Best Hemorrhage Poems
Above bleak pastures,
A cobalt coliseum:
Warriors are unleashed.
·
Aggressive brave clouds,
Battle for the dominance:
Vanquishment is vague.
·
Conquest of power,
Clash of divine elements:
Battle in the sky.
·
Sun and clouds collide,
On a battlefield landscape:
The land prays for reign.
·
The golden swords pierce,
As injured clouds hemorrhage:
Pelting the pastures.
·
With sharp swords of light.
The golden gladiator:
Obtains victory.
a knee, a neck, a symbol, a tool
the segregationist would be proud
fighting to breathe is a fight where
Vegas is covering all odds
let's lay our money and him down
the spittle, the pool on the ground
does not need to be explained, cleaned or vilified
this is America dammit where change
is not always the objective
where the unwritten far outweighs
the written rule of law
families bleed albeit slowly
that merciful hemorrhage
some swear isn't normal
let's riot shall we
let's set ablaze the constitution
that Letter from a Birmingham Jail
our Holy Bible
Liquid beads descend,
As clouds hemorrhage in the sky:
Cumulous battle.
Daddy's specter plectrums mercilessly
Fraying my nerves raw
with oxidized guitar strings.
my thoughts relentlessly hemorrhage
onto clay vinyl grooves
s p i n n i n g
endless nights
of
suffocation.
a midnight jazz wail
lacerates
the void of your absence.
notes gnaw through bone marrow
ravenous maggots
in the corpse
of our love.
Chords violently crash
splintering my fractured vertebrae
a car wreck
in slow motion.
plucking
the frayed synapses
of my misfiring
modal limbic brain.
feel the searing electric distortion
static fuzz of madness
surge through
morrow's marrow
my moanin'
a primal scream
at the Eve of Destruction
trapped in a skipping groove
of creation
shattering guitars
and blasting kneecaps
in an empty cathedral
of resounding sound
Our touch
a violent crescendo
of needles and poisoned honey
pain swollen sweet
as a mother's milk
laced with a junkie's fix
on a stillborn birthday morn
each note
a razor-sharp reflection
etched in stretch-marked
scar tissue
of the agony that throbs
within this moog menagerie
of fractured femininity
set
Between the sets
of our shattered chords
a single note lingers- soft
almost tender-
like a child's last breath
before the
final
f i n a l e
Silence crawls
a venomous asp
a deafening absence
louder than stacked amps
of patriarchy
reverberating in the hollow spaces
between drumming heartbeats
where your persecuting promises
used to nest and breed
I am the discarded B-side
of the one-hit wonder
rising from dumpster-filled
lungs of domesticity
reborn
in the Electric Avenue
of my own making
singing
Billie's bruises
Muddy's floods and
Johnson's hellhounds
to the ghosts
of futures stillborn
in this Rhapsody
of beautiful
destruction
Moon-faced and sickle-smiled
I conduct this orchestrated
Savage band of ruin
my voiceless voice
a lightning rod
splitting the sky
of expectations
as I agonizingly birth myself anew
in the RCA Victor Rhapsody of Blue
of Beautiful
reconstruction
P e r h a p s…
a new refrain
In the avalanche, I lost track of my guiding light.
I fled my fireside. I had to evacuate my homestead.
Driven far astray by frenetic frozen fright,
I was just a cowardly racing rescuing airhead.
The wounded wooden face of my brother
lugged away by paramedics in a wheelchair.
My tomb of sleep was my 3 am druthers.
But I called 911, puzzling at my sibling’s stare.
Living and dying from underworld to mountaintop,
the EMTs raised him off the floor like a bag of potatoes.
Everything was breathing pollen and allergen nonstop.
All my raw instincts lacked right or wrong thought flows.
It’s true; I lost poetry. I abandoned my paintings, my pottery,
as though the subverting season of AI sophistry reigned supreme,
as though all creativity was randomized in a human lottery,
as though all consciousness is reduced to a particle beam.
Vacant, these weary eyes roll up in my head.
Vacant, how much long-term despondency to endure?
My brother lives and dies each day in his bed,
defenseless, like a never healing wound with no cure.
My days are distractions, a mad confusing deflection.
I vacated my poetic home, my fireside muse.
I raft the unfamiliar caregiver currents without reflection.
I can’t live forever homeless, maintaining the caregiver ruse.
Sleep now, my brother, knowing life offers you another aim.
Tap resilience from your broken body. This will clear your mind.
My pallet for tending, nourishing, and wiping deserves no acclaim.
Nobody asks for these duties. No one can ever put them behind.
As my volcano fills,
I hemorrhage guilt.
4/30/12
ebola
condemned, invisible
frightening, menacing, terrifying
hope is seeing light in the darkness
hemorrhage
It started with a letter,
One turned into two
Two into many more…
Pen pals we became and
That’s how our friendship
Started, at the age of fourteen
Until we decided to
Finally meet, when we turned seventeen….
A few days before your birthday
The date was set,
but that meeting never happened,
The letters also dried up
No words just silence…
Until I send you a Christmas card
And your brother decided to search for me,
I’ll never forget that Sunday, 16 January 1994…
He looked just like you did,
In the photo you send me…
I really wasn’t prepared for
What he had to say,
You died on your way home from school
Back in October already…
Brain hemorrhage is what he said…
Before he uttered those
Words the tears were
Already streaming down my face,
I knew something must have
Happened to you, because you would
Never just go silent and not make contact…
I use to read your letters over and over,
For months after your brother told me,
Until I made peace with the fact
that we would never meet,
least not in the way we have planned…
*In loving memory of, Reginald Waldeck*
© All Rights Reserved
Memories of your soft skin haunt me
Tracing the dimples of your body
used to set my fairy tale so free
I now hemorrhage at my love core,
a rupture of your affair before
My life trenched in a living cold war
I bleed red waves of relentless pain,
throbbing tracks of a cold diesel train
My lost mind an abyss of black rain
light escapes my present closed sight
I am not able to see the right
I can only see a vengeful smite
My blood runs out as the lonely night
a Cut now brings forth the dying light
The traditional Cinquain.
A poem, I'm sure, everyone can relate to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deceit
Is like a knife
Opening up your heart
And causing it to hemorrhage
Always.
Deceit
Can scar your soul
Leaving you defenseless
Against a world full of vicious
Tyrants.
Deceit
Is a sick joke
That is played upon you
And you never see it coming
Ever.
Deceit
Will drive you mad
And make you scream in pain
You will never trust anyone
Again.
Dawn D. Kilby
Copyright ©2008 Dawn D. Kilby
Nothing important happened today,
according to an omission
in the local newspaper Metro page
The death of my best friend ... my husband,
this sad story of injustice was missing
Such a horrible ghetto tragedy
wasn’t worth one drop of black ink
A bucket of widow tears,
and a heavy casket of stolen years
ain’t much to write about
Their light compassion darkly color my thoughts
The coroner said specifically more,
though the jargon was impersonal and technical:
Six bullets ... cranial hemorrhage,
two collapsed lungs ... four broken ribs
And a beautiful face unrecognizable
from a brutal beating
My loving spouse was last seen getting stopped
by two police squad cars
Handcuffed and whisked away,
my beloved took a cold visit to the morgue
later that day
Nothing out of the ordinary happened
is what the police arrest report said:
Belligerent attitude ... refused to eat his food,
got violent when questioned ... didn’t follow any of the rules
The dry report clinically concluded:
Suspect resisted in the interrogation room,
and reached for an officer’s weapon
Fear for a lawman’s life
obviously was priority number one
Deadly force was justified, so they say
But, what about the beatings before the discharge of the gun?
Oh, all of the accused officers
got a medal pinned on their professional life
The judge tossed the lawsuit out ... said it was simply
the vengeful rantings of a grief-stricken wife
My meek, mild-mannered man
was slanderously portrayed
as a drug addict who went berserk
Truth be told with a graffiti spray can;
pure honesty sackcloth arrayed,
he died going on his way to work
Nothing too important happened today,
just another ghetto funeral parade
Nothing that important happened today;
truth got covered up and buried,
as the arbiters of justice looked the other way
Nothing too important happened today,
only black shrouded pain on public display
Mental distress note to self:
My personal tragedy occurred on a Wednesday
Battling the page,
Writers block at the brink.
Assassinated words,
Hemorrhage colored ink.
Rivers of ink flow,
From a massacre of words.
Stanzas of pain, grace the page,
Like of flock of olden birds.
Ballpoint swords strike:
In written catastrophe.
A stained battlefield resides,
With bloody poetry.
He knew a world of lesser life,
"miles from here and everywhere," he'd often quip.
He sat in a swing hung from chains, soaking up nature
after the fence mending and baling of hay was done.
Time to untangle the worries, unburden the aches and
pains of the day- send them on down the creek.
He would scrape dirt from his boots, then whittle on a stick,
drawing in the thick evening air- overalls and shirtless.
And I on the porchstep, long rid of paint...barefoot,
watching the sun hemorrhage through the old oak leaves.
Nightfall would slowly sponge up the pale, honey-hued sky
while wildflowers would nod off in the cool autumn breeze.
He, sipping bourbon from a cup, would become the vainglory of tales,
and I with lemonade- the idolizer- paid homage with keen ears
while the choirs of bullfrogs lauded their serenade.
Then God would snap on His heavenly lights,
making the fireflies vie for attention as his stories overflowed
late into the night- each page of the scrapbook kept
inside his head, was dusted and narrated with pride.
And I listened with a reverent air.
The next morning I would find myself tucked into an old
feathered bed...never remembering how I got there.
I'm placing strings in needles and creating new seams
Pricking fighting fingers for what this brings
Opening the lines of smiles with softer things
but you like to rip
like to tear bandages
with no interest in blood
just the sound of a breaking, the wince
The mystery of what's under the covers
calls you here
but you play hide and no speak with bloodletting
Planning puppet shows in your dwelling
There is no more time to look for needles and strings
Let's lay it here bare
See how the clot of your presence
causes more hemorrhage
Thinking nothing of tachycardic pitter pats
I just figured that
this is how it flows
and maybe the sadist will enjoy newly marred skin
Soft pink hues clashing with new fabric, this is more than a bruise
I dreamt of babies in past times
So maybe you'd bless me
bring new dressing for wounds too old to place but too deep to forget
and you did, long enough for the browning of raised skin
creating camouflage of a better understanding
but what does camouflage do?
Stepping out of coverings revealing the ravaging you
You are sharp edges hitting kneecaps
splinters in my feet
You are strange slithering things beckoning to eat
wrapping choking, heavy body around all things meek
You are the reason for silver linings
You create shadows for the bleak
I have this friend not many would have thought I would have he is shall I say not quit clear,
he wears mascara loves to take exlax dosn't like to wear underwear and will only get a french manicure,
I meet him at an all night carwash he had asked me if I could help him clean his carpet,
in his car was a mess kleenex all over the place bags of cotton candy and what look to be old cole slaw still wet,
I was almost afraid to help you see I didn't want to get a rash or any thing,
but I helped any way as we talked I learned he worked in the same division as I did at the D.M.V.
then I noticed who he was you're that guy who was hell bent on breacking up with that girl Catie was that her name?
he said "you were there that day? I thought I was going to a have brain hemorrhage that girls in sain."
when we finished I shook his hand told him my name he said " I'm Tom but my friends call me Angelic"
I'll be calling you Tom, that was three years ago I'm glad we became good friends after all being unclear boy can he sell it.