Best Hammered Poems | Poetry
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Horn Enamored and Hammered Haiku
by Horn, James
by Kopp, Robb A.
View all new Hammered Poems
The Best Hammered Poems
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve,
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
101 in a ROW contest -4 - PD Linda
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2013
Fighting mid the strong and bold,
His eye and blade were keen;
Marching like a thund'ring storm
On foes of Faith, his queen.
Now returned in victory
Upon his mighty bay,
Set he off to Langley Tow'r
Her summons to obey.
"John the Squire," the footman called,
And held the oaken door;
Faith, it seemed, had gleaming eyes
Like never once before.
"John! 'tis good to see thee hale,"
The queen exclaimed, and rose:
Tales have sped to Langley's gates
Of many broken bows."
"God has saved me whole and well,
By prayers, I ween, of thee;
Tell me please, my lady Queen
What service I may be."
Saying thus, the squire bowed
And doffed his burnished helm;
Struck in awe by Faith, his love,
The queen of Arthur's realm.
"Gilbert saith," rehearsed the queen,
"That deeds of thee are done
Greater yet than those of Wat
Or even Henry's son."
Tears bedecked her youthful face,
And glistened in the light;
John the Squire, as she had hoped,
Had done her favour right.
"Nay!" the humble squire cried,
"This word is not so true!
How could I, the meanest squire,
Perform the deeds they do?"
"Hush!" It was a firm command;
"I'll hear these lies no more;
Kneel before me, Squire John,
A knight shall leave the door."
Down before the queen he knelt,
He pledged his knighthood true;
Swore her ev'ry small command
With cheerful heart to do.
From his side she drew his sword,
She struck the accolade;
"Thus the greatest knight," she said,
"Is from a squire made."
From her hand the sword did fall,
It clashed upon a stone:
"John, if battle claimed thy life,
How could I be alone?"
"God has prospered all my ways;
My Queen, I praythee, cease!
Soon these wars shall claim our foes,
And Britain be in peace."
Faith remained there by her throne,
With light upon her hair;
Not one maid of Camelot
Was even half so fair.
"God be with thee evermore,"
She bravely said at last;
"Guard and keep thee from the foe
Until the very last."
John the Knight farewell did bid,
And swiftly rode away:
When the wars were hammered out,
He'd be a king in May.
For the Famous Art contest. Inspired by the painting "The Accolade" -1901 by Edmund Blair Leighton.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2013
Hints of warmer days and barbeque dreams
filter through the last gasps of winter air
cold drinks and late nights soon to be seen
through tiny openings of the back door screen
I've been knocked down, stained and hammered
screwed tight over and over and about to be stripped
laid out, measured, broken, rotted and ripped
rained on, burnt up and walked upon by lesser men
I'm weathered and worn but I'm still alive out back
my creaks tell a different story as I sway in the wind
inebriated adventures still speak of regretful moments of sin
the birds have all used me and I'm barely hanging on
Still standing in a spot of your last shooting star wish
Waiting for some attention and that first springtime kiss
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017
Those rarer men I once fondly
Many dead now...
What remains of them they are so
Am I to die when numbered
Amongst the last?
Old and bent, pale and withered;
Thin fingers grasped
Like a hawks talons upon the
Smooth knob of a lacquered stick;
My few remaining hairs, as grey
As Novembers morn, oiled and
Combed sideways over...well...
Whatever small amount will be left
Surely that cannot be
What advancing age holds for one
Such as me?
Then a portly figure stuffed like
A drawn-up sack;
Crouched forward and painfully
Shuffling; stooped, like encumbered
Atlas, with the weight of woeful
Lamentations heaped across my
Never! For, and knowing no man, with
Any amount of certainty, may choose
On my steadfast will would'st rather
When refusing advancements
Proffered from the Grim Reapers
Gnawing malaise and begotten ills;
Also, with all caution, avoiding
That deceitful Twilight that so
Over lengthening shadows at close
Thusly recalling there was, long
Ago, an Athenian, who, to his
Deficit, in a greatly foolish and
Practised un-natural munificence;
His bane, Apemantus, the cynic,
Whilst loudly admonishing his
Charity, cruelly heaping upon him
In all manner of rebuking offence!
And, notwithstanding hesitant
Modesty, let it hereby be duly
Mentioned that I too, undoubtedly,
Can somewhat compare against a
Not inconsiderable measure of
Intelligence and wit;
In the mind's eye to construct
Momentary abstractions, that,
Loosely interconnected, the swift
Instance might briefly fit;
For do we not all strive to
Produce the same?
To induce the many shades of an
Evasive nuance into the fleeting
Semblance of an illuminated frame?
Once a distinguished man wrote :-
Toiled industriously at a couple of
Lines...was to work harder than all
Those involved with much
Laboured effort and hard physical
Resolved, therefore, in this
Moment of fortitude, ex post facto,
A part of myself to newly
Before the lessening years are
Solely wasted upon the countless
Alters of good intent.
It is done! Let this then be my
Stated pledge: that I shall call
On all dead poets for their
Creative rage -
To help fashion rhyming ink onto
A blank and crisp white page!
Although I have neither Lofty
Hammered anvil nor the fantastic
Clay of common Yeats;
No matter - I have enough!
Unto their evasive Muse I
Therefore propose, before my fuel
To aspire to reinvigorate...as if
An ailing comet whose roaring
Clamour, ferociously reignited,
Burning a trail through the frozen
Fields of an ice filled sky!
And, long hence the pen drops
From this aged and palsied hand,
Under the blazing winds of those
Sapphire fields - raising high my
Standard! A tattered rag, amidst
A salient, in the heart of this
Desolated and near abandoned
Until, shattered, like countless
Shards of a broken comet,
That discarded verse
Lies with my mouldering bones...
Wrapped in the comforting
Blanket of the tight brown earth.
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017
Long ago Man soaked alters in blood
by sacrificing animals to God.
And ever since Noah and the flood
ploughs were hammered into sword and rod.
Civilizations grew and flowered
only to vanish with little trace.
And men of peace were labeled coward
while women were chattel kept in place.
God was always at war with Mankind
smiting pagans with His Holy wrath.
And compromise was so rare to find
there was no hope for a peaceful path.
Jesus didn't think of God that way
wanting to remove hate from His faith.
And preaching love taught us how to pray
purging souls of unclean thoughts and wraith.
He challenged what the people were taught
and they demanded blood for His love.
And crucified Him, yet His death bought
us eternal life through God above.
He was mourned and laid out in a cave
where for three days He suffered in hell.
And then He arose and left that grave
called His apostles and bid them tell.
God The Father now lives in our heart
blood is no longer offered to Him.
For through His Son, Man got a new start
and our fate no longer looks so grim.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
On the rise of a hill, overlooking the bend
Where the old gravel road, seems to narrow and blend
Stands your bony remains, weathered timber and nails
Posing regal contentment, without praise or complaint
Lacking attention, but for birds and the rain..
Leaning slightly in back, from the north to northwest
Squeaking a bit, from a past of neglect
It clings to the wind, to a past that has spent
The years have abused you...
No longer called useful?
I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful
Strong beams held you strong
Your day's work was done
When the wind caught your breath
and death came with drought, where doubt found a home
Now the birds make their home on the wings of your song
Pride came from the hands that came to erect
Hammered a nail with faith's dedication
Placing each board, with hope and conviction
A wheel, standing regal, a workhorse with fervor
Once brought new life, from the depths of a river
The years have abused you...
No longer called useful?
I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
For the last few days
her depression had weighed
heavy, a thick woolen shroud,
her thoughts thickened by darkening clouds,
in an endless tunnel the sides closing in like a narrowing funnel.
She sat, immobile, staring
through the window of the house she'd built with such caring.
It'd started as a shack by a pond on some land
and she'd hammered and built it
with help from no man.
She kept adding on, room after room,
as if she, too, suffered from the Winchester doom.
Eccentric, they'd call her, if she had any bread,
but, since she was poor, she was "soft in the head."
A tiny little woman, emaciated, so thin,
she was not much more than frail bones under skin.
Yes, she was surely a pitiful thing,
shoulder blades jutting like primordial wings.
Like an old phonograph with its needle stuck,
she prayed for death, so far with no luck.
Suddenly there came a tremendous din,
like demons scratching on her roof of old tin.
Startled, heart pounding in her bird-cage chest,
she was suddenly afraid of a cardiac arrest.
Armed with her twelve gauge she crept to the door,
a thousand claws scratching, louder than before.
She'd always been brave and her life had been hard,
so, gun at the ready, she stepped into the yard.
Locked and loaded and aimed at the roof,
she feared for her life, to tell you the truth.
(Not minutes ago, she was begging for death,
now she was worried this might be her last breath.)
Then she looked at the roof and let out a gasp,
the rifle fell heavily from her stunned grasp.
There on the roof and thick in the trees,
was a sight that made her weak in the knees.
HUNDREDS of VULTURES all eye-balling her,
clacking their beaks as they seemed to concur.
Aunt Kate started laughing and laughed 'til she cried,
she hooped and she hollered, holding on to her sides.
The birds, having reasoned she'd make less than a bite,
stretched out their wings and took off in flight.
Her depression has lifted and, I heard a rumor,
that her life had been saved by God's sense of humor.
********Many thanks to Aunt Kate for this wonderful true story.**************
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009
How could anyone have known the significance of an aging old table with a warp
in the middle? A scarred weathered plank, with a sag she had tried to hide with
a checkered cloth. Those of us who sat, night after night
connecting with eyes, with ears, with laughter and tears,
..decades and years spent, over string beans, and mashed potatoes,
bridging the gap of a mid-day mishap, or a chat after school, or a new family rule.
Resurrecting a family, at the end of the day, while chomping away on unidentifiable
casseroles, that filled the belly, as well as the soul. Consuming tidbits of noodles,
and wisdom and the comfort of being together. Who would have noticed, one shabby antique, that had witnessed crayon marks, had weathered spilled milk,
even 3 small holes from father repairing a picture frame,
when he accidently hammered nails all the way through and into its well worn top,
and mother almost blew hers through the roof?
Who could know that a weathered old piece of grainy oak
could be the glory...a story... of love?
For the contest: "Ordinary" sponsored by
Black Eyed Susan
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title. Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
In pleasantries, orchestrated on our screens,
We live the lives of many men and women,
As if sex could be! We grow, composed of well-cooked pablum
Eaten between long work hours, digested pleasantly.
In a fetal coil, I rest, my optic eye
Doesn’t blink at the silver reticules of my mind:
My body well knit by well-knit engineers,
This me-model makes real tears, running from my eyes.
Of course I’m human – hammered out in school,
Wearing what Designers Club tells me to;
You and I, we can adjust ourselves with tools,
Look down upon the Primitives -- those old fools.
Insulated from all microbial bio-terrors,
Safe from the brute, the thorn, the flawed flower
Blooming wild; we -- kept safe – know no variant weather,
Pity the Primitive, exposed to flood and laser-tower.
Did you see those messages, scrawled upon a wall,
Comparing us with vipers at Adam’s Fall?
There’s not an original thought in what he thinks:
That purist Primitive! His raw flesh stinks!
Computers say it best, and yet, I see
Something –compelling--- in his graffiti:
“O song, sing forth unto the endless skies--
O hear, created stars! You long have looked
Upon all who weep, who ever made outcry,
And wrote it down, in God’s forgotten book.”
written for those in the future--a protest against genetic engineering
Copyright © Judyth Vary Baker | Year Posted 2009
And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind
No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted
sorrow flowing down
and Thanatos’ call
Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in
Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how
No monument just
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still
The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened
Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth
The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct
Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs
Silent roaring rampant syncopal
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes
And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger
May 18th 2016
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
The night holds such gray, when beating wave and tortured sky compete
"Still round the corner there may wait, a new road or a secret gate."
Hammered from the surf or pounded from the shapes of the giants causeway
life will emerge while all eternity waits, the bright of sunlight to relate.
Abate the misery of colorless life, lost love and that which was so sweet
fill the empty rooms within the manse upon the tor, so now, incomplete
with the sound of childrens laughter and the rampant run of little feet.
Let loose the lock from gate which binds my love to death so indiscreet.
The looming form of barren rib and prow so sharps denies the rift of heaven
Its skeletal remains do not harken to the light nor St. Peter's prod
for my love, my life, my heart was lost amongst the waves thus broken
and will walk no more with me upon the sand or haunted sod.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
When hurt is embedded, so deeply within
how does one remove it, where do they begin?
The decay begins slowly, when a life starts a-rotting
and it cannot be changed by planning or plotting
It's not be chased, nor coaxed from it's lair,
not left to escape and vanish into thin air
It can't be extinguished as a fire with a blanket,
nor hammered into shape like coins with a planchet
It can't be wiped as from the eye like a mote,
or scraped like a barnacle from the hull of a boat
It cannot be pulled from the soul like a cord
or hewn as a rope by the blade of a sword
It can't be excised like a malignant lump,
nor can it be carted away to the dump
It can only be moved with love and compassion,
with time and with care, there is no other fashion
Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2014
Looked up this morning, no clouds overhead
So happy I screamed like a banshee
What greater seduction than smelling fresh air
With the breeze caressing my gee-gee
As I stand here naked as the day I was born
Only one thing has entered my psyche
Put on some clothes, you silly old twit
Your gee-gee is frozen, by crikey
Must have been a great party last night
Can't remember my first or last name
As I take a quick peek at my poor little gee-gee
Must have played some pretty rough games
Sure hope I don't get that hammered again
Can someone please find me some clothes
I'll quietly ride off in my beat up jalopy
In case to some girlie I proposed
© Jack Ellison 2013
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013
The reigning monarch's hammered earth,
my foot upon controlling girth
nature alone encircles worth
as I go on to capture hurt!
Oh stop, the chiding from the Church
the fault deriding my sake's birth
the fool abiding in the lurch
does mock it all, while I research!
Oh stop the hour, but yet occur
my soul's fate's prism, without slur
and stop those moments when you were
my truest love, without demur!
That snow that melteth down the stream
doth barter not but by degree
and shares its focus merrily
then also stop ~ the poet's fee
must focus rhyme . . . eternally!
Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2012
When dulled down shock painfully became
a pickaxe ache behind shimmering eyes,
the bludgeoning screen hammered memory cells
repeatedly, over and over.
Tears exploded, soft rain dampened flame,
the grumbling dust cloud debris disguised
broken hearts bursting in agonised swells
searching for life confirmation.
Crashed vultures, evil in senseless flight,
beating humanity for hours like a drum,
cramping the breath with holocaust claws,
gleefully gloating, gloating.
Yet humanity does not die in the night,
by the warped wicked ways of fanatical scum,
humanity fades not, nor crawls on all fours
the prey of abomination.
Could Hitler pulverise humanity dead,
could Stalin annihilate it's very soul,
could Hussein defile it's essence to dust,
could they, hell.
It arises from rubble and ashes instead,
steel resurrection, reassembled whole,
in the love and pride of people it must
Beneath the veil of despair-crippled night
a broken city seethed neon 'till morning,
mortal wounds blazed and shone in rebirth,
defiantly living, living.
And hope prevailed in each bulb burning bright,
in each filament, tube, each spark a new dawning
of all that Heaven allows on Earth,
a prayer-shot inspiration.
The carnage of angels bedazzled with pain,
yet the courage and conscience of saints empowered
a neon-lit love of brother for brother,
a blinding, blinding sight.
From sorrow and sacrilege raining again
humanity's wonder, upon them was showered
the love of the brave and the just for each other
that they become the light.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
Proof in Lock of Hair and Baby Tooth
‘Love you mama’
Shouts a fairy’s
set long before
in a violet velvet box.
‘Miss you lots’
eyes fixed as she
This kind of love
so fast, no force
of wind can pry
from a mother’s
heart hammered to pieces
with loving epoxy
and homemade patches
of friends and
Time’s stitches transform
the gaping wound in
and finally the
scar – another proof.
©Kathryn McL. Collins
Copyright © kathryn collins | Year Posted 2012
you figured me out.
My smile has become crooked,
hammered down upon guillotine pedestal.
Her strands of tormented wishes,
now caressed by singer’s ebb & flow.
Baritone lyrics glide out in wanton scope.
no longer choked by charred rope,
Mercury skies rain down.
White satin mystery, solved.
Or so it’s proclaimed…
Joy’s declaration made upon Paper-Mache falsities,
placing reservations on matters of the heart.
True happiness thrives on sunrise currency,
not clouded futures.
Yeah, you figured me out.
This smile has become crooked.
No toothpick can hold this up high.
I guess this tear knew all along.
But, I walk on.
As I continue to pay my price,
writing out reality checks.
I know I’ll always be your friend.
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011
Wrought liquid metal, hued in the fire's of hell,
Pored into a castings shell, then hammered well,
By the angry fists of Satan himself, behold the skeleton key.
Accursed by evil's malevolent spell, one size fits all,
No locked doors can resist against its turnings twist,
Opening unto the supernatural's mystical power, and unlocking
Humanity's hidden passages and darkest corridors,
Leaving no secrets left unspoken or in silence.
Crimson blood spewing forth from corrupted key holes, oozing
Downwards unto the floor below, staining ancient
Tapestries of the royal gentries, and the upper classes refined.
Skull to the cross bones, it possesses a will of its own,
A vile living entity, with its own consciousness.
Molding, reshaping itself at pleasures dark whim,
Feasting on hatred's malice, then releasing it unto the world
A twisted wanton thing, laughing with intentions cruelties,
And relishing in our agonies pain.
But Homo sapiens are a curious species, never realizing when to
Leave things well enough a lone.
We must know what lies beyond that forbidden
Door, where mankind is not allowed to trespass.
In these dark places of shadows ethereal, it rocks in a fetal
Ball, a creature, waiting to be disturbed, go then seek what lurks therein,
If you dare, only the key knows what it really is, and it laughs,
At our ignorance, mocking us in the darkness.
Four it is the beast, chained and shackled within our worst
Nightmares, a fierce devilish demon, that pierces through the
Darkest of night, to hunt the innocent souls of wayward men.
You've have ventured to far, beyond thy safety zone of no return.
Four death lies in those reddened eyes that watch you within
If you move it will attack, motions movements attracts
Attentions reactions, so remain frozen there is no safety's retreat
Thou'art trapped, again the key so laughs in the abyss,
Mocking at humanity's ignorance.
Shaking with anticipations glee, it begs the next
User to place it into the key hole, of the unknown, come along
Now what can it hurt, just one little peek, let’s look beyond the crimson
Door, as the skeleton key heckles with unbridled happiness.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014
It came like a thief
With preconceived plans
Across the Caribbean Sea
Suddenly turning west
Making a beeline
To British Honduras
In Central America
It foiled expectations
That it would arrive
At seven the next morning
Made a surprise visit
Six hours earlier
Like the Gestapo
The Secret Police
While people were
Of better things.
At 150 miles per hour
People still ’memba
How in ’61
It wrecked havoc
Like a Repo Man
Of its eye
Thinking it was over
Sought their fortunes
On the beaches
In the shops
In others’ property
On a round trip ticket
Came back hurriedly
As a category five
To teach them a lesson
In the end
One third of the coast
With 264 dead
Of dollars lost
The place lay wasted
Wallowed in its wake.
As it distanced itself
With a smirk
Woman and child
At its exploits
And its supernatural supremacy
To shape destiny
And vanquish the vulnerable
Copyright © Karan Chand | Year Posted 2014
My path beyond the shores of time
from life to there are maritime ripples.
Harrowing blades of rain
hammered from storm-clouds shatter puddles
of glass to rolling streams of echoes,
Misery’s trail towards cleansing waters:
A bloody throat gasping for water
is my alarm clock each day, it hurts all the time.
I drink and gurgle, but none of it matters, echoes
butcher my esophagus with hack-saw ripples
as knees tumble to drown in rusty puddles;
My lungs are a prison withered by the warden’s reign.
This morning I woke to the 13th straight day of rain
in Houston. From my condo overlooking the water
Clear Lake slept like a sidewalk puddle.
In July, humidity is a visceral sweater, sweltered by time
stitched in ‘X’s and needle-strung ripples
suffocating ragdolls in sweat-stained echoes.
I took my coffee on the balcony. Through iron-rods came an echo
redolent the voice of an angel; “Why’s it gotta rain
all the time, daddy?” she asked in wavy curls and golden ripples.
More clever then, I quickly responded, “Because god has to water
his plants, Ava, that’s why it rains all the time.”
It used to be I smiled as she twirled through puddles.
The morning sky darkened as shadowy thorns continued to puddle.
Nearby lightning cracks hid from thundery echoes.
With each explosion my locomotive doubled its time;
Faster and faster screaming and taunting the rain,
inebriated veins screeching “Ice-water!” -
…and then a stillness overtook me. The warden sighed a calm ripple;
From a dream my eyes bathed in tranquil ripples
of shimmering obsidian disguised as puddles.
Behind me were footsteps painted with water.
A song I knew from Radiohead was echoing
a muffled chorus through sliding glass doors; “broken hearts make it rain,
broken hearts make it rain” and I remembered a happier time.
Then ripples staggered down my spine. Tingling echoes
were empty puddles violated by rain in my fingers and toes.
I again looked down at the water and thought, “Better get movin’, it’s breakfast time.”
2nd Place in contest "Rain" judged 9/10/16
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2016
In the depths of winter's cold
your smile was like a warm breeze.
And wooing me with finesse
you captured my heart with ease.
I felt that you were somehow
different from fools I knew.
And I thought that you loved me,
for I fell in love with you.
You were the source of my strength
the rock on which I clung to.
Yet like a granite idol
your heart was made of stone too.
You concocted silly stories
each time you wanted to stray.
And stripping love of value
you simply threw it away.
Each lie hammered at my heart
breaking it into pieces.
And I gave up believing
that such pain ever ceases.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
Foaming bubbles on the sand
As salty water reaches land
The thunderous sound of waves crashing
Children joyfully laughing and splashing
It is another Aussie Summer on the beach
Work and stress, way out of reach
Time to relax, soak up some rays
Take a step into a new phase
The gulls high above are soaring
In the white sand kids are drawing
Amateur love hearts in the sand
As loving couples walk hand in hand
There’s an abundance of happiness
Plenty of smiles and a kind of peacefulness
A warm glow, spreading out from within
Take a deep breath as your surroundings sink in
A myriad of ancient rock pools to explore
Full of oceans’ treasures galore
All odd and ends swept in from the sea
Discoveries made as imaginations run free
Water laps at your toes as you stand on the shore
Multi-coloured shell fragments lifted off the ocean floor
Are scattered haphazardly along the water line
Shells hammered by forces into shards so fine
A Mother holds a shell against her daughters’ ear
Explaining the ocean sound that you can hear
A wondrous smile grows on the child’s face
She is mesmerised by this magical place
The beach is unique, in a class of its own
A place to go for comfort or when you’re feeling alone
Aquamarine water and white tipped waves
Brings about great content, as your soul it saves.
©copyright Juanita Torr
Copyright © Juanita Thorn | Year Posted 2013
A Coffee Merchant was the first man to find,
The corpse as he started off on his daily grind!
What he saw filtered through, so he had grounds
To send for the Police, to investigate what he'd found!
He’d found the corpse lying by the side of a well,
It didn't look too good, which was not hard to tell,
For it showed no signs of life. In fact looked dead!
We have a grave situation here, the undertaker said!
We must lay out the facts so all can see,
How to solve this man's death, shrouded in mystery.
Let's uncover any secrets that might be buried,
He's dead, there's no cause to be quick or hurried.
First there are several litres of blood by the head.
But no regular marks of shots! No lead!
A young attendant said he was likely gassed,
For by his pumps, earlier, he'd driven past!
A gardener, wondered if he'd forked over money for "weed"?
And spade work from the police, this case would need
If Junkies had planted him here as they passed!
Maybe they’d dug up, that the man had grassed?
Next a plumber ventured the man had been plugged.
Or with a piece of lead pipe, fatally slugged?
And the facts were fitting, for his elbow
Had been trapped in the drain below?
A chisel faced carpenter, who was getting bored,
Next hammered at facts and saw dust others ignored.
Thought it was plain, to nail the culprit down
They shouldn't rule out all footprints found.
A shoemaker with a brogue stopped by at last,
But quickly turned right and left again fast
Showing a clean pair of heels, well polished.
So the case against him was demolished!
The cloth maker next, said he couldn't believe,
The twisted yarns that people could weave.
That they were warped and cobbled was clear,
And a pattern was surely beginning to appear.
The boat maker then came and put in his oar,
Said it was not plain sailing, then keeling o'er
Gave a sigh and collapsed on the deck!
Submerged in grief, the man was a wreck!
The clockmaker came next. They'd had to wait.
His hands were on strike, and so he was late!
He was old. He'd seen his Spring long ago.
But to wind it up, this man he didn't know!
A fisherman they netted, was caught on the fly.
Had a terrible cast, in his one real eye!
Speaking with barbed tongue, he spun a line to state
His views. After weighing the facts, they rose to debate.
So one after another, the artisans came through,
With their own pet theories, convincing and true.
Until the truth emerged later, when his wife came by,
And told those gathered, how her man came to die!
That he never died of natural causes is a fact.
But he's only himself to blame for this dreadful act!
His death came about by his continual persecution
Of the English language! "It is fit retribution!"
The cause of death was extreme paronomasia!
For he lived in a world of literary dysphasia.
After murdering language for years in fun.
With alliteration and rhyming, then bad puns!
His end was coming for all to see, it was clear,
And although I loved my man, and held him dear,
The end results of all his atrocious punning,
Was a blow to his intellect! Fatally stunning!
You my friends, who are gathered here today,
Please remark upon what I have to say.
If you make puns of the language you speak,
It will leave your articulation weak!
One day when epigrams flow, you're fluently witty,
A repartee, or double entendre, with no pity
Will coup de gras your bon mot, and end your fun!
And you'll fall victim to a violent vengeful pun!
Rhymer. 4th March, 2017.
Copyright © Denis Barter | Year Posted 2017