincible
destroying your principles
Cuz ile have you feining for that next high
that next mucus mixture
with the snort of that booger sugar
Excess caked up til inhaled to the brain
that mental bugaloo
Cut into rocks of instacourage
for you weak pawns on a chessboard
checkmated before you had the chance
to advance to enemy territory
You've destroyed yourself
As I enjoy my wealth
Now whos the loser
When you look yourself in the mirror
and realized you've ascertained a habit you cant break
developed a hunger for a superficial utopia you cant make
You are
So as a businessman my product and I are one
but never mingle
So while you dibble and dabble with the snow
I create blizzards
Are you prepared for the cold cold life ahead of you
If im caught is federal
But you're worth the effort
Im just simply the man that makes the offer
And its crazy cuz when the streets were hot
and my product was mixed with soda pop
it was a shoulder shrug
Now I gotta hide my product
discreet with my customers
or metal bracelets will give my wrist
a colder hug
Load the slug
and aim it at your cranium
this is a ride youll die for
Literally speaking
No pun intended
It was more of a visual sentence
The blackened fog that veils nocturnal lust
has draped the virtue of a virgin dawn
while carnivores, entombed beneath the dust,
unleash to prey upon a heedless fawn.
The garish moon shall leer its pallid glare
into the pitch of night where shadows wane.
In luring light, it's captured in a snare
with ligatures that cut into the vein.
But blood flows ebon through the twilight throes.
In darkness, color’s essence will conceal.
This night will not receive my midnight rose
for scarlet nectar covets a reveal.
Fear not my purist flower of the night,
your petals will unveil in morning’s light.
As seasons pass
new reflections are cast upon their still waters
another petal falls...another ripple crosses
both drifting away, vanquished by darkness
in the silence that's left, truth is found
revealing itself between earth and sky
a prisoner held close, to testify
for every day of every year
the heart has kept in memory
where time captures each line
cut into the face
the price paid for joyous moments
and anguished struggles
as we moved from season to season
holding on to people and places
long gone...if ever they were at all
each season of each year brings a new mirror
as the distant days of yesterday fade away
like the ripples from each fallen petal
without thought or concern, searching for something
finding inevitability
11/23/16
Written: May 08, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand.
Art "Sitting at the Dock of the Bay' Oil, Plein Air Series, by Michelle Held. My Poem titled "Quiet Pier’s Lament" was written using this artwork as its inspiration. It's better to read the poem while looking at this artwork.
***********
seagulls fly to the sky
over broken planks and rusty nails
searching for what has been lost
they sift through seashells and sand
scavenging for leftovers as I
look for traces of you
river drips its brown-blue hues
at low tide. I hear the water hum
and cries of birds
as I search for you among grains of sand
at the end of rickety pier
a girl stands on one leg, arms stretched wide
balancing ~ as quiet as a breath
` patient as death
her pterodactyl thoughts
soar on the sunlit wings of pelicans
or plunge into the depths
the strong bodies of eels
this life, a feeble pier
anchored by shallow utility poles
cut into thirds, like hot dogs
still hovers over a muddy bank
with each storm, new scars appear
the wind is gusting left and right
weakening what I hoped would endure
crushing under the weight of every fresh verse
now it's a relic, floorboards askew
washed away by relentless waves
with nothing to hold up my old desires
my thoughts drift away each night
yet, each month I sit in the same stiff chair
struggling to share anything new
All I am is an aging pier
with gulls perched on my rotting posts
What is this spring if, laden with grief,
I have a wish to see trees coming into leaf
And their foliage nourishing, beginning afresh –
And being as soft as the touch of Zaldania’s flesh;
And their verdance gleaming in the sun,
Where children can hide and seek and have fun.
A wish to lie beneath the trees and watch the stars,
At night when breeze sways humbly the grass;
And the boughs of trees rustling in the cold,
Like something almost being told.
A wish to hear jovial birds chirping in trees during the day –
To relish their melodies and their vernal songs and be gay;
A wish to lo and behold with a smile, trees growing high,
Come new season, they seem to say with a beseeching sigh;
And wash away these shriveled leaves again,
So we can blossom new lease of grain –
And help recover the branches that were cut into wood,
By these people who reside in the neighbourhood;
A wish to sit and watch the trees dance,
To fulfill my leisure whilst I enjoy their glance.
And sing a jolly song as I watch them shake,
Hence slumber in their shadow and tarry to wake;
Just like they once died and then began anew,
I also wish that if I die I come back too.
O dreadful this spring if, laden with grief,
I have a wish to see the trees coming into leaf.