Best Gashes Poems
These scars on my soul are beautiful and painful,
deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes;
the sorrow I keep within me is dreadful,
my short life has been full of death and whys.
Deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes,
I thought the passage of time would heal the scars;
my short life has been full of death and whys,
at night all my beloved are the sparkling stars.
I thought the passage of time would heal the scars,
I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies;
at night my beloved are the sparkling stars,
my forever grief is full of long past sweet reveries.
I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies,
weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone;
my forever grief is full of long past reveries,
within my soul the forever sorrow still moans.
Weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone,
yet from this pain something beautiful was to be;
within my soul the forever sorrows still moan,
and I write from a scarred soul my sad poetry.
Yet from this pain something beautiful was to be,
the sorrow I keep within me is dreadful;
and I write from a scarred soul my poetry,
these scars on my soul are beautiful and painful.
A Trek Into A Forest Wonderfully Deep,
(New Dawn- Second Battle, Part Two)
This vista, newfound view image of divine scene
fertile virgin ground, pretty as a peacock's preen
born of inked splashes, and poet's bleeding blood
flow from deep gashes, paints virgin soil as red-mud.
Nature's true beauty sent to poet's beating heart
illuminated glory at dawn's gifted start
gurgling brook, waters racing into crystal clear lake
sad weeping soul inhales, as much as one can take.
Morning trek, my how such a change the mind renews
once a train wreck, now healing beneath sky blue
All aghast, miracle that comes as divine gift
life changing wonders sent so fast, sent to uplift.
This vista, newfound view image of divine scene.
Fertile virgin ground, pretty as a peacock's preen.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-19-2019
Sonnet, ( The Second Battle-- Part Two)
Note: I rose from bed early. By 6 am I was 8 miles away,
walking into the deep woods. Therapy for a soul that was
in deep blues, seeking an answer to how to fight this dark
and its beasts that it so uses. Mother Nature spoke, saying-
to poet soldier, this such savages can never truly see. Watch
as I gift you such deeper sight. As I saw images that I never
had seen before. I realized, my deep blues were trivial and
a temporary lapse on my part. As once I knew we mortals
too oft fall pray to the destructive voices of the minions of
darkness and its infinitely wicked rage. Arriving home,
mere minutes later sipping hot coffee on my front porch.
Nature spoke from my front yard as a squirrel climbed down
from an oak tree fifteen feet away-- looked at me and chattered
away for about three minutes! Then I understood, too oft we
forget to fight! Coffee drank, into my den , my sword ,sharpened
anew. This the second battle commenced and ink splashed to defeat
an enemy that never ever sleeps, and never ever gives any mercy
to its foes... And so the cycle continues.......
Stepped from ashes
healed are gashes
from sin's lashes
with God's glory.
Blessed in rivers
drunk by givers
love delivers
Gifted story.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Nettle's Desiderata Contest, 12/5/14
Theme #3
The sky bathes the harbor in cyan turquoise
cadet-blue sea foam bubbles the only gorget one has
versus the flamingos and canaries absconding littoral mire
the gashes on my feet, the burn in my gracilis
have returned me yet again to
sanctum:
la vie en rose,
where
lips breathe lunarias into drift bottles
love songs the only tune in our ears,
lilac mica on denim morpho
is the heart in my chest,
and the color of your hair
when the sun decides
its inevitable rest
everything must come to an end,
but the feeling I get
when you scrunch your nose
and shake wisteria dust
off raven plumes
eclipsing spinel
opals
and if describing them is the one thing I can do,
then the paint in my mouth may go stale
fingertips now pruney, lazy, tired
vision indispensable falling pallid
the paper of my visage a
wrinkly,
sallow
pity
but the young wish of a besotted soul
to grow old with your puling orbs
granted
ink sinks the coral lens
your darling hands
have fixed over my head
but my legs are torn,
and my teeth broken
aching
for another laugh
rumbling through
your vibrating back
that my cheek is pressed into,
and I drown
willing
smile
wistful
hush
still.
No torrid steel rod cauterized my wounds
I could not lick the festering gashes clean
Your sharp-bladed tongue bit too deep
fangs plunged with each vile cursed scene
No mere prick or scratch did you inflict
as thorns draw drops from a finger laid bare
You severed our dangling cord with a stare
Without gauntlet thrown before you swayed
I was waylaid in the pitfall of vows betrayed
I sat weeping upon moistened ground
faintly hearing from ears, a snarling sound
a vile bitterness in your laughter as I stirred
If you have a conscience, I shall be its burr
You turned your back and sidled away
basking in glory; your cruelty had been done
but there is no victory for you, nothing won
for a man whose feet were molded of clay
How often you preyed on weakness of others
while you played at being sanctimonious
Liquid courage brings death that smothers
but I escaped the hold you once tightly held
before my life had been snuffed and felled
I still breathe and I've no fear to speak
I've been set free, and I'm no longer weak
My tongue holds daggers of its own
whetted on the grind stone of your deception
I was hungry for strength, parched with thirst
to take vengeance as my anger grew
emotions that were long past due
Felling you would then label me a doer of evil
which is something I would never desire to be
Vengeance will never be mine to take
knowing this is true is what set me free
Years will pass but I shall never forget
that I was true to you, yet I sorely regret
not realizing the kind of person I loved
I've moved on and no longer grieve
while you still swim in the fiery waters
of your besotted world of make believe
These scars on my soul are beautiful and painful,
deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes;
the sorrow I keep within me is dreadful,
my short life has been full of death and whys.
Deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes,
I thought the passage of time would heal the scars;
my short life has been full of death and whys,
at night all my beloved are the sparkling stars.
I thought the passage of time would heal the scars,
I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies;
at night my beloved are the sparkling stars,
my forever grief is full of long past sweet reveries.
I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies,
weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone;
my forever grief is full of long past reveries,
within my soul the forever sorrow still moans.
Weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone,
yet from this pain something beautiful was to be;
within my soul the forever sorrows still moan,
and I write from a scarred soul my sad poetry.
Yet from this pain something beautiful was to be,
the sorrow I keep within me is dreadful;
and I write from a scarred soul my poetry,
these scars on my soul are beautiful and painful.
_________________________
December 12, 2015 (Repost)
Poetry/Pantoum/''Scars"(originally Beautiful Scars)
Copyright Protected ID 12-1122-511-12
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Premier contest, Your Best Poem, 2020
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
________________________
Originally posted with the title of Beautiful Scars
Submitted to the contest, Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever, Lu Loo, First Place
Submitted to the contest, Your Personal Favorite Poem, Ironik, Third Place
Submitted to the contest, Your Absolute Best, The Seeker, Fourth Place
Submitted to the contest, A Poem You Are Proud OF, Skat, Fourth Place
Submitted to the contest, Favorite, sponsor, Casarah Nance, First Place
Submitted to the contest, Best Old Poem, sponsor, Judy Konos, First Place
Featured poem on Arthur Vaso's poetry site, 2016
Put to music, 2015, by Silent One
Poem Of The Day, December 17, 2015
She drives that wobbly car
Stacked to the roof with goods
Squalor taunts her thus far
As she hides under hoods
Her babe cries behind bags
Baubles of plastic sneer
Purpose chokes on ball gags
When spending serves to steer
Tears well in her bright eye
While she struggles with rent
How will her child get by
On cash already spent?
She bats those long lashes
As she stands at my door
Wounded bird with gashes
Maybe she’ll need to whore
I long to comfort her
To regulate her pain
Emotions tend to blur
When yanked by Cupid’s chain
So foolhardy with joys
At discovery’s gate
I shed some unused toys
To help her mournful state
I’ve learned to live on crumbs
With circumstance’s ebb
All billionaires and bums
Depart this fateful web
Conjured visions of us
Tease my eroding mind
Intentions won’t cause fuss
When paid forward in kind
Yet her concept of friend
Surely differs from mine
Manipulations end
Alliance once divine
Wounds either kill or cure
What I am meant to be
Yet one truth shines for sure
Love keeps consuming me
Deceiving Beams From False Moons Often Fall
Deceiving beams from false moons often fall
To those sad, lonely and lost love blinded
Aching for tender-sweet renewed love calls
Fall farther being so single minded.
Darkness offers its own glimmering rays
Converted into lights by epic pains
When all seems lost, mere seconds are delays
Minutes wasted seem unbearable strains.
Where once love thrived, now love is forsaken
Such gashes break armor and soon blood spills
Thus any rope thrown is so soon taken
Relief too long waited, brings cold chills.
Pride gone, wandering fires fail to warm.
Then Dark and Blackness wrecks its greatest harm.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-24-2018
Sonnet, ( Return To The Lost Light)
NOTE- Written from a message received in a dream last night.
My Muse refused to let me ignore it, thus I sat down and wrote it..
Description: This piece deals with lies and deception...really....I am actually
quite serious here.
You are twenty years older than me, yet so captivating, but yesterday is too close
and tomorrow...
full
of
regret,
as I am caught between your deception and the warmth between your thighs.
You know that I am a creature of the wind...
Wild.
Tame.
Free.
But honest.
Your playground is a battlefield where you conquer...defeat...destroy self-respect
with shattered glass and discontent.
I say goodbye with a straight face, although I feel as a ghost; no one will know
about the gashes that will long remain on my spine, or the muddy secrets
concealed within the lines of my hand.
My black eyes silently scream from your indifference, especially when I lie in bed
at night...
alone.
After all, if you don't want me; then, please...
stop climbing on top of me.
Flanders: Summer 1920
The summer zephyr softly grooms
The golden ripening barley field
Makes gentle waves of feathered plumes
And earth by nature’s hand is healed
Mere two years since these fields were torn
The bland mild landscape ripped and stained
Dark gashes scarred the growing corn
And blood splashed red the fertile plain
Now scarlet poppies dash the sward
And sway as in bucolic hay
Thus all is peace in sweet accord
The lesson learned, we’ll not replay
The war to end all wars has schooled
The nations hence by peace be ruled
If I were to close my eyes or dare to blink
I'd sink in salty rivers of tears on my cheeks
I wonder how long the flow will continue to linger
My fingers tire but cannot wipe them all away
I feel the burdened weight of my sodden lashes
fearing the gashes in my heart will go on bleeding
June 6, 2023
Bite Size no 65 Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Grandma’s brown knuckles crinkled
As she gently peeled the heirloom
Potatoes, discarding the brown-
Skinned strips into the garbage
Bin. She was at home here, alive
And aloud, tastes and scents mingling
In the air like wispy fairies in Neverland, mingling
With the mauve, sun-kissed raisins lying crinkled
On slices of butter-brown toast. She is alive
Here, sheltered by the pots and pans, heirlooms
from her mother Wilma, who once was the garbage
Lady, the help, for a white family uptown. Wilma's brown
Skin was the softest variety of brown,
Likened to silky mocha-hued beads mingling
With glints of the golden hour. Garbage,
However, was her epithet. She was crinkled
Black plastic to that white family. Her heirloom
was the oppressive garrote of Jimmy Crow — alive
And well in the hearts of many, still alive
Today in the gashes and slashes brown
Men, women, and children still absorb, heirlooms
from a past infected with rankling vehemence mingling
With entitled gall. Wilma's old hands were dry-crinkled,
Just like her daughter, who now throws the skin in the garbage,
Who marched hard to not be viewed as garbage,
Who plans to keep Wilma’s soulful memory alive,
Who cooks until her freckle-speckled hands are crinkled,
Who is loud and proud to be her shade of brown,
Who gets straight to business and foregoes the mingling,
Who works so her progeny can be have the proudest heirloom:
Pride. Pride in those gently-knotted heirloom
locks, pride in the skin that was once garbage,
Pride, pride, pride. Her ever-beating heart mingles
With the cosmos — she is a celestial being, alive
In the splendor of black joy. She also likes her toast brown
And her sun-kissed raisins ever-so-crinkled.
And while her heirloom knuckles stay tightly crinkled,
Her heart will mingle with stars and keep the love alive,
Because she — we — will never be garbage again. We’re just brown.
I stare at the
chair of memories
where you once sat
and lingered.
I see your sweet
silhouette
as shadows shift
across the ground.
Merry eyes and
rippled laughter
barely contain your
ecstasy.
Joy overflows
at the occasion
of your living
close to me.
And yet...
The threads of time
weave
their tangled patterns
relentlessly.
They scatter pieces
that fray
and slowly lose
their luster.
As the carefree summer
turns imperceptibly
into the autumn night,
so I sense a subtle
change
that I had never
seen before.
Splintered fragments
pierce my heart
and bleed cold and
thick with pain.
The heavy anvil of
rejection
gashes wounds that
will remain.
Now you are gone and
I'm alone
staring once again
at the crumbling
chair of memories
collapsed and broken
ruined end.
Written on 7/30/2007
Sticks and stones, may break my bones,
but some words are like mountains that can swallow you in its depth,
overtake you in its splendor -
I've known caverns there that will wrap you in its arms
happy to take the brunt of a storm made of angry remarks.
Some may counter and say, "A stake can stab you in the heart,"
but your words came like a monsoon
leaving gashes in my umbrella
(what was left blew away in the winds of your indifference)
You say you're a gift wrapped in pretty pink paper
yet belittle those unfortunate enough
to crawl in the shade of your inflated presence
(laughter to fill a cathedral,
too loud to hear the sound
of a silent tear)
Sticks and stones - so they say -
but some only dream of decay
because the comments you made
deprived them of their essence.
Why are you even Here?
If not to raise people up;
instead all you do is sneer
and leave everyone feeling crippled
with the weight of a flippant syllable.
Cain may have killed his brother with a jagged rock,
but some are still bleeding scarlet threads
left hopelessly entangled,
because all you do is talk
... and talk
... and talk
(all consideration be damned,
etiquette you pissed on)
Is stick and stones, gonna be your swan song?
Like a mantra with no end,
please, say it once again,
as you tell it the wind -
the only witness that remembers
those who leaped in late December:
spread-eagled,
believing they could fly,
believing they'd have release,
but instead all they found ...
... was the concrete.
mr. buffet can’t believe that
so much “inequality exists
without people really getting upset” &
as he & some of his richest friends in the world
start to give up some of their moola
to cause that they see fit,
the fact remains that
enough are not upset---
it is time to get upset
it is time to get in the streets
it is time to do more than occupy
it is time to refuse to settle for the
crumbs
it is time to get more than
upset
it is time to get this empire to
squeeze more than blood from the stone
it is time to stop ignoring people who
are sick of being ignored
it is time to listen to ALL the voices being screamed
at night time & in the day
it is time to indict those who run the empire
it is time to squeeze the rich dry
of what they have gained from stepping on the rest of us
it is time to stop pretending that putting bandages &
ointments on our wounds is going to heal
the gashes inflicted by the history of classism,
racism, ethnocentrism, sexism, homophobia &
flat out violence to those who may seem a bit
different
than the rest of the abiding, ridiculous, flock,
baaaaaaaaa-ing the whole time
whilst breaking their backs for the banks of others
it is time to put an end to all that has been
unsettling the majority
it is time to put an end to all that has been oppressing
the majority
it is time to break down the walls built in front of those
just trying to survive,
smothered in the belly of the most threatening empire on the
planet,
who wields the club upon the domestic population as well as
the international---
it is time &
you know it,
to be more than
upset.