Best Fists Poems
Teeth clutched in furious fists,
Miles high above the mists,
Eyes thrust on identity’s this,
A smile wandering far amiss.
So this is the face of a simile,
Resting peacefully in eternity,
Here’s a figure of stoic rectitude,
Reflecting over mass ineptitude.
Of time I once knew,
When my lady a sword withdrew,
A flirt upon an ocular lance,
Its mark on earth to live or dance.
It is but an unseemly error,
This wholly world of fluid terror,
Think not twice or multiples upon it,
Suffer the stones that bite to hit.
For once upon a broken time,
There was a cheapened hollow dime,
Whose mother eyed a parenthetical ghost,
Truth attired in a burning roast.
This then is the tale,
Of memories and mountains yet to scale,
Birds, mice, pearls and dice,
Plain secrets to unlock life’s holy device.
Living is more than getting the most,
Dying comes later in the laugh of the host,
He whose voice know’s of no other,
Sees the face of man’s earthly mother.
Its not make believe following the rules,
Nor a farce to question social tools,
A question of policy expressed in a letter,
A conceptual echo though hardly better.
Our day is here high to boot,
To laugh with the wind like an uncouth hoot,
The unborn faces of earthly flowers yet to come,
To rise, to whither, blasphemy for some.
Since he first walked, he made the outdoors his
while at home, paternal love was shown with fists.
His Mother’s love wasn’t enough for him to resist
leaving home and his Father’s frequent body hits.
He fell to his knees, “God, I need to be a man
and I’m only fifteen, so please hold my hand.
Father, help me become a good, good man.”
He worked many farms, rooming in barns.
He learned about crops, he learned to build,
he developed farming and carpentry skills.
He paid his bills, never let his loneliness spill.
He bowed his head, “God, thanks that I am fed,
I have a roof, a bed and work skills in hand.
Please, help me, God, be a good, good man.”
He grew to love labor under nature’s sky.
He felt he and the country saw eye to eye,
but in society, he wasn’t sure how to get by.
So, at eighteen, he gave the Job Corp a try.
He locked his fingers, “God, bless my stand,
as I find my way in more industrious lands.
Help me grow to be a good, good man.”
A new widow stands by her husband’s fresh grave
feeling the love-grief flashes their sixty years made.
She looks at their grown children, searching for his strengths,
and sees his traces in these faces, love linked.
Later, at twilight, alone on their country porch,
she sees city skyline in yonder darkness approach.
She knows each night, she will sit here most –
with the lit outline of skyscrapers he designed,
spied from their home he crafted in his beloved sunshine.
In tears, her head bows, “Thank you, God. Glory to your plan
that blessed me with the love of a good, good man.”
Written August 28, 2015
Just another night at the disco
Just another night puting on a show
Pouring our souls over the sweat drenched fists pumping on the dance floor
They scream out like flowers in a spring bloom
Dancing on E Street with Crazy Horse
Breaking hearts in the back room
So come a little closer
Let me drop a little rhythm in your ear
Sweet nothings on the dance floor
See what tonight's got in store
So pump up the beat a little more
Let their feet fall right through the floor
Let 'em feel the bass pumping through their veins
Coming right at 'em like a freight train
There should be more ants marching on the floor
But without their queen we'll take what we can get
Their hearts are jumping and they're screaming for more
Despite not knowing who they're screaming for
Little jack rabbits wailing for
Eager sailors ready to explore
Keep on dancing the night away
Whether to celebrate or numb the pains of yesterday
Don't stop, always want a little more
Stand up, demand a vicious encore
For when your heart slows
You won't be able to dance anymore
So come a little closer
Let me drop a little rhythm in your ear
Sweet nothings on the dance floor
See what tonight's got in store
So pump up the beat a little more
Let their feet fall right through the floor
Let 'em feel the bass pumping through their veins
Coming right at 'em like a freight train
crouched in the corner
her head is covered
face blood smothered
when the bruises fade
their replaced with another
she looks in the mirror
with makeup she covers
drops to her knees
hangs her head and she cries
each day that passes, another piece of her dies
he sees her crying and calls her weak
hits her hard, he's upped the tweak
she hears the screams of her 5 year old son
"daddy daddy stop! stop hitting mum"!
but he doesn't listen it only fuels his rage
so he hits her again like a dog in a cage
her eyes are swollen
her nose is broken
she prays to God to give her a token
a token of courage, for strength to walk away
life is a burden she now faces every day
fear is his partner, they now own her soul
he has stolen her spirit, her life he controls
clumps of her hair lay scattered on the floor
she cant breathe, she cant fight anymore
her broken bones they hurt
blood stains on her shirt
his taunts and nasty words scarred in her mind
how could love ever have been so blind?
once a strong woman now broken and numb
she now looks at the woman he has made her become
and so all the love she gave
slowly fades away
she's gotta say goodbye
before she dies inside
all the love she gave
now replaced with hate
her scars are torn apart
just like her broken heart
she looks at her son, sees the tears in his eyes
and comforts her boy, then together they cry
unclench your fists
there's no fighting here
why are you so hostile?
Sometimes the pain hits me in the face
Sometimes I need your fingers and lace
Ó my steel fists, see, I rolled up the sleeves with subtle splendor;
to see my strength my beard rigid,
my darkness behind these my eyes
bewitched...[...]
that took away the spell
to see the curves,and the wheels,
and the weights of my consciences,
ye fools, Ó my handles of steel,
they dazzle my strength,my fists of steel,
the ones that made me blabber,the face of Judas,
these fists that I locked in the jaws of Pilates,
these steel handles they avoided, the cross,
and man that in these stops of jesuralém,
did not let the religion grow, among the ecnoplasts,
between the roads of rome, these my fists of steel,
who avoided dilemmas and dogmas,
and more that sosnoplasty, of people
immature, and of peoples,barbarians, who followed me, oases,
of the heavenly eva, in the mbanza Congo,
ignore fantasies, I do not like
English, into Roman languages, the barbarians
of stupid, stupid faces, oh my steel fists
what I was leoned in my africas
He said "Look what you made me do!"
his words that had turned her black and blue.
Her children's eyes are scarred for life,
they saw their father beating his wife.
They don't
remember what their daddy did,
a child's memories can be sadly dismissed..
They grow up claiming their father's stories,
it's the abuser who claims the glory.
A wife who suffered from his blows,
his actions that cut her very soul.
His tongue spit words of violence and hate,
hiding, she wouldn't allow her pain to escape.
She held them close, with every single word,
then took them with her out the door.
She said "Look what you made me do!"
her words, like his, rings true.
She left him sulking in all his pity,
his begging bringing about a religious committee.
The elders wouldn't let them divorce,
unless adultery was the main course.
But she was determined to leave her abuser,
she knew he'd always be an abusive loser.
All these things were over looked,
by the committee, the elders and the sacred book.
No one helped her in the end,
they all turned against her, family and friends.
She battled against all of them,
her strength and will by them condemned.
She left them all, and never excused,
her favorite quote, "Look what you made me do."
This poem is sad and accurately true,
behind closed doors,
her bruises faded from black to blue.
She recovers in due time,
And celebrates a wonderful life.
Rocky Marciano was the only Heavyweight champion who couldn't be beat.
In all of his forty-nine prizefights, he never once suffered a defeat.
This awesome boxer had heart, stamina and he was strong.
Some people also thought that Mike Tyson couldn't be beat but they were wrong.
Marciano was the Heavyweight champion for four years.
He had fists of fury and didn't know the meaning of fear.
But sadly something happened that filled people with disgust.
In 1969 he died in a plane crash on the last day of August.
The next day after his death would've been his 46th birthday.
It is never easy to see such a great person pass away.
(DEDICATED TO ROCKY MARCIANO WHO DIED AUGUST 31, 1969.)
A regal black Prince stood atop a college curb.
Standing majestically at 5'4 however, slightly more than I atop the stone.
He was narrating a past fight he had fought with a tall white antagonist; who was not I for me and the Prince were friends.
I was also of medium stature.
The Prince spoke of how he had been harassed for his race, for his essence.
I listened with keen ears and precision, watching him reanimate his nociceptive experience.
The climax reamed and swung the late summer's night into the early fall.
By no mal intent, the tale became alive for I and the Prince.
I saw the fist of a larger story; propelling perpendicularly towards my face.
As it's arch drew nigh my left arm had risen.
The arm of heart.
Some may call it a flinch, some enguard.
My arm formed a prickle elbow, acting as a makeshift buckler of feeling flesh to block my jaw.
Only to shield the Prince's rage from my mind in the nic of time.
The Prince showed remorse for he did not know the range of his strike, nor his pain.
He meant to only tell the tale.
Yet if his blow had landed, I would have fallen concussed.
As a martial artist of peace, my right hand reached to pat his shoulder, as if to say you are still and always have been my brother.
I then thanked my tempered body for it's reflexes.
It makes one ponder what a flinch may truly be.
Perhaps a reactionary response to danger, to spare our vital organs?
But I say maybe not entirely.
Perhaps it is the body's way of protecting itself from undue pain and its subsequent woes.
To preserve the soul inside the shell.
For higher amities that come to those who seek such elusive resolutions.
Sons and daughters that do will be coronated as heir, to rule the realm of humanity.
Seashell fists, salt-bitten and flipping stones
watching waves contort
as they crashed into one another
I remember liking how sun rays shone on my teeth
when my face would tilt up as I laughed
but did my teeth yellow
from all the days I spent smiling up at the sky?
I, a fluid body plucked
from the sea
to a classroom seat
My bare skin
against a school chair
rubbed till sore and raw pink
When I can count every pore on your face
each fold of your skin
magnified up to mine
The sweat on your eyelids / tear ducts and all
boxes me up into four bleached-white walls
It would be nice if I could wait
for blood to flow between my legs
before I raise alarms on my tongue
that twists
when I feel the heat
I wish to be an 8-foot giant
with wiry hands of steel
who walks through cityscapes
fingers pointed to the sky
For once I wouldn’t have to raise my voice
I bite with my adult teeth
And sharpen my nails against sandpaper
My 8-foot- giant-footprints would leave marks on the ground
Yet it’s all but a thought I have
when I stare out of the class window
I wish to be with those girls cast in wax
but someone has to be here
with the seashell fists clenched tight
legs pinned to a chair
they look up
hands cuff
its saying things
like there a change
to let you know
this is a no show
and we can't miss
if we do this
doing itwith
a
STRONG FISTS
Form:
His plaintive cry pierced the air
pleading to travel somewhere
Sympathizers marched in a faraway square
their fists clenched in slogans
As he bled to death slowly
~ in the presence of no one
the public thoroughfare
pummeled, profaned
verbal fists rumble from
amped-up throats...
a generation or two
with nothing better to do
than scream at the intersection
of decline and decay