Best Knife Poems
If you could relive one day of your life..
time lost, now retrieved for just a short while.
To thrust old scheming machinations knife,
or return healing to a lover's smile.
Such a fretted frittering those lost days,
though ones you and I will remember most.
Passions reared high in servile dewy haze..
soft breathe warm against skin from dearest host.
Moment waits untended a dreamer's call,
something I can never give you again.
Bodice caught on nail of new lover's wall,
though we may choose to return now and then.
Tarried too long look'g to horizon's edge..
promised heart unharmed, now pulled from a ledge.
See the darkness that surrounds us
You are safe from all your crimes
Lift your knife
Oh and take your sweet little time my sweet
Stab me, stab me, blood flows, are we free?
Stab me, stab me, love glows, are we free?
Dance around my dead ghosted white body
Life was no better to me you see
See the knife, as I look into your eyes
All I see is dead dead skies
I try to speak of broken promises
You slit my throat, for once you tried
Stab me, stab me, blood flows, are we free?
Stab me, stab me, love glows, are we free?
Dance around my dead ghosted white body
Life was no better to me you see
Raindrops of death pour over me
Your blank stare, my blanket of eternity
My blood flows into your hate
I now am bloodless; we are of but one single fate
Stab me, stab me, blood flows, are we free?
Stab me, stab me, love glows, are we free?
Dance around my dead ghosted white body
Life was no better to me you see
See the happiness you never found?
You lost it like the my blood lost in the killing grounds
You thought you could slay my lovesick heart
I laughed and laughed as you lifted the knife so sharp
Stab me, stab me, blood flows, are we free?
Stab me, stab me, love glows, are we free?
Dance around my dead ghosted white body
Life was no better to me you see
My heart was lost long ago
When you stopping loving and bringing the rose
From then on my heart you see was froze
Exiled to your bondage, I stared at the knife
And accepted my fate
I am a word, a simple scribble - ink arranged on empty page;
I'm voiced with passion from a preacher's pulpit, or the actor's stage.
I'm sprayed in hate on subway walls or whispered in a lover's ear.
I am the poet's knife; his lyric few will sing, and fewer hear.
Excerpt from the poem "words":
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/words_795473
She said she'd make some sandwiches,
he told her he could do it better.
She said, “Here, I’ve fixed some cold cuts!”
All he said was, “nuts!”
She told him she could cook Chinese
he told her he could do it better.
She said, “Here, I made Chop Suey!”
All he said was, “phooey!”
So then she thought she’d take him out
he still thought he could do it better.
When the waiter brought roast duck
All he could say was, “yuck!”
She thought perhaps dessert would cheer him
though he still thought he’d do better.
She bought pints of chocolate mint
All he said’s not fit to print.
And so they married, Spoon and Knife -
she lived to feed him; he to cut her.
With that spoon, she dug her grave
But truth be told, he did it better.
I am young
I am old
I am soft
I am bold
I can laugh
I can cry
I can quit
Still, I can try
Days they pass
Turn to night
Then come dreams
Lost in flight
Can't change the world
Can't stop the rain
But if I could
I would end all of the pain
For I am one
In all that exist
Throughout the years
Throughout the mist
Yet here comes my chance
Or so goes my life
Caught by the windmill....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....Cut by the knife ~
I have found that throughout life
You can be a needle or a knife.
Either you heal, repair, and bind
Or sever, injure, and divide.
With words and deeds we so ordain
To be arbiters of peace or pain,
To fasten tight or slash apart,
To cherish or to break a heart.
Each moment shapes the tool we use
So today, which will you choose?
8/24/2016
Five Rhyming Stanzas -5 only- Poetry Contest entry
I tried to reach out, blink in silence and say my words, but there is a lost syllable and a forgiven diction. I buried my art, my passion.
I tried to tear my skin apart, carve in silence and swim in the blood, but there is a broken knife and a tired hand. I buried my sorrow, my passion.
i tried to hold your hand, glimpse in your heart and kiss it close, but there is a fragile door and the locks made of dead petals. i buried my love, my passion.
"I went back to the grave, holding your favourite lilies. I dig slowly beside you and reach the metal clank. I loved you passionately and obsessively.
The box handle creaks and opens, a canvas with dried blood stains, a half fractured knife and the unsent letters.
a lady walks up to me, handcuffs me back and requests that i slowly move away from the evidence and let go".
I buried your body, my passion.
At The Knife Edge Of That Deep, Dark Abyss
I that was born on a dark, stormy night
So gifted at young age, deeper insight,
Lead to safety of ever brighter Light
Freed from darkest of dark, began to write.
A child begging Nature to my pleas hear
Oft with whimpering words and falling tears,
Imaginative child, whispers one hears
Tempting shadows to hit me with more fears.
A teen, mourning a death that my soul broke
Farther into books my heart sat to soak,
Awaiting each, as black the ill wind blows
Felt such abhorrent fears, as such oft goes.
By birth, sponge set to seek out Master Poe.
Living, pen and paper, writing to grow.
Robert J. Lindley, 1-26-2020
Sonnet, ( Echoes Heard As Old Rooster Rose To Crow )
As I rummage through the cabbage patch of general affairs,
I’m made aware of certain signs of cultural decline.
I see it written in the talon marks of chem-trails overhead,
Confirming all my pet conspiracy theories.
It’s rooted in the topsoil of a flat earth conviction.
It’s every suburban legend’s low hanging fruit.
It’s the latest mass shooting as a Tik-Tok challenge
Teasing gut brain muscle memories with algorithms of outrage.
It’s all flash, but no drive, just broad-spectrum rhetoric
Inducing Karenoia and cultivating satanic panic,
All in the name of the Good Lord and Savior.
It’s the dog whistle only heard by those whose ears
Cannot think outside the Fox, where waxy yellow build-up
Is impacted, unyielding to the voice of Reason.
It’s, “OK groomer,” “Don’t say gay,” and "Let's go Brandon."
It’s the Battle Hymn of the Replacement.
It’s the influencers trending on social media.
It’s the meme that captures the lapsing of just a still moment,
Like a fly frozen in the amber of time everlasting.
It’s the universal selfie unapologetically posted on the Cloud.
You may be cool, but you’ll never be Korean cool.
And yet you try ever so hard to be.
When I slice with Occam’s butter knife
The loaf becomes a senseless pile of crumbs.
And so it goes.
I lost my mind
somewhere
between the seconds ticking
God left
and the devil punched in
Stray winds
dark and long
blew coldly on my paper sails
as
things I thought I knew
sank away
down into lightless fathoms
And when
in answer to my begging letters
a bashful dawn bled in
I made her promises
that somewhere
deep within
I knew
I’d only go and break
So what
Don't give me that look
It was just a cut
I am no crook
I feel better
To see my arm bleed
You yell, "Get Her"
But the cut is my feed
Why do you make me stop?
It doesn't hurt that bad
You are not some sort of cop
Cutting makes me glad
I don't feel anymore
But the sharp blade
I am no longer hurting in the core
All the feelings fade
I wear a jacket
To cover the scars
And I'll have to hack it
They are my permanent memoirs
So I'll just sit
And sharpen the knife
Don't throw a fit
This is my life
It's not like you know pain
I do, more then others
I live life in vain
And I won't get help from my mother
I don't want your help
Just leave me alone
So just hush your yelp
Don't give me that tone
This is my choice
Not yours to say
The cut is my voice
So just let me waste away...
This is for anyone, who has felt alone, you aren't, things can never be as bad as they seem, just keep
moving and never give up.
Talking about life.
Not about how beautiful it is
or how blessed we are,
not about how crafty it is,
in jamming its cruel knife.
Simply talking about life.
Not about what a masterstroke it is
or how amazingly it is decimated,
not about our love or spite.
Just talking about life.
Should i be obligated
or bring about my own knife?
(06.01.2022)
He whittled away
A very large branch
That in 6,000 days
Was part of his ranch
Yet not just the branch
Or a tree or two
He whittled a forest
Full, through and through
For this man and knife
Both aptly named, Jack
Had spent half their life
Constructing a shack
Jack’s knife was quite big
With hammer and shovel
To both cut and dig
A primitive hovel
After trees dropped
With Jack’s knife axe
The bark was lopped
To fill in the cracks
He whittled five oaks
And one hundred pines
Yet the pines, no joke
Took half the time
He sliced up the frame
Most days and nights
But could not hue stain
Nor pare out the lights
He whittled a door
Out of an ash tree
And also the floors
Of all rooms, just three
The man ate plenty
With no need to shop
Whittling fish hooks
And felling peach crops
Then finally old Jack
On a day with gloom
Completed the shack
That lacked head room
The rooms were too small
For all the hassle
Yet, Jack stood tall
Beside his castle
His wife took a tour
But quickly fumed
Since there was no sign
Of a bathroom
But Jack was prepared
For his fair spouse
Pointing out back to
A rough sawn outhouse
Still, floors were creaky
From lacking nails
And ceilings were leaky
Details, details
So Jack told his wife
That his next mission
He’ll devote his life
On an addition
And when they had kids
Of at least three
They learned to whittle
Their own family tree
In spring we come out to see life,
out from our long cold winter's nap.
Bears are so loving not wildlife.
Love can be grand.
I am your big fun bear asap,
you are my fury playful wife,
I love to see you in gift-wrap.
Tonight we need some fun nightlife,
eating fish not from a flytrap,
using my big claws not a knife,
Love can be grand.
My old friend, my "Uncle Henry" knife, has been with me most of my days. No matter what, through thick and thin, I have had him in my pocket for sixty-four years. I received my first knife the same day I received my first wallet. I lost the wallet the same day I received it. It was a sad ending for a nice birthday, October 5, 1948.
elated
the young man soars --
milestone
Yes, just as one of those rides turned upside down my wallet fell, inside was change from a ten dollar bill. A bitter lesson, but one well learned. The gift from my dad --money I had saved. I also lost my newly gained stature ...the grown-up I now thought I was. Reaching into my front pocket I gained reassurance that at least the knife was still there. It was, and since then, I have had one with me everywhere except where they are not allowed.
my knife
with me always --
security blanket
Oh it’s only used for minor things, like picking out a splinter or briar. I also use it opening letters. You know- -things like that. But strange as it sounds, when I don’t have it on me I no longer feel whole, like something is missing. I have developed a strange attachment to it. More than an attachment it is a feeling of kinship. I have had many in my lifetime. Some I lost the day they came out of the box. But, no matter how many, each one is still my one and only knife, my Uncle Henry. And for some reason, I feel, I have never had but one-- the one I have now.
note: This is modern haiku. It is very subjective to my feelings now of the emotions I had then. It may be factual or not but represents my remembrance of the event and the value I now place on it.