Best Flinching Poems
Would you crusade to remote regions
in search of that timeless tomb, the one made of seasalt & sandstone,
to towns tempered by the terror of war, windswept with worry,
Do prayer calls of the Jihadist singe the comfort breathing in your books of traditions,
could the Koran summon an instinct of journey in the feet of your hopes,
perhaps the Bardo Thadol a simmering shout from the monastery of one's monsters
suppressed in cells of selfless sorrow, daring repressed in reminiscence of rectitude,
in the Old Testament do you find aged allergies or fertile figments of prophets' pennies,
saviors in the center of gravity cinching the flinching surfacing in proverbs proofing
along the borders of the desserts chilling in the kitchen of your cares,
Maybe in front of the Wailing Wall you'd find dust entreating you to become a martyr
for the charm of morning, on your knees amid the Caaba perhaps sand jinies will jest,
in the midst of the tree grip of Angkor Watt the tongue of first life might muse of miracles
sewn into the sackcloth of parents' aspirations, conceptions wrought from the wanted,
take it to the sky, take it to the soil, take it to the core, let saints keep score,
take it 'till there is no more -
J.A.B. %
Let’s take a ride, how about traveling, to outer space,
Just accept anything’s possible, it’s our cosmic chase,
Moving faster than light speed, in the blink of an eye,
Unleash your imagination, laws of physics, don’t apply,
Maybe stay closer to home, getting carried away,
Not that it’s impossible, Probably better this way,
I bid to free your mind, open up Pandora’s box,
Some controlling egotist, may be keeping locked.
Might think this is fantasy, I promise you not,
Keeps us unrestrained, from an imperious lot,
Rather we’d stay stupid, believe everything’s fine,
Brainwashed all our lives, left to tow the line.
Too many gaslighters, out for personal gain,
Call us troublemakers, having gall, to complain,
I am not preaching, just offering sound advice,
Keep your independence, for life’s full of choice.
Well thank God for google, if needing a little help,
Press a few touchscreens, a tonic within itself.
Always some caveats, beware of computer trolls,
Half decent firewall, should suffice on the whole.
Is too much knowledge, really a dangerous thing,
Worse than owning shotguns, barely aged sixteen,
I agree in some cases, ignorance truly is bliss,
Only if comforting, from the inevitable abyss.
Many poets shone light, on history’s darkest times,
Obscure aficionados, emancipating reality with rhyme,
Fighting nightmarish wars, writing obituaries home,
Bleeding ink upon paper, never flinching in their tone.
Others encapsulate landscape, frozen in winter snow,
How they portray nature, this rhymster will never know,
Beautiful form of art, smashing out from all restraints,
Poets you set me free, lest my tribute is mundane.
By
David Kavanagh
I
Courage, O, you most prized of virtues,
Bravely facing adversity, bitter impudence,
Betraying the lie when punishment comes
Displaying the will to rise above your peers
And face losing cherished family and friends.
II
Courage, O, you most prized of virtues,
In battle, among the most valiant of men,
Looking death in the eye without flinching
Sometimes losing your life or your limb
Modestly receiving rewards and accolades.
III
Courage, O, you most prized of virtues,
Standing for what is right and good
When all about you have folded in defeat
To have the courage of your convictions
To stand tall and be a spokesman for truth.
written June 25, 2021
I’LL GO ONCE MORE A ROVING
I’ll go once more a roving
Past my door beyond my gate
Fear and rules no more condoning
No authority berate
No more now for me to hunker
Nor to lock myself away
Loose the latch and leave the bunker
I regret I cannot stay
Take the path along the river
Cross the Heath and by the shore
In the sun I’ll no more shiver
I’ll go roving forth once more
Friends I’ll greet if not too nearing
But not veer nor shy away
Share the freedom with a clearing
Of restriction on our day
‘Safety first’ a favoured adage
In life values that we weigh
With elan as of a cabbage
Flinching ever from a fray
Those before us saw affliction
Faced a world surfeit with strife
Ventured forth without restriction
They embraced the game of life
Give us freedom of decision
May we not give reasoned voice?
Be not treated with derision
As if children, make no choice
In regime with no imposing
An existence smooth and bland
Let us go once more a roving
Wander free across the land
Bartholomew Barton; his friends called him Barty
Eighteen years old but no birthday party
Slumped in the mud, a gunshot to the shoulder
But unlike his comrades at least he’d get older
Tyrannical forces sought world domination
And Barty had marched with his mates for his nation
They gave him some medals for some of his actions
They don’t stop him flinching at noisy distractions
Those heroic deeds he did when he was able
His medals he'd sold to put food on the table
Brought him a pension that won’t pay the rent
With callers demanding the money they’d lent
One day the council demanded his key
And food graced his table now infrequently
But ‘table’ is merely an old cardboard box
And food is a bin-find he shares with a fox
He could do a D-Day and steal a small boat
And hit a Kent beach in his moth-eaten coat
But the taxes he’s paid since his battlefield hell
Do not seem to warrant a four star hotel
So thanks for your effort Bartholomew Barton
It’s qualified you for a pine veneer carton
You gave us your all to give us our today
Then too many governments turned you away
The question is now would you do it again
As you sleep under cardboard in torrential rain
For fighting a war for a brighter new day
Should not mean that home is a dank alleyway
Cold shower today - (early afternoon)
September eighth two thousand
and nineteen more challenging than June
dog days of summer test tolerance
to feel alive and bark at the moon
hypothetically imagining myself
alone in the (suburban) wilderness
fabricating, envisioning crossing pontoon
bridge while humming nonsense tune.
Jolt to body electric induces zing
unlike missus who cannot wing
subjecting her sensitive skin
versus modest bragging
rights of this faux king
please pas din me boasting,
but perhaps explanation
I shower without hot water
linkedin to aging.
Which (no matter cumulative
chronological orbitz around sun
just a number), the fleeting
passage of years doth stun
more so forces me to assess
mein kampf, retrospective
devoid of nothing merit but pun
hushing disappointment plus
self deprivation of fun.
Alas within narrowly
circumscribed realm stale
stagnation doth prevail,
I easily overwhelm
courtesy panic attacks of this male
bred avoidance behavior
(cue Pavlov's dog) hearty and hale
trained to withdraw
from challenging tasks
markedly pronounced when fail
my middle name,
where besieged psyche doth ail.
Fatherhood, albeit necessitated taking ace
sip of courage, sometimes
adept to chase
fear of unfamiliar, though
never totally erase
sing passive behavior
I attest infrequently to face
anxiety inducing situations
poise zenned clowns
feign amazing grace
me convulsing with intimidation
agitating, flinching, recoiling...
retreating into isolated place
while profuse sweat drips
from every porous space
heart beat does madly race
despite absence of any threat
exhaustion spent without
factual, logical, rational... trace.
Time and again work fraught
self into lather for naught
recurring soap opera taught
me impossible mission
to rinse figurative suds
unlike showering/washing hair,
whereby cleansing wrought.
And so I write…
not for the clamor of being known,
but to keep vigil with what will not be spoken—
those hushed and hollowed spaces
where sorrow gathers like dusk,
unannounced,
unwilling to depart.
I write
to lay gentle witness upon the wound,
to trace its sacred fracture
without flinching from its remembering,
to press my spirit against its quiet architecture
and learn the shape of what endured me.
I write
to consecrate both the breaking and the becoming—
to name the wisdom buried in ruin,
the strange and steadfast grace
that lingers in the aftermath of undoing.
And if truth be told—
I write to recall myself
from the far edges of forgetting.
To gather the scattered fragments of breath and being
and speak them, softly, back into form.
For even here—
in the most forsaken hollows of the soul,
where light feels like a long-abandoned language—
something remains.
Not loud, nor luminous at first glance,
but patient…
and unextinguished.
A quiet and unyielding ember,
veiled beneath the ash of all that was lost,
waiting not for rescue,
but for recognition.
Something that, against all undoing,
still inclines itself skyward—
still remembers the sun
as if it had never been forgotten.
And so I write—
to bear witness to that remembering,
to call it gently by its true name,
to follow its faint and faithful rise
until it becomes light again.
(writing for the voice of my son who has terminal illness)
Reality is searingly intimate. But they say anguish,
woes and sadness are emotions best shared.
I am not saying I enjoy lamenting on them or heaping
tribulations on others if I can manage these on my own
with grace, tranquility and acceptance.
Scouring out the dregs of my past is a notion
unlike exploring uncharted territory, but like pain,
I want to stare at it in the eye, no flinching.
Yet I ask, when did all go wrong; when did the roads
become forks and twists, and steep cliffs.
But I could then peer on tiptoes over the edge, unafraid
to take leaps of faith, always landing on my feet upright.
When did the moment of divergence start?
Life then made sense. Challenges I met with daring
and a tenacity to execute and perform to perfection.
There was relevance in chumming the waters,
cloaking them with the grace and finesse
that accompanies experience and excellence.
Work was not a drag - I thrived in the eye of storms.
Memories of the past are now more vivid than images of the present -
I sense that everything seems to pause in a single still moment.
Riding on motorcycles like the devil was on my tail,
leading my co-riders zigzagging on dangerous trails -
the idea of death was a vagrant who wanders another street.
How I wish time is fungible - what I would give to be where I was,
how I was, had been, always there, complete and fulfilled -
satisfying needs, goals, ambitions - been there, done that
is not my cliche.
My heart is a stuck sled in the middle of a sand dune.
Although I am in a world of stasis, expecting nothing,
I realize I have this clarity of thought and unclouded focus
to shed fear and panic as I stare death in the eye,
so I can leave this world on my own terms.
I want to dodge self-pity, dwell on the serenity of acceptance.
There is an ethereal glow in the night sky -
it should be an insanely beautiful vista out there beyond life.
@jjote031024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, Jesus, I wanted to be like you~
to bleed
without flinching,
to kneel in the dust
and mean it.
Instead, I clutch
my own crown,
not of thorns
but of ego and want~
sharp, crooked,
never quite fitting.
They told me salvation
was nails,
but my hands
are soft,
my wrists
unbroken.
I whisper forgive me
to an empty room,
and the silence
answers: Try harder.
What do I know about hockey
I'm watching the guys flying on ice
With sticks in hands and a tiny black thingy
which I called it "chip" they're skating and fighting over it
Oh but this sport looks painful
They're hitting and slamming into each other
And the crowd gets so wild about it
Back and fort they skate and hit
And I am flinching and worrying they might be hurt
It seems like the crowd get so riled up
Especially when two guys had a free fight
Now they go take timeout in the glass box
Just then one red jersey guy shoot the black thingy into the net
And the lively crowd went up singing
Scooore scooore
At long last I can cheer clapping hands
Not knowing I wasn't supposed to cheer for that scoring team
Booo... Lets go Rangers they chanted
Oh this sport looks real exciting but I am very sure the players will be black and blue the next day
Lol... What do I know about hockey... Smile :)
Akkina R Downing
4-30-17
This world of ours is not always a good place
behind closed doors so many terrible things occur.
Hidden from plain sight some suffer endless torture
by the very ones who should love them the most.
Terrible things done sometimes in loves name
horrific beatings handed out, just for the sake of control.
Murders committed simply because one person will not share
killing so no-one else can take their supposed loved one away.
Children living in fear beaten and starved flinching at loud voices
creeping round like little mice hoping praying they are not noticed.
Gangs that bully and terrorise neighbourhoods while selling drugs
slashing up rival gangs purely for more territory to increase their strangle hold
to continue their evil crimes. Young girls and boys sold into sexual slavery,
victims each and everyone and all for profit. War torn countries
full of horrendous abuse, dead and injured cast aside like trash.
Yet for each who deals out these horrible crimes once they were
different, once they were loved. Can all be explained away by the fact
that they were taught by those that reared them in these horrific circumstances?
Or is it true that some were born monsters who enjoy other's pain and grief?
Practicing their craft on helpless victims as they grow up pulling wings of birds
slicing and dicing up beloved pets. Always attacking the weak and helpless.
Plain bullies that carry out their crimes in secret afraid to face those of strength.
One never really knows what goes on behind those closed doors. Yet when a
victim finally snaps and turns the tables oft times they are the ones our systems
punish and lock away behind bars while their tormentor is left free to continue
their rampage. Who I ask is the beast? Mankind surely deserves this name not animals.
Cyborg Sleep
An image of a man stands serene against the rock cold wall
Vigilant eyes study the distant city
Elongated and curved shapes form in his mechanical mind
Only nature there to sense it’s out of place motions
The cybernetic organism, alien life
Coming to life on the barren world
A living machine, automaton, a time sentinel
Built with purpose
Watches with singular intent
All there is…. all that’s left
Never flinching…. Nearly motionless…. somber in demeanor
This replica of humans holds solid ground and waits
Programed to move occasionally at times
To generate power in its core components to survive
The guardian of humanity stands
A solid figure with a small metallic vile
Sheltered within hides a remnant DNA specimen strand
(It is the last fragment of human’s survival and hope)
Nestled deep in the power source
Atomic silent and serene it keeps the centuries still
In time to come, with luck
The cyborg will be cracked open like an egg one day
Perhaps by another benevolent humanoid race
To reassemble the family of man from the remnants left
Or the time sentinel will roam the Earth alone
Carrying humanity along literally in the heart
In an endless awakening from alien sleep
No one to ever know the secret that he keeps
A grasshopper went
where a grasshopper shouldn't go.
He crawled under my bed clothes
and tickled my toe.
Then I could feel him crawl up my leg.
His actions were funny
felt like a peg,
opening and closing,
probing and pinching,
I became nervous my body was flinching.
Climbed into to my panties
and I let out a yell.
Was this really happening
who can I tell ?
Lucky for me
it walked to my tummy.
I began to panic
and called out to my mummy.
Next thing I know
it was sitting on my arm.
Chose to ignore it
if I could just stay calm.
Eventually it found
its way to my face.
At that point
I became hysterical
wet myself and was in disgrace.
Embarrassed I blinked
then shut my eye,
could feel his body
I wanted to die.
So he manuvoured himself down from my eye
the tears rolled down my cheeks
what else could I do but cry.
Then he stuck out his feeler
gave me a poke, then spoke,
"Settle down you silly girl,
can't you take a grasshoppers joke ?"
the tongue is just another muscle
gives strength to what we think
amidst life's daily hustle bustle
helps thoughts to words interlink
so the father with his mother tongue
speaks to progeny generations come
lessons learned to offspring young
good ways to live, his rule of thumb
still would wince at his tongue lashing
flinching, blinking, cowering and meek
if shouted anger from lips came flashing
'stead of old man's jokes, tongue-in-cheek
but before I become too tongue-tied
some tongue twister squarely knotted
I'll place my tongue-in-cheek aside
to address these words I've jotted
and tell of my admiration for tongue
no forked tongue falsehood to relate
some silver tongued notes clearly sung
of glossa tongues and hooks and baits
that lovely lingual muscle hydrostat
can do things fit for moans and groans
I can hint, alluding to this and that
of things we tongue like flesh and bones
I think you'll agree with my observations
presented to you, from my mind sprung
and think of your own tasty applications
many things budding the tip of your tongue
© Goode Guy 2011-07-04
Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path,
Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune,
Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet
Now you wouldn’t even know it was there.
The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but
Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now
Overgrown with the passage of time.
As children we would follow that path
Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other
Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end
To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar,
Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please.
For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves,
Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness
There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times.
Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window
My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the
Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though
I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands
Hammering in time with the wireless, our
Hair and clothes powdered with the dust
Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present.
Those memories now lay in the dust, like
Echoes clinging to a voice, all
The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now
- Gathering dust
Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that
I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve
Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child,
Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind.
John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’
28 Feb. 15