Best Eyelid Poems
No larger than a grain of rice,
her face is forming; mouth, a slice.
Her heart, a tube, begins to beat;
at one month, things are imprecise.
An inch now from her head to feet.
Eyes, fingers, toes: not yet complete.
Her neural tube, well on its way.
At two months, things look pretty sweet.
Four inches long, an ounce to weigh;
miscarriage risk drops every day.
All parts are present, there to see;
at three months, fingers grasp and splay.
Her nails and hair seen easily;
eyelid, eyebrow, eyelash agree.
Four months now and six inches long,
the ultrasound clear: she’s a she.
Her muscles build; she’s getting strong.
You thought you felt her; you’re not wrong.
She’s covered with lanugo hair.
At late month five, she hears your song.
Her fingerprints? Whorls present there.
The eyelids part; eyes open, stare.
When she hiccups, you may observe.
Month six births: viable with care.
Refinements to sensory nerves,
reacts to light, from pain will swerve.
She rarely is reserved or still;
month seven, and this gal’s got verve!
At five pounds now, she kicks at will.
Lungs immature, but they can fill.
Eight months, all sharpens, gets refined;
You’re on alert, you know the drill.
It’s nine months now; she’s quite confined.
Delivered, breathes in, and unwinds.
Flesh of your flesh, though quite her own;
Distinctly her, you’re intertwined.
Written: July 1st, 2026 for a contest sponsored by: John Lawless
********************
Have you ever wondered
where our teardrops go?
Not the polite ones
that cling to the eyelid
like they’re waiting
for permission,
but the unruly kind —
the ones that leap
before you’re ready
and announce your feelings
to the room
like a drunk friend
with no sense of timing.
Follow them.
Follow the teardrops
where they lead you.
They slip down the cheek
like a pilgrim
on a narrow road,
carrying tiny reliquaries
of everything you meant
to say
but didn’t.
They fall
into the open air
with the confidence
of creatures who know
gravity is a myth
and landing is optional.
Some evaporate
into the sky,
becoming weather
for someone else’s sorrow.
Some sink
into the collar of your shirt
and hide there,
plotting their next move
like miniature anarchists
with a taste for rebellion.
Some roll
to the corner of your mouth
and pretend
they’re part of a smile.
Tongue-in-cheek,
literally.
And some —
the rare ones —
slip off your jaw
and vanish
before they hit the ground,
as if the universe
reached out
and caught them
in its palm.
People say
those teardrops
become stars.
People say
they become prayers.
People say
they become memories
you’ll return to
when you’re braver.
But the truth is simpler,
stranger,
and a little bit rude.
They go
exactly where they want.
Gotcha.
It often trickles slowly, timid and shy
From the inner eyelid of a song
Or down the cheek of a distant mountain
A sunset rising beyond the hill, or moonlight on the window sill
A rose in bloom…a drop of dew…so tiny, sweet and beautiful
It fills a cup with voiceless wonder, and deep affection
It languishes softly…with wild abandonment
And will not be tamed
But, another kind is rooted deep
Buried where the light can’t reach
The anguish of the world falls on it’s cheek
It dwells beside the hopeless shore
Until thundering waves can't be ignored
The first single tear drifts down the walls
Into the shadowy tide of a river, longing
Bleeding old wounds, through all the old hurts
Looking for a place to hide
The sky above the earth will darken
Behind a leaden, lumpy cloud bank
Now the day has puckered up a bottom lip
Round spattering tears are warm
Prelude to the storm
The day will weep
Until it falls asleep
.....................
For the One Silver Tear Contest: 7/26/12
My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
......And he knows it.
His PJ's had that
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!
Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.
It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
.......A GREAT MORNING
John G. Lawless
2/15/2021
Harassing me for days now
Landing on my eyelid
Nosing up my nostril
Tickling my ankles
and every other exposed body part
Little bastard...
Fly-Swatter? Jack be nimble, Jack...
Folded bath towel? (Lamp destroyed)
Raid? Sprayed til I sneezed and choked
and had to quickly retreat outside
(I may have poisoned myself)
Little bastard...
Last night it buzzed me awake
I injured various body parts
(Bloody nose, ruptured eardrum)
Little bastard...
I want to murder it
I want to assassinate it
but I want to capture it first
pull off it’s puny little wings
and watch it scramble on the floor
all the while crawling behind
laughing, shouting and jeering
'How you like THEM apple peelings?'
before I jump to the ceiling (Boink)
before I stomp and then grind
in a mad and homicidal rage
Little bastard...
Epilogue:
Whew! I’m feeling pretty okay now
The medication helps immeasurably
I know now why they’re called Asylums
They are refuge from a brutal environment
a world dominated and controlled by---Bssst!!
Little BASTARD...
Hey there, Rag doll!
I'm folding into a bowled,
bold mix and
I'm in knead of a partner.
First come. First served.
Lying in a daydream -
I see you fit the bill.
Make my realities a nightmare.
You're my dazzling star.
You're thin-sliced innocent.
You're an unused gift certificate.
Need me.
Hey there, sweetheart!
Don't talk. Don't yelp.
It's only me leaving
an oil-stained finger print upon
your left eyelid.
Special. The touch -
my touch -
is special-licious.
Pirate-rigged and e(special)ly
meant for you.
I threw away my thesaurus yesterday.
I found it unnecessary
and callous.
LOVE is a four letter word
as is -
LIAR.
Hit me with an anthemed antonym.
Hey there, pumpkin!
Kiss me once again
and revel in
the sticky juices of
our misguided
presumptions.
Spit, spanked and smothered.
A rolling pin of charm -
You knead me,
darling.
believe you me sirandmiss
a country made of this
youIItthem(a blended cocktail conspiracy)
you, Land of Calvin
Klein peacoat peacocks and Maybelline
Girl with cryproof mascara dripping(fashion
-first step lacking substance(of you
I sing: land of Oliver North and Ellen Degenerous
land of malcontent:singing(quietly)humming
cooking cuisine in add-one-minute-microwave
fashion. Shaving with grandfathers
dull razors: regifted dull past-tense,
passe(useless musings) all and every
voice:merrier men singing old songs
for yesterday dancesteps contradict
wants for(pleading) a progressive and peaceful
now. Rome then leaned on decayed pillars
now: chasing barbarian hordless lands
are stray grazing(starved weak) seeking,
singing A-
mer
i
ca, I mourn
you and every-one-of-millions
bitter wanting back gifts given
continually. Awash in(apathetic)
angst:whispers-peaceful-timid-unichs
let freedom echo
hollow. xanex glazed eyelid
americans (sitting in assigned seat,
from a menu)
eating
screaming meekly.
The moonlit sea hides within the scent of waves
which waft and lilt on shores of dreams
Evanescent thoughts of effervescent moments
linger oncemore through nights
where heart was young ,emotions deep and lips unsealed.
Alone I sit close to a rock which bears no colour
as softened ripples caress my memory
and silver stars outline the black of empty skies
The cold damp mist covers my eyelid
as the wind blows within my soul
the same old soul which knows each sound
each every rustle of shriveled leaves
brown whitering leaves which leap and creep
in prolonged darkness.
Somewhere so far my breath still mingles
in open fields beneath a sun
which warms the skin of evergreen
amongst white orchids which fill the air
somewhere so far somewhere out there.
Somewhere so far the worn out chords
of a guitar still play their tunes
and broken footprints still mark the path
of my bare shoulders within your arms
as broken voices whisper no words
as early snowfall freezes the years.
.
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windscreens cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
Heaven's always weeping
Just to grace your lash
Cobalt iris' peeping
Midst your eyelid sash
Gem-like water shimmers
Rainbows on your face
Shiny dermal glimmers
Spark your sultry grace
Misty tresses dancing
Through a soaked ballet
Raindrops softly glancing
Scattered with your sway
Stormy weather magic
Conjured by your smile
Chances, waxing tragic
Should it not ... beguile.
* FIRST PLACE in the "88 Syllables" Poetry Contest, Joseph May, Sponsor. Syllables checked at HowManySyllables.com. *
* FIFTH PLACE in the "Early March 18 Premiere" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *
Caseworker Determining Eligibility
Cabrini-Green Projects
Chicago
The child, age two, hammocked in the half
moon of his mother’s arms, is locked
in palsy, yet moves an eyelid as I ask,
moves the other as his mother answers,
application form interrogation.
The father was a white policeman.
“Curiosity,” the mother says. “No more.
I didn’t go with him for money.”
Donal Mahoney
I can feel my blood,
Gushing through my veins,
I have two beating hearts,
One to lose and one that pounds,
At the door of my skin,
A caged vulture in the jungle of my ribs,
For it wants to be lost,
With a jar of ashes addressed to the ones I love.
I can feel its emulsion in my blood,
A pellet of germanium in an abyss of red,The burst of colour in my wrist reminds me of death,
And how the roles reverse in circumstance,
A blush of pink on my eyelid,
A blush of pink on the periphery of my jaw,
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive
Guess I’ll play a song, I’ve heard before.
But it beckons me so,
The thin films of glass against my wrist,
Cold fingers running over jagged edges,
And I sip clean, every blunder I make,
Guess I’ll kiss my wrists pale again,
I see the crevices of my mind unfold,
I can see a face, a body to hold,
I choke on blunders, I choke alone.
My wardrobe has skeletons with sardonic smiles,
There’s crosses on the glass beneath my feet,
There’s crosses in my throat,
I’m running down the nape of my bones,
And like the phoenix once arose,
I’ll hear my voice at the bells when the church door swings,
My consciousness is an ocean, my awarness is a wave,
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive
Eh, Bebe ...
clueless you with the wide eyes open,
which can’t see
So apoplectic of heart,
paralyzed by the cobra sway
of changeling channel charmer words
Gen Z baby gloomer
remote diaphragm controlled,
go back to analog sleep
Oh oh ... video comatose —
Nightmares begat by daydreams
of reel digital silver screams
Lost Vegas patch-eye vision
of one arm pulled down
And the coins keep trickling
into your open palms
Baby Bebe gon umbilical vault cray cray
Cut the cord of the eyelid dark violet curtains ...
bling-bling blind birth
shut the womb of twin retinal glow dearth
So aorta slow,
slug cranial coma critical ...
lobotomy comatose
Virtual voices say:
eh, Bebe —
Pull the plug ... let the dying vapors go,
expired from a necrotic nasal
A knife stab on a man
Hurts as much on a kid
He has to remain mum
A brave face to cede
A woman on his side, on the other a son
Two souls to shield, emotions never freed
He has strength to lift a tonne
And more to make his tears recede
He holds the tears back like a dam
When his boiling anger feeds
His heartbreak may have no span
But he won’t flip a lid
Lucid is heartbreak to a woman
It is heart dust to a man crushed to plead
A moon ray in the absence of the sun
Sparkles a tear drop on his eyelid
When the world looks away he becomes human
Allows his tears to flow and dilute his bleeding
He knows crying a river killed no one
But bleeding a river did
Perhaps I am used to being
posed, arranged, framed
in a certain way.
What if I told you
every move
every flicker of an eyelid
every shift in weight
is carefully orchestrated
and perfectly executed.
Always a performer
who is overworked
never receiving compensation.
And why,
why must I continue
to spin on my axis
at your command?
And why,
why do I enjoy the
performance more
than executing my
existence of free will?
Where
is my performer?
There is no
dinner & a show
for the acrobat
who climbs to the
tallest of heights for
your pleasure
and falls for
my own.