Best Erased Poems
Winds were among first to notice
Fragrant air blowing fresh breeze
Stemming from your pristine vicinity
Extolling prospects of your visit,
Announced by the birds in flight
Message circulated far and wide
Into the emerging scenic twilight
Pushing far away the opaque skies,
Cotton clouds then adorned charm
Scattered in ways of scenic art form
In orange hues peeking from blue
Amid aerial vistas painted for you,
Sprinkling rays on mosaic colors
Layers of fabric spun florid display
Anxious for you to take your step
Into this arena of majestic stage,
But all that passion suddenly erased
Prompting egress of darker motifs
When sun plunged below horizon,
Dismayed that you never showed up.
April 12, 2018
Placed first in contest 515 by Brian Strand
fragile
two did not last
but hold a same shared past
quite mind heavy and heart messy
frazzled
empty
uses one plate
washed with one dirty glass
after meals where nothing is passed
erased
scrambled
all is quiet
holds conversations with
self as spoken aloud each day
scopeless
depressed
just one decides
what to keep or closet
with recalls viewed raw or perfect
darksome
listless
one lone pillow
for sleep and times to weep
when reaching out to find no one
lonely
To those who should have heard my plea—
I write not bitter, but silently.
In shadows where the messages fade,
I found myself in silence laid.
It started with a hopeful thread,
A truth that whispered, softly said,
To stir the waters, call a friend—
But stillness echoed to no end.
No ripples came, no words replied,
Just empty space where trust had died.
“You need not come,” the silence spoke,
A quiet cut, a broken cloak.
A classroom once alive with song,
Where voices small would all belong,
Was handed off without a sign—
No farewell note, no last line.
I vanished in the digital night,
Replaced by names that felt not right.
No hand to hold, no final face,
Just absence carved in empty space.
Is this the way to lead the way?
With shadows deep and words that stray?
You teach respect but do not show—
Where did your empathy go?
You sever ties without a thought,
Ignoring wounds your cuts have wrought.
Is power all you seek to claim,
Or listening with heart aflame?
I am a teacher, flesh and bone,
With dreams and fears, not made of stone.
I pay my dues, I stand my ground,
Though silence tries to keep me bound.
But silence wins not here, not now,
Nor fear, nor cold, nor hidden vow.
My voice will rise beyond your walls—
A light that shines when darkness falls.
My final lesson, softly told,
In halls of light, both bright and bold,
Where children learn and spirits soar—
That’s why I teach, forevermore.
Though health now calls me to retreat,
And closure hides in shadows sweet,
I hold within what none can take—
My truth, my heart, no one can break.
—And that will be my lasting flame,
A whispered name beyond the shame.
About tattered wings-This haiku is published in haiku journal
What once was true can never be erased
It must remain a testament to time
In mind and heart it cannot be defaced
And to it will not cling denial's grime
To hide what was a part of history
The story of your life and heart's desire
To now pretend that it's a mystery
Will serve to burden heart and make it tire
Be not ashamed of feelings that were true
Of love you found the will so to express
What heart extols through words must shine on through
To bury truth, the harm will not redress
Be truth to self, and stand by what you write
Or lose yourself, and thus lose poet's might
Eileen Manassian
Post Script:
A poem is a living breathing entity that exits outside the poet's control. When we write, we risk being judged and that is painful, but...if we never write, we risk the judgment of our own hearts, and that is cowardice. I've deleted a poem or two here because I've been afraid of what people will say of it, particularly the sensual pieces. In the end, I've felt like I'm not true to myself when I conform to what others think of me. Have I been attacked for it? Yes! Has it hurt? Yes! Did it make me evaluate myself? Yes! Did it teach me a lesson? Yes! It taught me to be STRONGER...and stick to my guns. What we most fault in what others write is what we are struggling with ourselves. It's true. There is a fine line between being vulnerable and being wise. That fine line is the POET'S to cross, and no one else's. :)
Overhearing a whispered conversation
It caused her a bit of consternation
She learned she was to be terminated
Her teaching job, she thought, might be eliminated
But an angry suitor she had rebuked
And mockingly called him a messed up kook
So when he first told a friend to “take her out”
She thought his matchmaking she could do without
The friend, aka “eraser,” she had never met
And she never realized her ex beau’s threat
Meant more than a simple ill-conceived date
And walking home one night, eraser lay in wait
But she needn’t have feared, schools would continue
They had just taken her to another venue
Eraser saw to it that she swam with the fishes
And now she’s one of Jaw’s favorite dishes
Jesus paid my debt for me
The debt of all my sin
My past, the present, the future
I owe all to Him.
Today I stand uncondemed
And free from the power of sin
Jesus paid my debt for me
All glory goes to Him.
My name is in the book of life
Jesus wrote it in
The day He paid my debt for me
I live because of Him.
Erstwhile his skin was beautiful as an obsidian, with great markings alongside his face, as was the likeness of the Benin people; an imagery so poignant and meaningful.
His shoulders were wide, his back strong and his mind resourceful.
In his quondam years, the mystery of the Niger River had captured his inquisitive soul and inspired his longings to ride the smooth waves in a Pirogue.
A tale far from the likes of any mythical apologue.
The spirit of his graceful and modest mother, who lovingly called him Baako, once hunted his dreams.
On his hard days and nights, his body cried out from pain and his cheeks were forced upon by relentless water streams.
His memory of his proud father of great strength and wisdom once pounded against his brain.
In an everlasting refrain.
Once, with recapturing flashbacks his mind was flooded with the taunting sounds of the water drums and sticcado.
Fast and sweeping rhythmic legato.
And his mind automatically reclaimed images of his village, with its thatched roof huts and rows of lifted cultured soils with beans and yams bedded deep, and grass of deeper green.
And the days long, and the sun harsh and the nights with brilliant white stars that convene.
There, he now lay face down on foreign land with its first winters snow.
With his life source seeping deep and wide into soft crystals giving it a crimson glow.
Tattered clothes revealed his back; etched with brutal markings liking that of an old twisted and leafless tree.
His calloused feet a grayish-blue as the Adriatic sea.
His last breath was a moan for his native land.
The Mother Land.
The harmony of his innate love for his country, his people, and his latent genius and powerful will has been dispersed, wasted and erased.
"Next Poem, Erased on a Sharp Black Line"
The more I try to erase you
The more you present sharp and present
Oligarchy claps on,
Teeth sharp and tongues bite venomous in numbers
There you are walking
barefoot and blindfolded
on a Sharp Black Line
Daring to dive in
Here I await your presence
In the swim
A shadow drowning
under brittle crystal hours
hooked by lip
silent
Aqua smile shatters a
dry paper kiss
Fingers touch written lines
not the bees stinging
with their
thick
sticky honey
Fingers tracing lips
The tongue spoken
between broken
and bliss
Alive,
not drowning
waving
Something in the story
missed
Absent
Ingenue
Transformation
Tryst
To sleep,
close my eyelids
who's counting on you,
next poem
erased on a sharp black line
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/1TuOT324neg
Thom Yorke/Ingenue
Ingenue/Lyrics, Thom Yorke
https://genius.com/Atoms-for-peace-ingenue-lyrics
Ashen to grey clouds
Welcome the horizon glow
Graphite in erase
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature-13.php
That greatest thief of all of time
Is erasing my memories.
He comes in unexpectedly
With no thank you or a please.
I labeled them very carefully,
And filed them away in my mind.
I knew they would be there when needed.
They would be so easy to find.
Page after page of my long life
Would be there for a book.
But what has become of those images
And mental notes I took?
Alzheimers slipped into my storage room
And has left everything in a heap.
How could he treat me so cruelly?
Did he do this when I was asleep?
Whose are these faces around me?
I really don't know them at all
And I don't recognize the pictures
That are hanging on my wall.
Why has he hidden my babies?
I'm so sure I can hear them cry.
I look but I cannot find them
No matter how hard I may try.
Please go and find my mama
Everything will be alright.
She knows that I will need her
To tuck me in at night.
I'll just pull up these blankets
And wait for her to come.
Now who is it I'm waiting for?
It's okay, I've found my thumb.
Placed 3rd in Rub It Out contest 8th in earlier contest
ERASED MEMORY
The rope feels rough
Bloodstained fingers
Loop both ends
A glass bulb alike
Enlightening
How fitting I chuckle
Amazed
Nothing
Nothing remains
But two ends
Alpha
Omega
Me
You
And nothing in between
But distance
Whirling mist
That slowly but securely
Erases memory
And facial expression
If I jump now
So low
Will my memory
Be erased in yours?
December 27, 2017
Take care. See you all soon hopefully!
memories erased
your mind free, as is your heart
not a trace is left
Time kisses each upon a cheek with timeless teeth of smile.
Even hungry mice as we, who walk in other’s shoes a mile.
Along the empires’ ridge we stroll with nighttime sky, engaged.
Impoverished, as our brethren watch, with hearts aflame, enraged.
Stories we disguise in different form, atoms shifting in chaotic dance.
Clothing manifested from our storm, a destiny some see as only chance.
Slim silhouettes of matchsticks burning, one or in a pack.
Knots untying, unifying all the envy that we lack.
Broken, born, or lost as halves; to be or not to be,
Whatever cost to make each other into whole, you see;
Solutions searching randomly, ingredients like dust
Upon a chalkboard scribbled fierce, as snow-white rust
Or written clear, on pages here,
And then erased.