Best Fisted Poems
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.”
David Levithan
I will forever be as pure
as white virgin fibres,
in your onyx
field of ravens.
When the
star-crossed
silhouette of
bleeding ink,
ricochets like
vindictive arrows,
within your
hollow walls,
quenched with
muted echoes,
I am reminded of
your ebony eyes,
cradled under
black decomposing flesh.
I shove my
misunderstood identity
into a pocket journal,
embalmed with a
fragrance of peace lilies
and rhapsodical prose,
amidst doleful dusks
painted with
past mistakes
hidden beneath
narratives of sinful
tangerine nights.
But, remember
that your fallacious
name is an
erased footnote
in the history of
relentless runes.
My tormented tongue
has become
immune to
your false screams.
There is no need
for close-fisted
fingers to flip
through pages,
of the story
I left behind,
as visions of
venomous verses
cremate into
ashes in my mind-
as mere memories
of monologues from
ice cold monsoons,
which don’t define me.
I’ve sculpted fragile
paper boats and
watched them ferry my
demons,
floating on daisies
in a ravishing rivulet
of truth and tranquility,
whilst you chase
impassioned imprints
within chapters
written in patterns
of insincere phrases.
I am a survivor of
your storm,
drawing dreams in
drowsy darkness,
blooming my
amethyst artistry,
which vibrantly
beats to burgundy
evolutions of a
blossoming flower,
who's scent you
will never savor.
My petals
may be fragile,
but I refuse to remain
prisoned in toxic
traits of a
weathered wildflower -
I only attract
majestic butterflies.
Inexpert at rhyme
or singing in time
I bray like a laryngitic donkey
my artwork's inept
I'm ham-fisted except
when doodling things that are wonky
Of style I'm bereft
my feet are both left
splayed in an opposite direction;
'tis little wonder
I blindfully blunder
into despair and abject dejection
My mind is a bog
of gunk and cheap grog
my gray matter's shrinking, I fear
today is a haze
yesterday a maze
and everything's clearly unclear
My dress sense is eish
and fits not my niche
nor do my shorts, come to that
my flip-flops are worn
my t-shirts all torn
one boob is fat, one is flat!
Despite many a flaw
I'm not an eyesore
though ungainly and lacking in style
with my stunning good looks
I easily hooked
your soon-to-be-ex with my smile
What Of This Niggardly Miserable Earth
What of this niggardly miserable earth
this small plot awaiting a white tombstone
when she cares and asks what is it all worth
once enslaved a soul fades into bone
a place to arrive and sleep and slumber
deep under so willingly turned soil
when life gasped and then ups your number
no more the dawn's waking or daily toil
here sleep with ancient and wizened trees
O great wizard is there no remedy
is life just spasms and then some comedy
no amount of beggarly hoping please
is there not paradise thus awaiting
kind when we think of a life of pure ease.
What of this niggardly miserable earth.
When she cares and asks what is it all worth?
Robert J. Lindley, 16 verse sonnet
JULY-03-1971, age 17
Note ; Erased
************************
Dictionary-: NIGGARDLY
Definitions from Oxford Languages · Learn more
nig·gard·ly
adjective
ungenerous; stingy.
"serving out the rations with a niggardly hand"
Similar:
miserly
parsimonious
close-fisted
penny-pinching
cheeseparing
penurious
grasping
greedy
avaricious
Scroogelike
ungenerous
illiberal
close
mean
stingy
mingy
tight
tightfisted
money-grubbing
money-grabbing
cheap
near
View 2 vulgar slang words
Opposite:
generous
adverb ARCHAIC
in a stingy or meager manner.
Now they say that girls are made of sugar
And spice, but good girls finish last my friend.
For there is one truth for all women kind,
Come hell or high water we will fight
For our right to indulge ourselves in
The need for perfections greatest
Confections, COOKIES!!!
Yes we will take down that cookie
Puppet clown, dressed in blue,
For there is no fiercer monster known
To man, then a women who’s cookie
Faddish is left unsatisfied.
Peanut butter to chocolate chip,
Just pass the milk and watch out dude,
For women shall be the first to dip.
Call us the two fisted women of the
Raw dough generation, we don’t
Really care, just pass grandma’s old
Cookie jar.
Roll me down the bakery sweet,
No fragrance smells finer then freshly
Baked what ladies, COOKIES.
Sugar me sweet it’s the ladies favorite
Treat, by the bucket or truck load it can’t
Be beat, frosted or plain, it matters not,
But without Milk its sacrilege that is
No doubt!!
Now chocolate maybe the vise five to
Seven days a month, but cookies rule
As the male race drools, because honey
There is no doubt women will take you
Don’t for what, lets all say it ladies around
The world, all together now, SAY WHAT
COOKIES!!!!!!
By the way did I tell you my favorite
Food in the world, of course it’s very
Obvious, COOKIES!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO POET DESTROYER
And to all women
visitin me aunty Cushla
For the first time in Ballybay
I found meself beside a signpost
An I stopped to find me way.
It was then I spied a little feller
Laid behind a bale of hay
He was prepared to help me
but wanted to know what I was prepared to pay.
Well I couldn't believe what I was hearin
He's a tight fisted scallywag
but he wouldn't listen to reason
and jangled the coins in his money bag.
Would ye do that to a feller Irishman ?
I hope yer marry a sour faced old hag
He said , Why do yer think I'm chargin yer
Shut yer gob an get out yer swag.
He rubbed his hands as I counted me money
Just like Ebenezer Scrooge
Gigglin like an hyena
With his cheeks the colour of rouge.
Twenty pieces of silver
I thought his price was huge
The guys a bloody comedian
an I am to be his stooge.
He stood up from behind the bale
An dressed in so many shades of green
With his funny hat and his little pipe
On his shillelagh he began to lean.
Now where was it yer said yer were goin
Ah Ballybay , Well to prove I'm not too mean
I'm gonna walk there with yer
Aren't I the most generous leprechaun yerv ever seen?
As we walked I told him about me aunty Cushla
an me bein on holiday fer two weeks
He handed me back me money
I'm so dumbfounded I can't speak
Ah to see a leprechaun yer must believe
He said,So yer must forgive me cheek
An its luvvly to see a young Irish lad
Who didn't treat me like a freak.
Well Shamus an me became buddies
Fer the duration of me stay
Downin pints an eatin colcannon
an dancin in the Irish way
He could really play a fiddle
An no more did I have to pay
I loved me visit to see aunty Cushla
On me first trip to Ballybay.
On that summer’s day when we first meet and kissed,
I knew you Madelaine as one I could adore.
Against your family’s wishes, I still persisted
in wooing you; we’d wed or I’d be your paramour.
The levant winds blew through Spain’s hills unfettered
bringing death to suitors far and wide from above.
We had cause to feel our choice had made us debtors,
leaving our love a littered path, a ball-fisted glove.
Like Romeo I’d leave, not die, but without a trace
for I’d not hurt you more and death would be too much.
I’d give you time to heal your sorrows to embrace,
to come to terms with the rightness of our chaste touch.
In a far off land, I recall your devotion;
your lamented father’s wish for a princely dower,
but all have died who wished our love to be undone.
Soon, I’ll claim my Lady from her empty tower.
Fate gifted us passion, drinking from its chalice.
We waded through flaming waves of rising ardor,
in your summer home, your primrose covered palace.
The memories of your touch make absence harder.
As I looked across the wind-blown spray of ocean,
my mind turned to the sadness of our parting hours
Kneeling, I begged for a distance closing potion
so I could reclaim you to our rosy bower.
I see your longing, desperate, lovely, face
endowed in fears dire depth as we parted from the clutch.
I reminded you distance could not erase love’s trace
or lesson my need to feel your soft, gentle touch.
Last week, I sent a love-soaked, tear-stained letter;
now I return aboard a ship to my sweet dove.
I hope my missive sent has made you feel better,
nevermore will I be denied the touch of my love.
By Robert Lindley and Deborah Guzzi
my angel, fallen ...
gossamer linen, violet lace
window-dressing body, pressing
goddess of unblemished grace
beckoning - urge reckoning
clasp me, push me ... down with you.
close, to see my eyes in yours
heart of darkness, warm and artless
measured with our carnal cores
fallowed - soon, unhallowed
pull me, draw me ... down with you.
savor sweet, your taste is mine
greedy swallows fill my hollows
faultless form, engorged supine
whetted - blade unfettered
cut me, rend me ... down with you.
pity, fawn to take me in
I, the frozen quarry, chosen
bartered virtue, ceded sin
merging - madness surging
gather me, wrench me ... down with you.
each dynamic sates a thirst
a darkened oath devours both
raptured sighs so unrehearsed
spasm - plunging chasm
drench me, drown me ... down with you.
painted nails to flay my frame
stripes of lust, a jealous trust
lesions roused for fervor's flame
unversed - do your worst
stain me, rake me ... down with you.
feral places, once denied
cognate parts to blackened hearts
souls and selves we can't divide
twisted - double-fisted
grind me, burn me ... down with you.
sing to me a siren's wail
rip the rhyme from all sublime
watch the frenzied portions flail
disguised - hell, improvised
smite me, drag me ... down with you.
all in, my angel ... fallen
so sweetly, and
so deeply
down.
with.
you.
** This is a poetic form I created called “Torridelle”, (not the actual shape, but the rhyme scheme, phrasing and metre). **
~
~ 2nd Place ~ in the Poetry Soup "Wow Me" Poetry Contest, Nina Parmenter, Judge & Sponsor.
Thrusting deep into my soul,
again …….and ……again
he penetrates with poetic prowess
the velvet softness of my dreams.
Pounding into pleasure’s pool,
HE R A V I S H E S:
r~i~p~p~l~i~n~g through me with rhythm ~ and ~ rhyme
Sublime sensuality in scented syllables
I exhale emotions.
Sated by the secrets of his syntax secretions,
My pounding heartbeats begin to calm
Fisted hands open to palm.
The tears of euphoria subside
I HIDE
Sweetly safe and sound
In the word haven of his arms
Eileen Manassian
* This is a rather intricate form I created called a “Torridelle” - I hope you enjoy it! *
~
my Angel, fallen ...
gossamer linen, violet lace
window-dressing body, pressing
goddess of unblemished grace
beckoning - urge reckoning
clasp me, push me ... down with you.
close, to see my eyes in yours
heart of darkness, warm and artless
measured with our carnal cores
fallowed - soon, unhallowed
pull me, draw me ... down with you.
savor sweet, your taste is mine
greedy swallows, fill my hollows
faultless form, engorged supine
whetted - blade unfettered
cut me, rend me ... down with you.
pity, fawn to take me in
I, the frozen quarry chosen
bartered virtue, ceded sin
merging - madness surging
gather me, wrench me ... down with you.
each dynamic sates a thirst
a darkened oath devours both
raptured screams yet unrehearsed
spasm - plunging chasm
drench me, drown me ... down with you.
painted nails to flay my frame
stripes of lust, a jealous trust
lesions roused for fervor's flame
unversed - do your worst
stain me, rake me ... down with you.
feral places, once denied
cognate parts to blackened hearts
souls and selves we can't divide
twisted - double-fisted
grind me, burn me ... down with you.
sing to me a siren's wail
rip the rhyme from all sublime
watch the frenzied portions flail
disguised - hell, improvised
smite me, drag me ... down with you.
all in, My Angel ... fallen
so sweetly, and
so deeply
down.
with.
you.
Disrupting the general flow of the ruby blaze,
As ghosts, there are shadows in the haze.
Air-filled skeletons, bone-filled skull,
Sneaking in the shadows, stained by the dull.
Alluding to cruel as zesty and delicate as sour,
Lying expertise of apt words and clear power.
Like a bursting fire against a robotic device,
A chaotic request is like blossoms and tree slice.
I'm cruising through a vast ocean of worry,
And scream at the swift currents of destiny.
Consistently, news shows up in a foaming rage,
Which my reasoning could then arrange!
I succumb to impulsive complex troubles,
From across the world, there were struggles.
Keeping trust that others will concur with me,
I'll make certain to convey to you my sincerity.
Since that bear near what will mend desire,
In return for virtuous air and no nuke dire.
For journalese, there last saporous sighs,
Which deal the world may aim for arise.
Probe into my modern Coronavirus flyswatter,
Who am I behind the hazy mask marauder?
Turn into a fellow of the New World mastery,
A nonhuman, scared, and iron-fisted society.
Consuming rotting husks to fill their stomach,
Inadequacy's meal served in dirty dumb luck.
As vacant hoists in cobwebs made of whin brace,
These remain the terms of dozing brilliance.
Written: April 08, 2022
1st Place contest winner
New World Order Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Mocking the dead,
the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,
but
the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.
Hell,
the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.
Mocking the dead,
making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.
Here,
where the black white shadows
pond and melt
her dress
flutters around the
pronounced scimitar
of her neck line.
Eyes whisper
fr-ig-id
with a syllabically thick accent
as if cold were a ham-fisted lug
emerging from the
yawning dark mouth
of the cabin behind her
pressing his hands
with the grip
of a dying man
bracing his last breath
with each
light blue,
half moon
fingernail.
The sun is up, the sun is yellow, shining bright.
Reflection of chrome, pointed nowhere in particular.
Where there should be peace, it’s high noon.
A breakdown in communication, shrieking bars.
Reflection of chrome, pointed nowhere in particular,
until an itching trigger finger got caught in its snare.
A breakdown in communication, shrieking bars,
teeth bared between tumbleweed growth on worn face.
Until an itching trigger finger got caught in its snare,
the peacemaker slept with his stetson over good eye.
Teeth bared, between tumbleweed growth on worn face,
an enemy with a singular task approaches his foe.
The peacemaker slept with his stetson over good eye,
a scarred patch could see past the dusty row.
An enemy, with a singular task, approaches his foe,
notorious with two-fisted cannons to smoke him.
A scarred patch could see past the dusty row,
his hearing, respectable - comes recurring nightmare,
notorious with two fisted cannons to smoke him.
A red-tailed hawk tattles on the uncuffed catalyst.
His hearing, respectable - comes recurring nightmare.
Where there should be peace, it’s high noon
A red-tailed hawk tattles on the uncuffed catalyst.
The sun is up, the sun is yellow, shining bright.
The branch lays across the brook
blocking the water's flow
Some things in life happen this way
A conflict, a blockage, things to say
So much verbalized, but nothing heard
Trying to help, facing each stubborn word
Bring you in circles, trapped in this place
Where is the welcome, open space?
What makes things backwards, tangled, twisted?
Brewing in what feels double fisted
Bottom line is, it's not worth it, times like these
So, be that branch underneath the trees
Sometimes, silent is the best to be
Listen, care, but let the advice flee
To somewhere else in the water's flow
One of so many lessons to learn, this I know
Heidi Sands
1/20/24
(C)opyright
The world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake malleable, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations’ unseen to the denizens of land, disregarded in man’s wake.
From the diatom, to the whale, from the single cell to the open hand
from the sun, to the stars, to the mushroom bomb, we’ve light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light,
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, as throngs rise asking for hand
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood has ended, the tell-tale snake does wake.
Death’s rattle will subside, as the head eats the tail of depression.
Communication will become the global antidepressant.
Natives in aboriginal huts and Inuit in igloos will see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide for hand in hand, each cell wakes.
No longer can knowledge be withheld. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the tit will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, the tyrant and the saint juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant communication, shall scrape the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of finger tip to key shall depress
and ignorance will flee, freeing the hungry
for the way out ,the way up, the key, light-heartedly
heads bowed in prayer, we shall revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of rods depressed
rods magnetized and charged with lightening
for we all hunger.
Each evolution a revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.