Best Lacerating Poems
Traveling along these celestial corridores
Through the spectrum, called life ~
Brought forth by a birth....
Bourn, for this very purpose in time?
A revelation revealed, by the hands of imperatives, "Faith!"
These reverent realities, of a humbled soul ~
Manifest amid a myriad of moments....
Symbolic twinklings, of love laced stardust
Glitter from above, sprinkled before my eyes
This, amid glories impeccable Kingdom!
A binding cup now poured upon my sight
From within the throne of, "Everlastings Light" ~
Turning such truths towards this vision, I cry
For I am caught betwixt, the flesh and the spirit....
Knowing that everyday, I must face this evil, or so it seems
As Paul the Apostle once did upon the streets of Rome
O' wretched man that he was; bound in this body of frailties....
Do I envite it; this calamity of darkness' dynasty?!
Led by the prince of junapers himself; the fallen angel
Spreading his tear stained wings, upon the face of the earth
The valley of his own, shadow of death!
No, I would rather that these bindings sometimes
Did they ever exist....
But the truth is, they cannot hide; will not hide?
Nor, now neither can I, from their constant lasciviousness
Compelled it so clearly seems...."Chosen!"
While these principalities of pains provincial night
Transduce their tides of disease, amid their final days....
This plague; like a herd of lacerating locust
Devouring the unsuspecting fields of, innocent humanity!? ~ {Cont}
Categories:
lacerating, faith, life, love, time
Form:
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***
Categories:
lacerating, creation, poetry, , literature,
Form:
Free verse
The day that we left port, to new horizons we would sail
Knowing the dangers ahead, seafarers in the end we would prevail
Our journey from the Highlands from Inverness my home town
To Brazil in South America a new life to settle down
With charts of old we sail the seas
Passing the Antialtair Seamount with hardly a breeze
Our destination set, half way through our trip
Bridgetown, Barbados, on my elegant ship
We noticed a change a difference, on these high seas
Many nautical miles I've sailed but I've never seen ones like these
The sky had turned a colour I'd never seen before
Sporadic luminescent blues, like the beaches of the Azores
Our lookout suddenly shouts, dark shapes drift in the clouds
Before too long there is screaming, even the men cry loud
Swooping winged creatures descend, mouths agape with luminescent blues
Their tails whipping the swells, lacerating the waves we sail through
For many hours they probed as they swooped, a blue ball hovering over my ship
This is certainly a voyage to remember, to our new life on this trip
We finally reach Bridgetown, Barbados, my family and crew still in fear
When we sighted this land in the sun, we were deafened by our cheers
We reported in to the authorities, our run in with creatures unknown
They mentioned the Bermuda Triangle, and we were not alone
They have many reporting such as we, even fleets disappearing from view
To reach here as we have done, we are lucky, just one of a few
We thanked them for their assistance, as we set sail for our journeys end
To Vitoria a city so new, to our sawmill, our new life, Amen
As our world around us grew open, more tales and stories were told
Conclusions were never developed, maybe one day it will all unfold
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-16.php
Categories:
lacerating, fantasyday, life,
Form:
Couplet
Stop harassing me with your hate
Stop flaying me with your frustrations
Stop inking me with your insecurities
Stop cutting me with your cruelty
Stop lacerating me with your lies
Stop searing me with your satire
Stop abusing me with your anger
Stop battering me with your brutality
Stop degrading me with your derision
Please….
Just leave me alone
Leave me alone
Let me love
Let me laugh
Let me survive in a world
Where sympathy is sterile
Where joy is jaded
Where happiness is haphazard
Where fantasy is fleeting
Where contentment is capricious
Leave me alone
To bear these burdens
Let me live
Eileen Manassian
For all victims of abuse
Categories:
lacerating, abuse,
Form:
Free verse
Petals falling
from unseeded bud
opened by midnight sun
sparkling it to love
then leaving
to return on its course
dressed in candle lights
stolen star to star
unmindful
of ice pellets
tearing at the calyx
teardrops
frozen in the throat
lacerating heart
throbbing to harden
like winter in silence.
February weeps
meet a new face
lights start dancing
in the eyes
glances caressing
two hearts
whispering to each other
sweetness
crushed grape
turns to wine
tinting two goblets
crimson!
Eternal seed
buds new life
flame of God's
everlasting light
running through veins
of two hearts
saying to each other: Yes
I love you
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-Podium-1/11/21
Eighth Place- Anthony Bianco-Crushed-6/18/20
Seventh Place: Brian Strand-Late July-7/20/18
Categories:
lacerating, love,
Form:
Free verse
ARE YE GOING TO MARRY THAT WITCH OF A DAME - Counterfeiting the CANTICLE by T. Wignesan
(With self-lacerating apologies and scathing penance to that great troubador medieval English poet who longed for his lovely lass during expunging pilgrimages to Scarborough Fair. T. Wignesan)
Are ye going to marry that b**ch of a dame
Peanuts quail venison on lime
Remember what she did to make you so lame
For she's bound to ditch ye if you hardly rhyme
Tell her to stop painting her leathery face
Peanuts quail venison on lime
Without no mud nor slime on lewd grimace
She's bound to ditch ye if you're stumped for a rhyme
Have her stripped in yon dark desert lithium mine
Peanuts quail venison on lime
Remember how good she's at the roller-coaster grind
She's bound to ditch ye if you feminine rhyme
Have her read to ye Gulliver's Travels in bed
Peanuts quail venison on lime
And ride all Yahoos till their butt-ends turn red
Then she's bound to stitch vowels in your rhyme
Have her show ye all her unkempt drawers
Peanuts quail venison on lime
In between her sonorous sighs and rough coughs in tatters
Then she'll witch her wiles for the guile of a dime
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 8, 2019
Categories:
lacerating, betrayal, fantasy, humor, marriage,
Form:
Quatrain
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
And still there's no solution to see eye to eye
Will we learn since descending from the trees
Or are we everending to simply walk on by
Lifes global insecurities amidst epidemic rife
Whilst conglomeration greed suffocates souls
Lacerating lives like a dark alley flick knife
It'll never be for the poor, only richers goals
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
It's been a year since two neighbours became
Will they learn since descending from the trees
Its the same old story, no one takes the blame
Lifes global insecurities amidst epidemic rife
Blatant corruption aplenty, food banks strive
As we read, the constant fueling, more strife
Knowing days, the next, accumulating lives
We're now into the year of twenty twenty three
Its all very well the few that can bunker down
Then, when everything else loses its voice
Were we mapped out, to our radiation drown.
Categories:
lacerating, anger, corruption, earth, future,
Form:
Rhyme
It is gone forever now, a swirling mote of dust,
above the hills and fields, memorial fleck of dying love,
vanishing from tear swept sight, away from the world,
oh how can life continue now, how can it go on?
In cruel desolation, such cold, numb emptiness
where scalpel sharp pain wields a wafer thin blade
daily drawn, lacerating nervous tissue and nuances of emotion,
slow, meticulous, precise, a living thing this pain.
Silvery and honed to savour each slash and each nick
with the sick sadist glee of a diligent torturer;
tears cannot be cried anymore, dried out now, Winter cold,
desert arid and Easter Egg hollow, a screaming skull inverted.
Bleeding dry, bleeding dry, a pale anaemic husk;
eyes look but do not register the living world,
fingers touch but do not feel the pulse of regrowth,
ears listen but do not hear the words to set things right.
One of the almost dead who envies the truly dead,
the truly dead for their interment to inanimate peace,
for where will my love find the object to lavish itself upon,
who will hold me now as one who did before?
No courage at all, only the curse of the craven to endure,
less than surreal, no longer human, nothing outwardly tangible
save a mass of screaming, electrifying pain
howling down the empty corridors running beneath the flesh.
The hardest of hard lessons are learned and learned so well,
taught as only a past master of deranged ardour can teach;
the loss of sanctity when expelled from the mother womb
is the outset of the clue to life's meaning.
From this point forth, the love object is a thing to be lost,
family, friends, possessions, innocence, integrity...mind,
eventually life itself, for all is ultimately stripped away,
with each love object finite and thus both fabulous and terrifying to behold.
If loss be the meaning of life, vice versa, the meaning of life be loss,
instilling life with it's value and fragility;
your trauma spills indistinction, uncertainty - the loss of the love object,
wreaking ball on my defences - and likewise my refuge from pain...
Categories:
lacerating, death, life, loss, lost
Form:
Blank verse
My World of Differentness
I am invincible
So don’t try and find me
I have no where about
But it does not make me aimless
I am like the wind
You can’t touch me but you can feel me
Do not try and reason with me
I will leave you with perplexities
Do not think about intimacy with me
Pains and perpetual hurt is what I will cause you
But I am not heartless
Excuse me; do not talk to me about civilisation
I am just the results of my own ideas and theories
If today your heart is bleeding
Do not blame me, you made what I am
I am the results of the disappointments and heartaches you caused me
Follow your way and do not try and understand mine
For if you did, you will go mad
Don’t try and come to my party
When you hear the music of yesterday
The music that got us into the dancing groove
I am peeved at you
Do not attend my funeral
When you I have gone to join our posterities
For in my anger
You will receive a slap and a whack in the face
Do not even talk to me about love
For I have become the opposite
You have made me worthless
I lost the pride and respect I had
Because you have turned me into your chewing stick
Lacerating me all day
You said I am unforgettable
But you treated me with disgust
Allow me to free my mind
I have long carried these hurt feelings in silence
I will bite you, if you draw close
And do not ask why I have become bitter
I am now like a wounded scorpion
Ready to strike
The future they say belongs to God
But you are now welcome to my world of craze and differentness
Categories:
lacerating, lost love, me, world,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
written just a couple weeks before the lease at prior abode would expire, and no affordable habitat....just by happenstance and a thankful invisible hand of destiny.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
To avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
induces existential angst i confess.
Today, i wanna die and bid god riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave,
de deum, and cymbal crash
to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek a solution sans hemlock
or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych ass under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide
while n the edge of thirteen -
Anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience
10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash
lacerating, flagellating,
and repeatedly rousing thoughts
shin to circle back to why
death be not proud when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft Waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity,
and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the lvii roam min years
as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter
gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance
targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled from the womb,
his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate
a con vixen dancer, cuz ova this rude half
re: that came a boot
from genetic chromosomal DNA wash.
Categories:
lacerating, age, angst, birth, christmas,
Form:
Personification
Senses become ingulfed,
the sound frequencies exit my lips,
black magic pouring fourth,
in a barrage of rage and torment,
self anger, sublimation,
projected then introspected,
hurt, regret, the wounds slashed again,
lacerating our aura, it bleeds
ether and is refilled with bile,
spat in face and broken in
sob, sorrow leaking, a joy
to be speaking, the darkness
subdued by light, having survived
another long cold night.
Categories:
lacerating, introspection, passion, peace, people,
Form:
Free verse
Seth S. Gidley
1832-1916
I will never forget the rain that winter,
And the landslide that still stains my grave.
An evil cursed wind it was,
Lacerating the drenched cliffs
And descending gullies of Rubio Canyon,
With wailing sheets of raining hell!
My friends, as long as this life of ours,
Continues with its temperate turning,
You and I shall never see nor meet any striving soul,
As brave and strong as my delirious,
But loving daughter, Evaline Gidley Drew.
I did indeed find solace in knowing she survived,
That rainy horrible day up by Echo Mountain,
February in ’09; no man indeed should have to sit,
Aghast, with the mind-numbing memory
Of one’s daughter being buried alive in her own home,
Of one’s grandson, missing for the night,
Being found the following morning,
Buried and dead in the debris.
And oh, the bravery of that soul,
Of my Evaline saving her twin girls,
When the rocks and mud began to rumble!
Of my Evaline blindly running into that death house,
When the killing landslide mercilessly hit,
To save her husband and sons still,
Only to be struck down in the descending wreckage,
Barely alive, as it set fifty feet down!
I cannot fathom such courage, my friends.
I am still awestruck, here in my grave.
Praise God they survived that day...
Sans my grandson...Thayer.
Me and Ruth lived seven more years after that,
On shady Milton Street in quiet Whittier.
We lived there through many a fine summer sunset,
And many a fine Yuletide feast.
We grew old in the faith of our Lord,
And died, the both of us, in 1916.
And here we lay by the walnut trees.
But I will never forget that rainy winter,
In Rubio Canyon by Echo Mountain,
Back in ’09, near the old Pavilion there,
When Evaline Gidley Drew, my delirious
But loving daughter,
Showed saintly auras that day,
The like of which
You and I have never seen!
Categories:
lacerating, storm,
Form:
Epitaph
crawling biting lacerating
sniffing, chewing
tunneling through
damp, waxy tunnel
ahh, sweet white brain
awaits…
gulping orange wax
swimming, striving
wait, I’m stuck!
what is this obstruction?
a strange, tough membrane…
elastic and taut
yes, of course, it’s the eardrum
foiler of earwigs
gotta punch through
snip tear poke rip slice
barely squeezing through
billowy elastic
syrupy warm fluid
slowing me down
sniffing pinching testing
struggling driving thrusting
ahh, finally…
the glistening white membrane
whoa, it’s slippery!
So plump, so electric!
white cheesy wonderland
viscous holiday
millions of neurons
Storing thoughts and feelings
master control center
the very essence of consciousness
right under
my brown, scaly legs
my prickly feet skittering
across the pulsing ridges
I believe I’ll deposit
Some filth…
Categories:
lacerating, parody, science fiction,
Form:
Narrative
(Written During The American Attacks On Afghanistan From The Arabian Sea)
O! The heartless callous warriors,
The children of the crowning age,
You do not see the havoc,
For you stand at the distant spot,
More than two thousand miles away,
Planning against the weaponless;
But your lacerating missiles and shells,
Miss not the targets,
They hail down on us smashing,
Blowing up the houses,
And thatched cottages with their contents,
Let, allow me bury, put in the ground,
My infant grandson that lay motionless,
In the cradle, all shredded, torn up,
Still gripping tight in his hand,
A baby doll with blue eyes and rosy cheeks,
Sprinkled with blood too.
Categories:
lacerating, death, sad, war, Grandson,
Form:
Prose Poetry
today, i wanna die and bid god riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave, de deum, and cymbal crash
to bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships would be gone in aa flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych ass under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide while n the edge of thirteen -
anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience whip lash
lacerating, flagellating, and repeatedly rousing thoughts
to circle back to why death be not proud when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity, and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the lvii roam min years as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet prancer doth emulate
a con vixen dancer, cuz ova this rude half
re:that came a boot from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
Categories:
lacerating, absence, angst, death, depression,
Form: