Best Hard Lines Poems
A boy lines up plastic soldiers
In straight rows across his floor.
He knocks them down with callow ease
In a naive game of war.
Far across the deepest ocean,
In between rich, well-known places,
Little boys become those soldiers -
Grow hard lines upon their faces.
Guns weigh down their frail frames,
As they march in groups like drones;
Passing by jumbles of bodies -
Messy piles of flesh and bones.
One cries softly in the corner,
Another cannot bear the sound.
He takes the blunt side of his gun
And beats the other to the ground.
In the streets they pass right over
Mothers murdered, sisters raped,
Countless men whose limbs are broken,
But whose empty eyes still gape.
Narrow roads become red rivers,
Neighbourhoods go up in flames,
Backyards turn into cold graveyards -
Still they play this twisted game.
Far across the deepest ocean,
In the richest, well-known places,
Boys line up their plastic soldiers
With blind smiles upon their faces.
The Poem is dedicated to nine innocents who has lost their lives in Israli attak on their
humanitarian aid.
Docility, a living destitute of Anthropomorphism.
Recency, appalling of desperation or piteous anomalism.
Recommendations apotheosize a fussiness of hell or heaven,
A gun shooter killed innocents a crackable Raven.
To shot a child or an old person hard lines limicolous
Inconsecutive lewdness a peevish peeping Tom Ligneous.
Reprehensible polygamist direful coiled chaotic prattle,
A salacious salubrity paramour remorseless battle
My childhood
Limicolous nomic but limpid or propper,
Hard lines limb, non violent and passage stopper,
Vegetarian, nonchalant, compliance or observant,
Prepotent prepositor, jannock jangler and importunate copper.
Metoposcopist, mettled, nonplus politer or politic,
Demonstrator, protagonist, receiver or a fair way to chopper.
My childhood, credible, conceivable or appreciator,
Sagacious, replenish, reprobator and republished hocker.
My childhood was a joker.
We’ve seen flowers
Of all colours
Flowers that are bright
Flowers, blue and nice
Flowers that invite bees
Flowers that kiss breeze
Beautiful flowers
Flowers are different
Some hold strong firmament
This flower radiates fragrance of scent
Opens its petals for my sake
Kindles my heart
Knows not the word ‘hurt’
Passionate and loving flower
Beware of phony flowers!
Which pretend to fulfill heart desires
Flowers with uncircumcised petals
Blooming flowers
With smouldering pollen
Burning anther and stigma
Unforgiving flowers
In turmoil; fighting with hard lines
Opening mystery drawers
Where they hide concoction
Poisoning your soul without remorse
Macabre flowers
A Message in Blood on the Cemetery Gates
By Demons Be Driven, Hellbound because they’re near
The Cowboys From Hell, their Domination awaits
I’ll Cast A Shadow, ‘cause It Makes Them Disappear
By Demons Be Driven, Hellbound because they’re near
I’m Shattered, Becoming Immortally Insane
I’ll Cast A Shadow, ‘cause It Makes Them Disappear
The Heresy: 5 Minutes Alone dulls my pain
I’m Shattered, Becoming Immortally Insane
The Medicine Man has a cure for all our Ills
The Heresy: 5 Minutes Alone dulls my pain
Spend some time with Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills
The Medicine Man has a cure for all our Ills
Widowmaker to them, you’re mine Forever Tonight
Spend some time with Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills
If you Ride My Rocket, you and I’ll Be Allright
Widowmaker to them, you’re mine Forever Tonight
Revolution Is My Name, Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks
If you Ride My Rocket, you and I’ll Be Allright
“Goshdarned” Electric, my Death Rattle brings The Sleep
Revolution Is My Name, Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks
The Cowboys From Hell, their Domination awaits
“Goshdarned” Electric, my Death Rattle brings The Sleep
A Message in Blood on the Cemetery Gates
5/25/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
12 syllables/line
Made up of these 23 acoustic confections from thrash metal icon Pantera:
“A Message in Blood” “Cemetery Gates” “Cowboys From Hell” “Domination” “Hellbound” “I’ll Cast a Shadow” “It Makes Them Disappear” “Shattered” “Becoming” “Immortally Insane” “Heresy” “5 Minutes Alone” “Revolution Is My Name” “Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks” “’Goshdarned’” Electric” (It's not "Goshdarned") “Death Rattle” "The Sleep” “Medicine Man” “Good Friends And a Bottle of Pills” “Widowmaker” “Forever Tonight” “Ride My Rocket” “I’ll be Allright”
The catalyst of two faces, his and hers,
bookends with pleasure dais in between.
Faithfully compacted on canvas, concurs,
never turning ones back, remains clean.
Sharp brush of Chagall, floats lovers.
Their passion, a cloud in lala land, hovers.
Circus performer on ochre horse forbids
openness and honesty of their lofty eyelids.
Marc’s pallet red and black succinctly
paints an inseparable couple, for better;
worse, flower-veins glory and pain distinctly
shady, married-hair worn romantic with fetters.
Poet decides his circus lacks an idyllic affinity .
With pain, questions whether to smoke or abstain.
A satisfied artist, elongates his masculinity —
triad of instruments, hard lines against grain.
11/25/2020
I sit upon the harbour wall
And feel the warm sun on my face.
I turn my gaze far out to sea
And watch the happy dolphins play.
Bright sunbeams slanting through the clouds
Are searchlights toying with the waves.
I lean against the cold hard lines
Of granite blocks quite roughly hewn
With urgent cries and rapid fire
Of circling seabirds overhead.
I hear the splashing, rippling waves –
That wash upon the wrinkled sand.
I watch the little fishing smacks
That bob and sway upon the tide.
The Black Lion pub surveys the bay
Of Llareggub; that famous town
Where Thomas-the-Verse composed his lines.
But he’s not supping here today,
No clouds of smoke from cheap Woodbines –
His spirit floats down Donkey Street.
( In recent days The Pope likened the Gaza Strip to a Concentration Camp. )
Hard Lines ( The Final Solution ) Forgotten
5 million 933 thousand 900 hundred Jewish people
The Holocaust
Of Buchenwald, Dachau, Auschwitz, Dzierzazna and Litzmannstadt
So many names
Of places of horror
And horror filled faces
The world still whispers with
These sickening memories
Of emaciated bodies
Piled in gas chamber graves
Survivors still carry their tattooed numbers
But so few of them now
Left that remember
The persecution camps
Now the children of these dead
Unleash their own bedlam
A new horror of death and blood
A new Pogrom
A new horror for screaming children
To witness
The suffering of
5 million 993 thousand 900 hundred people
Forgotten
In the wake of Israel’s expansionism
Killing and death
Has become common to them
5 million 993 thousand 900 hundred dead Jewish people
Wanted life
Wished they could live
Loved their lives
Their husbands, their daughters, their sons, their wives
And only desired peace
Concentration camp Gaza
Belittles the sacrifice of so many ruined lives
And adds to the stain of the murdered
The numbers of the innocent
And for pity’s sake the world mourned the fallen of Israel
But now
What conscience is there
What respect or care
Is there
For the 5 million 993 thousand 900 hundred
The Star of David
Has become nothing more than a Swastika
To the Palestinians of Gaza
Shame on you Israel
Shame on you
Cold Mountain's calling
Winter days die young
Cold rain is falling
Black cloak has been flung
Carve my face
upon Cold Mountain's ice.
Chisel a trace
of a smile around my eyes.
Cut hard lines
deeply soft beside my mouth.
Send my heart
on a slow boat headed south.
Cold Mountain beckons
I'll be there too soon
Cold river reckons
Cold rain hides the moon
3Feb14
Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,
His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.
He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.
His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.
Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.
Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?
I notice a face with myriad bent distress.
With eyes that include a trace of sadness,
A dreary routine without a success story,
A vivid photo of the topic dyed with clarity.
His elements are unemotional and calm,
Seeing elapses on the aegis of life qualm.
Love has been his mate and accomplice.
He deemed it right by the slow compass.
A wiped-out execrable ruffled face is rough.
Neediness mutiny yet glad for his estate bluff,
The abysmal face conceals a delicate heart.
His soul is more aware than it seems at first.
Written: June 19, 2022
The Pastel Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig cornish
Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,
His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.
He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.
His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.
Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.
Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?
Grandma Curcio
You look out at me
From a yellow, cracked photograph
Even my mother
Doesn't remember your first name
She cannot be faulted
You were dead
Long before she married your son
Who were you, really?
Are you hidden in
The hard lines etched
In your grim, granite, grandma face?
Did those eyes pierce the soul
Of your alcoholic husband
And cause him to bleed?
Is that why he terrorized
You and your children?
I can only know you
Through my father's few words
"She was a wonderful, sweet woman"
I can only know you
Through his actions as a teenager
When he beat his father - perhaps as badly
As grandpa had beaten you all:
"If you ever touch Ma again, I'll kill you"
My father did not have to
Carry out his threat
Grandma Curcio
You lived on
In the man my father became
And now that he is gone
You live on in me
Who will gaze upon
My yellow cracked photograph?
Will they know my name
And wonder who I was?
And who will they be?
A long hot ribbon of black asphalt
as the hot sun beats down upon it
it goes straight as a ruler across the land
with shimmering mirages upon it seen
a glittering form of clean lines
appears coming from far away
without a sound that can be heard
quickly it moves towards me here
a quiet murmur deep dark sound
growing quickly rumbling now
as silver car grows in my sight
hurtling quickly towards me now
sharp square lines of headlights and grill
flowing back raking into rising windshield
smooth hard lines flow unto its tail
planes and lines in glaring light
through the glass I can see
auburn curls and waves flowing long
smooth white skin forming curbs
rising from low-cut white
with thundering roar it flies by
passing wind flutters my clothes
scent of jasmine and roses fill the air
as it flashes going on pass me
going on down ribbon straight
shrinking dwindling fading from sight
roar does dwindle and fades away
as the car disappears from view
I'm lost in what seems reality
a strong sense of vitality
youth and ignorance lost
hard lines stand where once was soft
I'm chasing time
it seems a crime
nothing to even find
yet still i lag behind
the air i breathe is tight
little to see with little light
sending small children in to fright
as thet fly off into the night
still stood staring at the seconds before
the past is forgotten, forever more