Best Engrained Poems
Resembling my soul,
November leaves seem exhausted,
slumbering under sleeping trees,
gently rustling in the breeze.
Selfish skies are covered in grey clouds,
but the angst in the air remains stale.
It's been fourteen years,
yet his ghost still appears in the mist,
remaining silent, as death never speaks,
but I've become content without answers.
In the drizzle of disappointment,
I'm fading away without the rain.
There is no one to listen to the
grief nested within my heart,
so I'm unable to process the torment.
The birds on my window seem numb
without a morning chorus - I feel their sorrow.
So, I listen to the songs he used to sing -
how his life is of no use to no one.
Each word engrained in whiskey memories,
a reminder of weeping in corridors long forgotten.
But, I wonder have I become an replica of him?
If so, then burn my effigy into nothingness,
for I've become tired from existing
within shattered seasonal flashbacks.
Yet, I'll wear this 'Joker' smile,
so my mum cannot fathom my muffled misery.
In the eternal silence -
I wonder if you will wait for me across the river
and guide me beyond the unknown verge.
So much is hidden behind the veil,
where only words can remove the obstruction,
but I'll always be an adjective
to your misunderstood metaphor.
The street seemed so much smaller now
The grime and the smell were still the same though
Engrained like the people who lived there
It was the only thing that never left him
She stayed at twenty-three
One tough girl
Christ, he still remembers the day she knocked him out
Slightly concussed, he proposed to her
Not bad for a twelve-year-old
She couldn’t stop laughing
She wasn’t marrying no wimp that day
In fact, her daily ritual was knocking him down
Mum, is love painful
If it’s true love, it can be
It was, his head was testament to that
He just kept going back for more
To give her, her due, she was happy to give it to him
One day he told her straight. I don’t care how many times you knock me down. I’m going to be your boyfriend. He waited for the punch
She kissed him
He fell down again
She starting laughing
It felt like the greatest feeling ever
They became inseparable after that
Young love had conquered
One day she told him she was going away
I’m going with you
It’s not that kind of going away
Is there another kind
It’s the dying kind of going away
Yes, but you won't die for a long time
A year the doctors said
That didn’t make sense to him
We’ll just have to make the most of it, she said
Make the most of it
The most precious year of his young life
She died the way she lived.
Demanding he did the best he could with his life
There were times when he really struggled
Times he thought of joining her
The pain in his head always changed that
Even in death, she got to him
The years passed by
He made good
She would be proud of him
The street seemed so much smaller now
The grime and the smell were still the same though
Engrained like the people who lived there
It was good to be home...
Falling silent against naked cheek…
When an emotion stuns or stings
Cutting through the composure
To free the heart of liquid poison
Toxic feelings of pain and sorrow
Grief that slashes through self-control
Leaving the heart in deep discouragement
Touching thoughts with negativity
That comes from a lack of sensitivity
Lighting the way to eventual joy
That comes when one finally lets go
Of sorrow, sadness, anguish
All the feelings that bring heartache
To the one who listens to the beating
The throbbing and pounding, the breath
Of a silent tear, reflecting the soul
Who knows only angst and pain
Beliefs colored in hues of ebony
Dark thoughts, black coats of sorrow
That change dreams to nightmares
Hopes to desperateness and misery
A sting that eventually lacerates
The faith that sustains and remains
Even after the sorrow and pain
Brings a teardrop to cling to the face
Who floods the spirit with shame
From allowing the heart to hold onto
A flow of disdain, grief and woe
That is engrained in the one who knows
A silent tear is sometimes the answer
To a prayer for relief to this agony!
Community, what does it mean
And how does it come into being
Well what does the dictionary have to say
“A group of people living together in one place”
I guess that means were all in community
Though if I were to speak in honesty
It feels like we try to live separately
Living by the culture of our country
Which tells us, do it yourself
If your strong, you don’t ask for help
Life is about personal advancement
About money and accomplishments
Hold onto your hardships and pain
Keep striving for personal gain
So many lies deeply engrained
How will we create change?
Well I start with myself
I ask for help
I start with me
I be the change I want to see
I become an infectious contagion
In all of my relations
That could spread across a population
Even across the nations
I model my life after the master of love
Who dwells in the heavens above
He has brought millions even billions together
Over decades, centuries, even millenniums
So what else could be better
Than to faithfully follow him
He who said, I was anointed
to proclaim good news to the poor
to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free”
and I say yeah that’s who I want to be
But unless I engage in community
Unless I get to know my fellow human beings
How can I help to set them free
So its time for me to put aside
Popular culture, foolish pride
Social codes, selfish ambitions
Old roads, and useless traditions
And blaze a brand new trail
With my life, write a new tale
Introduce a new theme
Add in a few more characters
And then dare to dream
About how my story could impact theirs
And their’s impact mine
Because maybe just, maybe
It might be better, might just be
Not to say, I did it on my own
All this, look I did it alone
No maybe it would be better
If we did it together
So that no matter what my lot
I can always know that I’ve got
Friends, right until the very end
Help, ready to be sent
Hands willing to be lent
So what need would I have for advancement
For money and accomplishment
I can find all that I need
Everything I seek from this life,
In relationship with fellow human beings
Community, Maybe this is what it means
My head rests on the doorframe, as I'm watching him at work.
I'm jealous of the devotion, and the motion of his hands,
much surprised at the green-eyed dragon that lurks within my mind,
while he rubs the pungent oil into muscles of the pine.
With rolled up sleeves, a sweaty brow, his rough, sandpaper hands.
he hones a smile along the aisle of every strand of wood
With even strokes, a time-worn cloak is peeled back and released,
where the onion skin of years and wear
had been entombed beneath the grain
He groans with satisfaction, (this Frankenstein, of mine),
while something worn, and tossed away,
is brought to life.
Back from the dead
A shimmering sheen, patina gleams while morning light slides in,
I think I see a swirl of smoke that curls above his head
And the warmth of the wood has sizzled hot, as if the sun came up
No awareness of the passion, engrained upon his face,
he sees me not, .... or my jealous want,.......His needs have been erased.
The lingering scent of linseed has claimed my breathing space
There are swarming nests of sawdust , cart-wheeling in the air,
a strand of hair, falls out of place.......and I cannot tear my eyes from here
The sensual, taunting, simple grace.......my eyes have begged to stay
I stare and marvel, for awhile
A shiver up my spine, implores.....to touch the man I face,
release his trancelike state of mind,
and let his fingers trace
________________________________________
Mom has always loved antiques
I have never asked her why
Perhaps it's the connection to the past
Maybe the craftsmanship
The smell of ancient wood
The curves
The fact that they were built to last
She turned a passion into a business
A few small pieces in her living room
A sign on a door
Interesting how businesses are born
Bob there by her side
Together building on her dream
There once was an old sawmill
Where men had worked with their hands
Hard work had its demands
Each one did what he could
Their strength remains
Locked within the wood
Those same hands had built mom's home
Over one hundred years ago
Time dripped on it didn't slow
Mom's home became the perfect place
To celebrate the past
Her home and business
Built from things that were made to last
The business grew
Taking over the home
Visits from patrons
Calls on the phone
Busy all the time
No space for them to be alone
It became time
For them to expand
They looked to the future
The life they planned
Built on their historic land
A new addition built from old wood
Soaring ceiling
Above them stood
I remember the beams
Spectacular
From an old barn hewn from fir
Lifted on Bob's wide strong back
Formerly they had been just a stack
A one of a kind home
Filled with love
With bedrooms and landing up above
The kitchen was the centre piece
A place to gather
Filled with love and peace
Love of the past
Hope for the future
Has alway been a part of her
Together melded and celebrated
As a result I appreciate
The solid
The values
The ingenuity
Forever engrained in my blood
My respect for the old
My admiration of antiques
Remnants of the business still remain
The building sold
Mom loves going to auctions
She still sells at local Antique Markets
Sadly Bob has passed on
Thankfully mom has moved on from her sad
She too is made of stronger stuff
Not unlike
Her beloved
Antiques
An old poem and this one is about old things.
For Broken Wings' contest. Written April 13 2013
Before the roses withered cancer took her in vain,
after the petals w i l t e d her scent never gone-
For only one thing in his heart could ever remain,
the way she used to sing that special love song,
for he had known it had always been her all along.
When you fall in love you awake to a new dream,
and in loving her he could never go wrong-
When your beloved dies, LOVE CAN NEVER BE REDEEMED.
When they first met he thought he would go insane,
Her eyes so big and brown with amber hair so long-
For passion and romance in his heart were engrained,
And t o g e t h e r in such harmony they both did belong,
For a marriage proposal, he could not prolong.
They bore a child and life became quite extreme,
before they knew it that little girl already foregone-
When your beloved dies, LOVE CAN NEVER BE REDEEMED.
At her grave he lingers hoping closure he’ll gain,
But his head is telling him to try to be headstrong-
For on his broken heart a crimson blood stain,
And the d i s t a n c e seems to be forever farlongue.
Wishing someone to pierce his heart with a prong.
Through all the heartache they made the perfect team,
Oh, once more if only he could hear that ol’ love song-
When your beloved dies, LOVE CAN NEVER BE REDEEMED.
After the petals w i l t e d her scent never gone,
he shall never forget his beautiful wife Doreen-
For he had known it had always been her all along,
when your beloved dies, LOVE CAN NEVER BE REDEEMED.
December 14, 2016
What have I done? She wonders…
Brittle blue gaze riveted on her lover’s chiseled features
His is a face set in stone
Eyes, mouth, jaw; all fixed, grim – a granite façade
Where has the softness gone?
That tender dawning of affection…
The loving gleam in dark chocolate eyes…
What have I done to erase it? She wonders -
Because she knows it was her doing
Knows it instinctively;
The knowledge is engrained in every fiber of her being
It was she, who else, who turned that face into rock,
It was she who wiped away the smile, the glow
Her cursed ire, her impatience, her irascible self-destructive streak –
With these tools she chipped away at him until he splintered
Yes she has broken him;
Broken the one thing she loved in all the world
Medusa-like, her willful cerulean glare turned him to stone
Now his eyes are twin pebbles
Cool, hard, unforgiving;
A grating stare is all he has to offer her
His heart sits motionless, a hunk of marble in the cage of his ribs
Beating for her no longer
His love for her has died a frigid death; drowned in a sea of ice
No more the fluid caresses, the warm grins, the ruffling of her hair
No more, no more, his love for her…
It is an unfeeling and frigid monument now
A tombstone, a dusty memory, the rattling chill of the Reaper’s breath
She has turned him into stone
Her lover - and her love - is no more
Oh Medusa, Medusa my girl, what have you done?
As a perfect scar, is the morning star,
illumed as Hemera asleep and dreamy
upon the breasts of Nyx, cold and homey,
staring, so stoic in gaze, perfect scar.
Of settings and fanta-scenes of my soul
she reminds. Of wild eyes cremating forms
and preserving mummies amid ash storms
she reminds. Of words bleeding from my bowl...
Of a plum, all of her engrained for ay
she reminds. Of hopeless fetish within
sowing on my seed bed any season
She reminds... of Oyin coming so nigh.
As blush fades away, green leaves come alive;
the bluish glow with doves, refills my rive.
The mind has a fullness of thoughts
that brings some words to one's mind
this needs engagement of these two
so merging a marriage of a loving kind
One's mind is an awesome thing
there come our thoughts to bank upon
using these notions to fill your ink
stroking your nib before it's dawn
Using one's inner strength for good
projecting the mind for expression
learn well to practise words to use
holding firm any engrained tension
Use well the wisdom one has
to draw lines positively to rhyme
as well as other poetic types
whatever it takes tp poetically climb
Spreading your words way on high
it's within you to forge out your way
so that others spot your undoubted gift
provide support by your pen today!
Importance of the Alternative Perspective
Contortions of my sentient being
Distortions of my inclinations to dream
Proportions of truth deciphering what it all means
Abortions of opinion as things are not always as they seem
Embellishments of truth displayed on the evening news
An inelegance that’s uncouth waiting for uncivilised cues
An epiphany of untold magnitude seen in awestruck colours of light and hues
A litany of criminal activity revealed by a complex set of clues
The vibrant laughter of children free from care or thought or sorrow
The vagrant daughter of an aristocrat whose forced to beg and borrow
The fragrant spice of delicate refine that contemplated living for tomorrow
The content found on television devoid of depth and so very hollow
Renewed graces of a man given a second chance at living
Perused statements of an intellect whose ideas are always giving
Confused looks from a stern command who remains perpetually unforgiving
The innocent intentions of a naive soul who stakes his fate on wishing
An ordained priest of benevolence preaching love to his fellow man
The contained feast of eloquence as a poet reaches linguistic highs
The engrained yeast of vigilance pacing back and forward as she cries
While the deranged beast of malevolence plots an innocent souls demise
Should we contain the urge to purge our souls from all this hate ?
Or simply refrain to complain at all lest we get locked out of Heavens gate?
Can we pertain noble incline in the workings of the human mind?
Or is the most essential attribute to remain above all else to be kind?
I look around me walking down the street
on warm May days, and flowers I can see.
So many lovelies – for my eyes a treat.
But they are not all in my memory
engrained, so how they look I can’t define
as well as flowers that I see each year -
like those that bloom right now, which are divine.
They are my roses, and for me so dear.
My teacup roses have a dark pink hue
while almost all my other roses are
dark red, but towering in plainest view
is one that has just bloomed – my super star -
the “Blue” whose color violet is rare.
I love to stand in front of her and stare!
May 20, 2021
For Brian Strand's All Yours (Jun 10) Poetry Contest
Forlorn as a withering rose,
The years in every wrinkle etched.
A crippling frame, head to toes,
Ramshackle porch to match.
An old man, rocks back and forth,
Staring steadfastly into the eve,
His ailing years of little worth,
The sublime sunset a mere reprieve.
Contemplating a life well worn,
Exuberant youth a distant past.
His aches forged through duties sworn,
A life succinctly fading fast.
Resigned, fulfilled with aching heart,
A partner lost this past ten year.
Far too many years apart,
Engrained in each and every tear.
The sun cascades on wind torn porch
A silence echoing the fact,
That embers of his dying torch
Will fulfil a reuniting pact.
Femininity - Anima
Sweet femininity was formed in Eve,
before thrown from the Garden for her sin;
engrained in souls by God, I do believe...
the essence of true womanhood within.
These female traits present themselves in me
through love, emotions, tenderness, and sense
of being led by creativity
in ways that show compassion deep, intense.
Imagination and perception stir
beyond the realm of mere creative art:
sense of aesthetics in all things occur;
a yin and yang of balance must take part.
Maternal instinct lodged within my soul,
the need to comfort with devoted care
my family, as well as to extol
with love, God's earthly creatures everywhere.
Romantic love of sweet and gentle kind
that speaks commitment and fidelity,
with friendship and relatedness combined;
these are the gifts of female traits in me.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Any Poem Written In April 2016
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 07/15/2016
Sandra M. Haight
~8th Place~
Premiere Contest: Animus/Anima--Part 1: Anima
Sponsor: Tom Quigley
Judged: 05/17/2016
"Dramatic Moment"
hearts carved in oak tree
love engrained on wooden bark
I cried as rain crashed
lover buried beneath leaves
death awaits sweet rendezvous.
*For Suzette Crous's Tanka - The Pivot Contest