Best Cuttings Poems
ALONE AT THE HOLOCAUST MUSEUM
rose early in the morning,
indulged in a lovely quiche lorraine,
ventured out
alone.
silence has a sound of its own.
yes, there was the film, my first exposure -
Kristallnacht – the night of broken glass
S
H
A
T
T
E
R
S
the sterile space…
alone, i enter the “gas chamber” -
no one’s there, no screaming naked bodies.
the only fear is in my mind – i
must get out, feeling claustrophobic.
exiting and to my right, a setup -
a dummy behind a machine gun
my pulse quickens, throat is dry.
then to my left: hair cuttings, glasses, teeth, clothing -
my eyes hurt as i read – many children were thrown
into the ovens A L I V E.
the horror constricts my brain. horrible to imagine
one crazed serial murderer and this was an entire country.
cruelty has sharp claws, hidden behind breath and flesh
gifted by God. monsters have lovely hair, straight teeth,
families preparing dinner, friends cheering with
CLINKING CRYSTAL.
going home, they smile, swing loved ones around,
kiss their merry cheeks,
and they R E E K with death.
10/14/2016
FICTIONAL EMOTIVE WRITE
Since I was a tiny baby I was brought up by my grandparents and had a very happy childhood. I knew that they were not my real parents but they gave me such love that I didn’t ask any questions for fear of upsetting them. Grandma’s eyes would mist over any time anyone mentioned my parents so I knew something bad had happened to them
Whispers in the hall
The child is too young to know
They passed so quickly
I left home at 20, married and moved to a small town about 50 miles from where I grew up. I was always in touch with my grandparents, but over time old age crept upon them and I recently cleared the family home when grandma passed away. I discovered yellowing newspaper cuttings, which told of how my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, it also detailed their final resting place in the local cemetery.
Family secrets
Scrapbook of old photographs
My parents smiling
Dawn is breaking and dappled sunlight streams through the trees. A veil of grey swirling mist shrouds the cemetery. I pull my shawl closely around my shoulders and begin my search. Strands of ivy hang down from the towering yew trees, its dark green tendrils wrapped around the grey granite graves clinging so tightly as if it was trying to hold up the graves like a puppet on a string. The fallen gravestones remind me of decaying teeth with many gaps where stones had crumbled with age and neglect. I walk slowly, reading the names of those who now had eternal rest. Eventually I found their grave at plot 142, where a marble angel watches over them sleeping. I scrape off the thick lichen, which obscures their names. Tears fall and I hug the gravestone wishing I could embrace my parents for real.
I greet my parents
Stone cold grave gives me closure
Heartbroken child cries
09~26~16
Contest Overgrown With Vines Sponsored by Broken Wings
submitted to ''H'' Contest, New or Old Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
At Once Into Blind Empty Space, At Once Into Her Arms
How can it be
Something so unwittingly described
Can break me
Remake me
Turn me to the sorriest of fates
And still fill my heart
With this happiness of late
How can she wound me so
Yet heal all the injuries I have ever known
With her existence
But alas, not her presence
Which sifts its way so tenuous
So tender through my thoughts
The merest pin prick and point of a feathers touch
Settles such a succinct telegraph of love
Nestled sleeping it was
Always in my heart
She wakes me but shakes me to wishing dreams
To disregard the alarms of early birds
And curl forever in the warmth of sleep
Where I lay always next to her
How do I survive without her
When everything I am
When everything I am is wrapped and entwined to her
Though I live and breathe
The indrawn falls upon my empty
And every expression, which defines me
Troubled and at peace inside me
Soars on every possibility of her
How can I fly so high
But still be dashed and dragged to these rocks
How do I fall so shattered
And yet still be constantly reborn
Struggling through a morass of unrequited kisses
Yet gliding free on the ripples she sends
With those same unfelt and untested lips
Parted so, yet her spirit prevails
I feel the wish of her lashes softly closing her eyes
The sliding soft comfort of her embrace
As she takes and holds my empty hand
And all the caution in the world
All the alarm of early morning birds
Cannot halt my rushing head long
At once into blind empty space, at once into her arms
How did I have a heart
Without you
What life was there
Where soul
My love
Who was I
Without you
And though I live and breathe
I expel each breath on the empty
But every expression which defines me
Is bursting with firework delivery
Colours in the night so laughing
With the unknown embrace of how you love me
And how I so desperately love you in return
( My friends
The soft and compliant daggers of love
I know you know so well
Sharp cuttings of tears
And the ever expectant solace of their smiles )
To Be A Poet, Oft Strong Commands Come At Night
Oh, gawd- comes raging middle of the night
This horrid current, rise up and now write
An electric jolt, firing through me bones
Of new fortress looming, huge granite stones
And that tingle surging from old waking soul
As pagan's carving of a totem pole
Words spilling out from a resistant heart
Pen and paper screaming, hurry let's start!
Stumbling amidst and across dim-lit room
Word flowing from life or else dreaded doom
Splash, splash as ink and paper newly wed
Old verses, that a spirited mind said
Some few flavored with Shakespearean awe
Other's cuttings from old lumberjack's saw!
And I, vessel to set these ravings down
Of love, a princess in her golden gown
Dancing slowing across a ballroom floor
One never knows what else comes through that door!
Robert J. Lindley, Nov. 2nd 1978
Rhyme,
( When Poetry Forces A Poet To Wake Up And Write )
There are those special moments in life
That become etched in one's heart
Leaving a sweet precious memory
Etched….. never to depart
I have one so treasured memory
Though so simple in its act
Entered my heart and stayed
With a huge impact
We had a beautiful Magnolia tree
In the front garden of a past abode
A florist asked if she could prune it
Taking the cuttings to her florist to unload
Yearly she pruned the Magnolia tree
Always with an assistant there
This particular year it was a young girl
Lovely, pretty with dreadlock hair
When leaving the girl went to the front door
For what reason l did not know
What that sweet hearted girl did
Left my heart aglow
On the front doormat
She had placed one big beautiful magnolia flower
That innocent kind gesture
For me ….held so much power
It touched my soul in such a way
It has remained with me through time
Just a simple act of honest sweetness
Now forever etched in my mind
Most people are crazy about flowers,
Whether grown from cuttings or seeds.
They can talk of their beauty for hours,
But no one says anything nice about weeds.
And out in the garden, the veggies
Enjoy far more care than they need,
But along the highways and hedges,
The world has no time for the poor, lowly weed.
That's why I hate work in the garden.
It's not that I'm lazy, indeed,
I would really enjoy the labor,
But it's cruel to pull those poor weeds.
Summer times are spent in the orchard of apples and pears
That old wooden rope swing; all frayed, from over the years
Hazy days in the summer house, watching the children play
Puppy dogs running around chasing the butterflies all a gay
Homemade lemonade. and jam sandwiches cut into squares
How we all loved to go into the fruit orchard, over the years
Gals in their light cotton frocks, and the boys in short shorts
Gran; with her wicker basket, taking flower cuttings of sorts
Grandpa; in his shirt with sleeves rolled up sawing the wood
Making all the lost wooden tiles, on the summer house good
Papa would arrive after a long working day pop ices in hand
This home as his castle and the garden and orchard his land
Seen it all blossom, with a loving wife, watched it all expand
As loving gestures given between them; they so understand
That this beautiful dream was built; surrounded by true love
With praises given to HE, who blessed this home from above
War without weapon
=================
War takes place with
The help of weapons,
Weapons win or fighters win.
God alone knows.
Can a fight take place
Without weapons?
Yes, fights do take place
Without weapons.
The weapon is your mouth.
At times the words
Come out of your mouth
Are more painful than the
Wounds created by swords.
Sharp weapon is nothing Compared to sharp mouth.
The wound created by a weapon can be healed.
But not the pain created by words.
Words and swords
Hardly any difference
Except the 's' in front of sword
Both are capable of the same job, hurting people
Also, both words and swords
Can help people in their own way and style.
Good and comforting words
Are a great solace to humans.
Similarly, swords can be used
For useful cuttings
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
Dad Revisited
RIP 1924-2015
Last night I sat up in bed and prayed a little longer,
I asked god to send dad back for just one more day with great fervour.
Dad was waiting for me in the verandah as soon as I reached,
Seated on his cane chair with legs outstretched.
Suited- booted, neat crisp turban, expectant eyes so tender
The same tweed coat, the warm muffler across his shoulder.
The moment he saw me he fumbled for his walking stick,
Stood up took a few steps forward in a nick.
We embraced each other tight as he planted as kiss on my head,
I nuzzled against his warm coat enjoying the love of my figurehead.
Warm drops of love fell on my cheeks,
Saw oceans pouring through his teary creeks.
'I can't control them', he said chokingly,
Feeling the other's heart beats we clung to each other tightly.
'Let's go to the garden, the grape fruit is waiting for you!'
We walked together slowly over his leafy garden dew.
Dad showed me the new cuttings and saplings he had potted for me,
He pointed to the overgrown grass and said his workers were on leave.
He said,' Ah, for more varieties of flowers!
But the dogs don't spare them in my bowers'.
We smiled and saw the overladen grape fruit trees,
I plucked three grapefruits and said they would suffice with a tease.
We slowly climbed up the steps to our sunny verandah to sit alone,
He asked me what was it that I had wanted to tell him over the phone.
I read out my poem, '13, West Macott Road', a nostalgia shakeup,
Of our ancestral home in Poona where he had grown up.
I was reared up there, too, by my grandparents,
He wept and hugged each other, our undying love evident.
'I can't believe you had this talent and I didn't know about it till now,
You always make me cry with your emotions, but no more will I allow!'
He took out his kerchief to wipe my tears, his permanent flair,
I was still sniffing when I sighted his empty cane chair.
December 10, 2015
Contest: Just One More Day
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Lay down the spoon and still the hand that shakes
the smell of cooking mixed with that of fear
eyes reddened, wide, haunted expression make
await a fury fuelled by drugs and beer.
Self worth crushed long ago by vicious tongue
of loving parent's warning took no heed
her bruises say they were right all along
in symphony with her both their hearts bleed.
On garden bench she sat and sought recess
bent forward, hands clenched, pinned between her knees
fighting to quell the tightness in her chest
belaboured heart rate slowed, she drank the breeze.
Before her, nodding back in sympathy
once cuttings, propagated in their bed
now standing proud amidst the greenery
a solitary bloom in vivid red.
Years past they graced the altar, happy day
the ceremony over, left in peace
one rose remains from times when love held sway
companion for her in rare times of peace
Plucked ,she held the stem and asked the flower
'through which door and how long 'till real love comes?
Pray, am I to languish in his power?'
the answer in the red bead on her thumb.
Conclusion come to and no need to speak
With fingertips she brushes back her mane
resting the scented blossom on her cheek
Unwary petal catches salty rain.
Viv Wigley
24th October 2015
For 'any sad poem' contest, sponsor- Broken Wings.
originally submitted mistakenly as a Sonnet, and have not changed form description to remind me to be more careful in future, for reference.
When In Paris
I think I see
you
lost under
some umbrella
and in my imagination
I am so lonely here
I stop on sidewalks
and let my keys
slip to the ground
with my address engraved
I walk to the old and settled in the parks
I pretend you are one of them
with hands that smell of crosswords
and begonia cuttings,
arms gently stretched out for the pigeons
And then at night
in my room
I cut holes in the bathroom mirror
and ask the ghosts
to rattle the table and make the mattress squeak.
© Gry W Christensen
THE POET MEETS THE JOURNO
All right, so I introduced you to each other,
She, sotto voce, with sweet piercing alter
Ego and intransigent integral and inviolate
Laws, you with your collection of newspaper
Cuttings of riots, strikes, and the dialectical
Alternative: mottled eyes and the poor man’s pudding
Of truth, flavoured with salt fish loneliness.
In the dim furls of the watchman’s banner
The night was just ending, so go to it -
Discern why I separately loved you.
As I make my way home by myself,
The pure gold of my honourable gesture
Will shine like an Indian summer on a child,
Be meditation for your spirit on our silent spring.
By Rosemarie Rowley
Published in IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin, 2008
T'was not about the Fire
That Burn the Bush but would not consume
T'was about the Bush that Hosted God.
T'was not about the Ark
That killed the one that gave it Support
But Blessed to envy, the House that kept it
T'was about the House that Reverenced His Presence.
T'was not about the Fire
That burn Seven times over
Burned the Soldiers and the Ropes
But the Hebrew offenders would not consume
T'was about Men that Knew and Believed in their God.
T'was not about the Fire
That answered not
Despite the limping and cuttings of Baal prophets
But descend heavily at the beckon of Elijah.
T'was about the Prophet that carries God.
T's not about the storms
Or challenges that come our way
T's not about the answers
That we don't get, even at that point
When we've tried-cried our best.
T's not about the God
That seems desperately quiet
Incidentally at that exact time
When the questions get most vigorously daunting
T's about Me
How My walk was before the storms came
T's about Me
Where My Faith lies when I needed answers
T's about Me
How much of Him I Carry
T's about Me
My Commitment, My Devotion, My Worship.
T's about Me
How much I've Learnt to trust in Him
Ts about Me
The level of Acquaintance I've gained in His presence.
T's about Me
T's about where I stand.
OCTOBER 2O16 / @M.H.O.G Unveiled
My grandma had a green thumb
She loved to garden, plant and grow
Didn't matter where they're from
Snatching cuttings wherever she'd go
Her pockets filled with seeds from trips to and fro
Labeling the envelops with names as she was home
Plant variety was something she would know
She also knew specific times when seeds should be sown
Her garden was her solace throughout her hardened life
She planted seeds and grew her plants anywhere she stay
Always fed her family through depression and strife
Many rows of vegetables were planted in her day
Years have passed and she is gone her love of planting seeds
Was passed on through her family who now are pulling weeds.
Jennifer Marie Oliver