Best Lancet Poems
The willows have wept
Lancet leaves, tears in the creek
Dream in their prison of ice.
White sycamore roots,
Twisted and gnarled, form islands
And pools, a necklace of pearls.
The stream disappears –
Magic of karst – to emerge
Down valley, unexpected.
December 31, 2016
For contest: Form C
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5th place
The most intricate Japanese Poetry form is the Choka, or Long Poem.
The early form consisted of a series of Katuata joined together.
This gives a choice of form structures of ..... 5 - 7 - 7 - 5 - 7 - 7
.. etc, or .. 5 - 7 - 5 - 5 - 7 - 5.. etc.
Thoroughly thoroughly wash wash hands with soap and water
Getting out all the equipment..like a hospital operating room
Cleaning hands by using alcohol..could I get drunk from this
Get out clean lancet looks like a short very short arrow
Place new lancet in lancer..thank you for the invention
Open test strip..man this little thing cost so much
Place in the meter..modern technology
Use alcohol again on chosen finger..is MRSA lurking there
Lance finger Oh! Ouch!
Force blood drop if it doesn't come instantly
Let blood go up into strip
Wait and see if ate properly yesterday
Wonder is the sugar surplus destroying
Eyes, nerves, blood vessels, arteries, life
Form:
Unclasped my pearl necklace
and loosened my long, straight hair,
opened the buttons of my dress and let it fall,
took off my lingerie,
tearing the delicate silk,
and left me naked.
After that, with his finger-scalpel,
he sliced into my skin,
as though I were meat.
He put his surgeon hands
into my entrails and
ripped out my guts,
my ordinary cells
and all the primary ones.
All of the healthy blood,
all of the useless blood,
spurted from me.
He tore into what was healthy,
and into what was infected,
every pustule.
With eyes like rays
of laser light,
he pulled away my organs
and boned me.
I lay down
next to my clothes
and to what was taken
with the wisdom
of a firm and sharp lancet.
From my lurid nudity
I begged him to possess me,
moaning into spasms,
and when he broke through my soul,
what a fantastic ******!
Patricia Evans
SATURATED IN SOLITUDE
The solitary moon moves slow across the still sky
Sprinkles silver dust on the seizing elixir of solitude
I drink to the dregs as the fluid time passes me by
My voice speechless in somber stillness, I know why
The trance of clutching aloneness makes me mute.
Silence soaks within, saturates my mind with serenity
This is what an insular life languished would long to be
Lancet sense of solitary self splits my sole identity
In the void of loneliness I discover my dormant duality
At the silent inner depth I hear me talk with me.
Written : April 14, 2018
April 22, 2020
Contest : Strand Pick B, Any Theme, Any Form
Sponsor : Brian Strand
( Cancer as well as the treatment for it take a terrible toll on the afflicted. At the end of the day either or both of them have a debilitating effect. Often, it is the battle field of the body which has to rise above itself to come out a winner)
The battle lines are clearly drawn
Armies arrayed in fighting forms
Caduceus with wings, serpents and staff
The Rampaging, unruly, hordes, which teem.
Lancet, venom, and piercing rays
Cut, poison, burn body and soul
Devastating, scorching all in their path
The vile corruption to eliminate.
Yet in this war the one who's lost
Is not the Asclepian might
Nor the vile, evil minions of the Crab
But the frail field of human flesh and mind.
Fertile fields full fallow laid waste
The loser none but afflicted man
His life, his joy cut short, cruelly maimed
Sad victim of Caduceus and Crab.
But there be some tenacious fields
Which fight and rise and bloom once more
To lead a life more complete than before
Their war - won with indomitable will!
I wish i had been born to you
I truly wish i had!
The only dream i want come true
is to see this wish sail safely through
Eternal seas harbouring endless decades
my destiny i seek enduring dismays...
I donot wish this wish , to be granted
with a magical wand...in a swish!
Nor to make this wish , my wish
on a falling star! that's not destined too far!
I place my wish in the hands of time
To dissolve,disperse...be infinitely mine
This wish! my wish..it roots from within
its the soul of the soul...the soul therein,
thats older than old,deeper than deep
the lancet to another world....from where
this wish does peep!Beyond the mortal memory
beyond the world that sleeps......
The harvest of duality,intuition tends to reap!
My father!.....my father he is!!
i know it as i feel it...i feel it as it is!
i belong to him, i am his child
let the karmic node be pointer, midheaven decide
If authorities of science and law must resist....
it only strengthens the theory,
A Parallel world exists!
Intolerance weaves threads of hatred
in the fabric of our scary times,
innocent blood is shed in madness,
fanaticism spreads like wild fire,
life is splintered by lancet of chaos
into disposable debris uncared,
in the psychic grip of insolent stress
the fostered relationships crash.
Before the world order collapses
I ardently wish the times change,
war-tanks become pianos,
guns form harmonic flutes,
deadly arsenals turn harps,
mercenaries become violins,
and they all perform the symphony
of peace and universal brotherhood.
Before the hourglass breaks,
let the essence of times change,
thorns of contempt turn into flowers,
cactus of hatred into branch of olive,
crooked minds morph into alchemists,
and make the golden strands
that will create the garlands,
intertwining all of us with love.
_________________
June 8, 2022
Contest : If Only My Wish Would Come Ture
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
the soldier knows many of the 4,500 who died
in bashing Iraq,
the soldier may be one of the 32,000 who have been wounded,
or s/he may know any number of these individuals
who for 9 years spent their time
killing the 104,000 (estimated by Iraqis)
or perhaps 600,000 (Lancet estimate)
or perhaps even more civilians than that,
as estimates of over a million
come to light through further studies,
not to mention the deaths caused by the
strangling sanctions which the empire administered upon the
country
between 1991 & 2003.
the soldier knows that the american embassy in Iraq
will NEVER EVER be gone &
that it is the largest in the world---
the soldier knows that the oil companies have been
feeding on the land since the first green light
like vultures tearing apart a carcass---
the soldier also knows that the contractors
who have been getting paid more than him/her
since the get-go
are flooding into Iraq
like it was going out of style
as s/he goes home for a short time
before they are called up again
to go to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran or
even Australia
to bash bash bash the world into a bloody pulp
even further.
and over the “holidays”
the same soldier can discuss with their veteran relatives
from the Vietnam police action
just how great the empire is that they live in,
knowing first hand
better than anyone
just how far its greedy bloody talons can stretch---
then in tandem
they can all shove their fingers down their throats
to vomit up all that disgust again
because it never goes away.
piteous is thine case oh constitu!
Thou upholder of the fundermental right of thine land
The sole inspiration of the activists
Who advocate equity in the land's cream and candy
What thine mighty effort still turns offence
At the rapacious pillars of the land
And in collusion hath thou impose an accusation
Accusation of an ailment,
Ailment of the belly
Drag to theatre
Constitu inside the room
Flatly on the bed
Is this the theatre or an abattoir?
But qualities are missing!
Where is the lancet?Where is iodine?Where is spirit?
Oh all are not!
IS this a surgical operation or brutish slaughter?
Why must knife?Why must cutlas?Why must dagger?
Nerves are maimed!Muscle mltilated!Strenght is off!
Activist in mute!Equity is gone!Candy in danger!
Cream in peril! Land dwellers in pain!Pillars are fat!
Oh constitu!Could you please recover,
And becomes your real name----Constitution?
Form:
“Winter of despair grips the fallow mind,
as lancet wind of desolation slices solace,
the song of sad bird freezes in silence”- by poet
In the frame of the reclined verdant bough,
opulent with the fine filigree of emerald foliage,
a delicate design I made with love-laced twigs
for the nest of my adoring desire,
I weaved with the finesse of fervor.
On the wings of winter wafting in polar wind,
the wilted leaves of my longing
blew away rustling to the realm of nowhere.
Dismal in my frosted nest on the skeletal tree,
I counted in heartbeat the footsteps of twilight.
My yearning turned into glacial embrace,
you escaped from the fold of frozen love,
flew away far to the sun soaked sky.
Desolate in freezing darkness of the arctic nest,
I live in memory with the frozen feather you left.
_______________
February 17, 2023
Theme chosen : Frozen
Contest : Writing Challenge - F Words
Sponsored by : Constance La France
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.
I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.
I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten
the demons of the night.
I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.
I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.
I go to church each Sunday,
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.
I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.
I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.
I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.
I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?
I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.
I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.
I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.
I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.
I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.
I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.
I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.
I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
frost grips fallow ground
lancet winds slice solitude -
frozen silence cracks
December 16, 2019
Syllable count : 5/7/5
Checked on howmanysyllables.com
Contest : Writing Challenge-Winter Haiku Or Senryu
Sponsor : Dear Heart-Wiishkobi Ode
With every Bannockburn there comes a Boyne.
The gods grant grain, alleviate our lives,
then send us weevils, whitefly, worms (and wives!)
They raise us up – then knee us in the groin
vaulting. Winchester was built on bog.
This marvel of the medieval mind
was sitting on (they were appalled to find),
nine hundred-year-old spongy, soggy logs.
And, year on year, it sagged a little more.
As fissures felt their way around the font,
and lancet windows listed to the west,
so flawed at lauds, and worse at terce for sure:
now none at nones was feeling nonchalant.
The church was sinking slowly to its rest.
Vortice violet.
A shoddy glow of dull light on shadow.
Shine might on ebon canvas.
Dark strikes with heaven's lancet.
Ray by ray day by day grotto,
With thoughts brooded in effluvium.
Contemplating why darkness has been made synonymous with evil.
Yet it's nocturne shrouds and lays safe passage for those oppressed by the light of our current day.
Granting slumber before reawakening; in the glare of expanding and unknown chromas.
One mystic blue night dead still,
I’ll steal the silver full moon,
break it into sharp shards,
and stow them in the backyard
under the shadow of the creepy cloud.
The dark devils will enter with fiend
my anguished heart beating vengeance,
hit hard by the moonless dreary darkness,
and make my boiling enraged blood
turn into lacerating incisive lancet.
The sinister scarlet elixir in my veins
the night will drink like wine,
the shining sequined full moon lost,
it’ll make a black one hollow,
darker than the dread of doomsday.
When the impious wolves will slash
the neck of the frozen stillness,
their ominous bark in the chilled air
will shred the nocturnal chastity, it's time
for moon plucking from sordid shadow.
They cunningly ensnare in an instant
the naive malleable minds unaware,
skillfully wrap with mute trance
the innocent hearts trapped
in the travesty tangle of love.
I’ll slit open their deceitful throats,
slice the reveling saccharine lips
with the harvested sickle moon.