Best Maim Poems
Based on a quote from Watership Down:
"He fought because he actually felt safer fighting than running."
His experience in fighting battles
had been friendly games of Monopoly
Rolling dice across a colorful board
after shaking, to hear them rattle.
Those were serious acts of aggression
and hotels were POWs, taken in possession
Weapons were a top hat, thimble or boot
Men built houses, not blew them up
Winner, the one accumulating the most loot
Snake eyes moved him two spaces forward,
instead of sniper eyes on roofs of Park Place
resulting in blood dripping from a man's face
He wished he was only playing a game
But shots were fired from somewhere near
Bullets seeking men to kill and maim
War is fought with emotions of courage and fear
It was time to clear his squadron out
That kind of move is what wars are about
With rifle ready he led the charge
Run through a mine field, though weary and tired
He heard a man cry out, "I've been hit, Sarge!"
Without a free space they could'nt stop to rest
No Short Line Railroad upon which to ride
No fox holes dug, in which to hide
Amid shots fired, he passed down the word, "GO!"
only stopping to collect dog tags of his dead men
This time the battle was fought and won
From a shrapnel wound his blood took flow
It was never bravery that he lacked
It was being interred with a bullet in his back.
When asked why he hadn't turned to run,
knowing his platoon was badly overpowered,
He sighed and replied, "I'm not a coward,
So I rolled the dice and landed on Chance.
The top card said Be brave and attack!
So we fought until we took our property back."
not like a Christian, but like a victim.
I prayed like a woman afraid,
afraid I was the sacrifice to his vice.
I would lie awake then. I lie awake now
as my heartbeat hammers
my breastbone like a blacksmith,
I remember… I remember
in a pale cringe, I sniffled. My blood polka-dotted
a white floor that smeared an inkblot of me.
A split lip, half-wit tamed by the maim of his fist.
His madman’s magma buried me,
a lingual lava flow that hardened as it cooled.
My sense of self turned to obsidian. I fractured.
Tears slashed like shards. I bled self-esteem.
He preyed on me
as I prayed to him like he was a god.
Please forgive me! It’s all my fault! On my knees
I was dead to myself.
He split my skin. Stripped me to my bones.
His vulture needs I remember.
My emotional remains he savored,
flavored with backhands and vodka bottle bottoms.
I seethed in sour juices of moonshine abuses.
I counted moons and contusions. I counted
each stitch needled through my skin.
My heart quilted with clichés;
I love you. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
I seized my breath so's not to moan or implode.
As I exhale I remember
I fantasized of blasting him to the belly of Hell
when I’d usher vengeance inside our back door.
Reaper’s reckoning when this battered forget-me-not
shattered his bones with buck-shot scatter. Damn!
I’d have paid the devil for a jail cell to be free.
A candlelight-night bruised by cruiser lights:
I remember I prayed like a victim to 911.
Oh God! Please God! Help me! He's gonna kill me!
I pressed bleeding heart flowers between diary pages,
diary pages without words cried to be heard.
Concussion dreams panic my pulse, dilate my eyes!
Oh, dreamless sleep, grant me deceased peace.
Until night hags of nightmares die
I will remember...
Our Midnight The Unseen Within
( Collaboration )
Silent unto our sense, yet musical
With eternal harmony, they move
About our darkened vision, the beautiful ones,
Angels of destiny.
Pale with the dawn, sun-golden with the noontide,
They mingle with our moments;
There is no sadness that they do not share,
No night they are not near.
Even as flowers that scent the roving winds
With fragrant incantations, - flowers unseen,
That loose the largess of their beauteous dreams,
Even so are they.
Bequeathing endlessly for our delight
The gifts we spurn, the secret revelations
Would make us in our needless misery
True kindred of the Soul,-
A holy kiss to marry us with light,
These sheens where cherubins loose their waxxen wings;
Shear the shadows where fear is oft found,
And quell doubt like a startled imposter
A righteous device to lead us home.....
A wanton wind to soothe the wayward ails;
A flame-cold but bright to illume every wan,
We sleep unbeguiled, where angels tread
What secret shadows skulk to maim?
Strip our bones to sudden death?
Move they winnowed and tarried -----
Helpless to the winged, swift eye
A keepsake (say many) beat of feather;
Hope gives us peace in those hallowed hills,
Where the angels sing like larks and cry a tear of love:
(Our midnight)
Robert J. Lindley and Keith O.J. Hunt,
2-21-2016
Note:
First 16 verses written by Robert Lindley
Remaining 16 verses 16 written by Keith O.J. Hunt
The wound inflicted, you will never see,
for it lies in the recess of my mind
Internal is the bleeding; let it be!
You try, but peace of mind you can not find
Who is the God you worship? Speak His name!
I want to know; does he condone this pain?
Is He the one who let you maim and shame,
and will he bless you for your proffered bane?
I wonder how you can to slumber yield
Does not your deed weigh heavy on your heart?
The things you've said and done are not concealed
Your conscience surely pleads amends to start
The wound inflicted you will never see
But there is One who sees inside of me
Eileen Manassian
Tell me,
My dear friend,
My beloved brother,
My trusted ally,
Till when are we going to let
The autocrats
The dictators
The despots, and
The tyrants govern us?
Till when do we intend to allow these
Barbarous
Vicious
Immoral, and
Unholy glory-seekers rule our lives?
Till when are we going to permit these ignorant monsters,
To imprison,
To torture,
To maim, and
To kill their own people?
Till when are we going to observe these savages;
Attacking,
Occupying,
Enslaving, and
Obliterating smaller nations?
For how many more millennia do we have to witness the devastation of
Humanity because of these morally impotent criminals who
Instill tons of hatred in the hearts and minds of our fellow humans?
Tell me, my friend, my brother, my trusted ally,
Isn't about time to revolt against such malicious rulers?
Against such practices?
Against war?
Against ignorance, and
Against injustice?
Has not the time come to replace these bloodthirsty evil men
With virtuous men?
With men of a loving heart and mind?
With knowledgeable men?
With compassionate men for peace?
With men of wisdom and justice?
Come now, my fellow human,
I wish you would agree with me.
I want you to agree with me.
I beg you to agree with me.
I implore you to agree with me if you, too, wish to see a
Fellowship of men and nations that cares for each other and is:
Kinder,
Nobler, and more
Loving,
Otherwise,
The afflictions of humanity will never end,
Unless, as Plato* has indicated in his Republic**,
The wise and the just would rule the world
Or
Those who rule the world become just and
Wise!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 August 2022
-
*Plato, Greek philosopher 428-348 BC
** Republic is Plato's most famous work where he details a wise society.
***Today is my birthday, so I wished to focus on peace and love and pay a small tribute to a Great philosopher.
-
I hear the winter call my name
in syllables bereft of breeze,
ethereal through silent trees
hypnotic in their leafless maim.
In sheerest blue of morning freeze
the shadows drape from rimy limbs
while through my head a matin swims
that beckons past the boundaries
of culture's polished monotone.
I'd ramble the denuded scape
past hoary waters' icebound gape,
to arcane winds my caution thrown.
Across the dawning's lambent sill
the winter calls. I hear it still.
"Join hands to sweep clean of all dirt and preserve the pristine beauty of Nature to enhance the quality of living. If not, fear her lashing us black and blue"
-by poet
Nature, you are God’s lovely creation,
Dressed in grandeur, decked in regal beauty
You give us much scope for recreation,
Preserving your grace becomes our duty
Poets chant and sing in honor of you,
Sages withdraw to your silence serene,
Beasts and birds have found you as their sweet home,
Men find their sustenance and thrive on you,
Dales and hills – add to your bright sheen
The sky with its stars form your golden dome
Dark forests and running brooks lend you charm,
Deep Ravines spell your profound mystery.
It’s our duty to save you from all harm
Sometimes you baffle with your trickery
Always kind you are, yet some brutish men,
Dismally assault you, they maim and mar,
They suck your life sap – they leave you dry,
They keep on committing sin after sin
Your beautiful frame, to pieces they tear
With their selfish acts, badly mortify
You were once so temptingly beautiful
You could amaze and take our breath away
Looked so elegant, lovely and graceful
In scenic beauty, you could proudly sway
You were Princess of royal lineage
Been decked in brilliantly colorful shade
But your thankless children carelessly spread
Toxic fumes, carbon and dirty garbage
And all your wealth they callously invade
They will ooze out your blood and cast you dead!
May.4.2022
Form O-Ode- New Poems Poetry Contest
Topic... Nature
Syllable Count-10 per line
Sponsor- Constance La France
Senseless
What is it inside the heart of man
That cannot appreciate another’s suffering
Were we born with this senseless implacability
Is it from life itself we grow these calluses of the soul
Are we created not to care
Is the face of nature so coldly ruthless
That we must come to be so
For what belief in anything in which to believe
Should we maim and destroy and kill
What is it that we know so well
That the idea of difference can cause such conceited violence
How do we become so voluntarily indoctrinated
Is it some desperate need to have sense amidst the senseless
To have at least the illusion of a purpose
When then do we celebrate the diversity of our sense to make sense of the senseless
Should every woman and man dream and aspire
And have every man and woman dream and aspire to the same
Or say this love is stronger or this way is better
This truth more truthful than anything anyone else can know
Who’s despicable spirit can live with out some measure of guilt in overfed luxury
While others starve and die in poverty
Are we not as one with this the global identity we call humanity
Are we not basically and essentially all the same
If right there is to pass on righteous judgment
For cultural and social and political and religious difference
Such conviction and contempt is that all we see in our own reflection
When then do we celebrate our diversity of sense to make sense of the senseless
.........................................
I always believed
at some point in time
due to some hidden
moral rhythm and rhyme...
a word triggered memory
would rob you
of that tranquility
that you've wrapped
around yourself
tightly
leaving no room
for truth to touch
and remind you
of the pain I still feel
the pain you won't heal
I always believed
you'd finally come around
with no fanfare
no whisper of sound
I'd feel your presence and know
some inner longing for amends
baptized by remembered virtue
had brought you to me
and the pain would turn to glee
when I'd hear your words:
"Let all be well.
Come out from that hell"
Well...
I'm still waiting
cause the hardest lesson
I've had to learn
is that people can maim and blame
do their utmost to shame
and....have no remorse
leaving one with no recourse
with no conscience to appease
they do as they please
while psychopaths are locked up
serial killers face their dues
but serial tongue lashers
serenity crashers
get to walk away scot-free
makes no sense to me
you see...
I always believed
one day...
you'd finally
feel the need
you'd want to be freed
from the memory of wrong
and you'd finally be strong
strong enough
to ask forgiveness
of
me
am I a fool to believe?
Eileen Manassian
Writers! Writers! Write what you know.
That's what they say, all the pro's.
Phooey on that gobbledygook.
I mean, get real, take a good look.
Let's say you have a great notion
To put words of a book in motion.
Want to write about real cowboys?
Means you can't come from Illinois?
Poets are sensitive, even men
A saga poem they'd like to pen.
Of women in love and their pain
They can't now if their name's not Jane?
Well, maybe. Maybe they are right
I'm not trying to pick a fight.
Seems to me that writing is fun
You can shoot sans owning a gun.
Think of the love sonnets and such
You needn't have lived all that much.
What about all those dreams of love
Too ugly to be deserving of.
Halloween makes us conjure up ghosts
Don sheets, we're monsters we can boast?
Ghouls and witches in poems do clash
Oh! Where is that real monster mash?
Sweet thing wants to celebrate her cat
On her knees should she eat a rat?
I'd think that sweet thing would say no,
She'll imagine it; let her words flow.
Poets, novelists, are writers is not this true?
Does this have to mean they haven't a clue?
They can't expand their horizons from mundane
And the dullness to something wild and insane?
They write about murder if that's their bent
Without encasing someone's feet in cement.
Some write from deep held passionate zeal
About sunrises, sunsets, tho blind in the real.
The agonies of war can be expressed in truth
By a middle-aged wife full of gin and vermouth.
And while we cannot all write most profound
I still say we have more intellect than a hound.
Which gives us the ways and means to think
About life in other places we can be in sync.
I don't think that crime queen Agatha Christie
Left to kill and maim after her tea and biMaurice Yvonnescuits.
At the risk of being called “rabble-rouser,”
I think poor old Barky Von Schnauzer,
should practice his aim,
his master to maim,
in the back end of his very best trousers!
My hero I would call dear old Barky,
if he could just muster the stealth of a sharky,
and covertly steer,
right straight for the rear,
of that great big old bag of malarkey!
I think I should send Barky a big four leaf clover,
so his bad luck would finally be over,
he could retire his fame,
move away, change his name,
to Bowser maybe Lassie or Rover!
Obviously I have been driven completely insane by that stupid t.v. commercial!
Happy St. Paddy's Day!
Spring
A refresh of rain, falling down on them all
Un-quenching each leaf with tilt refrain
Linden shaped blossoms in spring do install
Such beautiful heaven that no one can maim
The burst of an orange, a tulip in bloom
Infusion of flowers, by meadow's festoon
The shine of an orchid, ever so stark,
It stays on my mind, long after dark
The Rose brings her beauty, as I swift appraise
And summer goes trailing with fever, her blaze
Summer
Heat waves arrive, wearing red flaming scarves
Bronzed cherub angels, by cool fountain spout
Yellow kissed flowers by summer's head count
The dahlias in love, with passions, don't starve
Bikinis and tank tops with summer tanned legs
Atop the hot board walk, skip trampling keds
Bleach blonds and ravens in tune with the fair
Coasters and bolsters and times without care
It's all in the season of sunshine and thrills
Where fireworks burst, o'er emerald hills!
Autumn
The seasons pass as my eyes behold
Soft change in hues when bending limbs grow bare
As colored leaves turn brown begin to fold
To finally scatter into Autumn's air
These days remembered on a road of leaves
Traveling aspen groves ablaze in gold
A Winter's chill before the Autumn grieves
Reminds that all life ends before its cold
And calls in voice its yearly subtle dance
As songs from birds now give a quiet note
While those in love hope colors will enhance
To feel chill from Winter when color dies
To bless the fallen leaves with sadder eyes
Winter
The Winter's cold comes dressed in velvet white
And spills its unique flakes upon the Earth
Scenes of beauty calm, open eye's delight
And cleanse the ground before the Spring's rebirth
I'll walk upon the freshest fallen snow
And see the trail of prints I leave behind
While knowing it reveals the path I go
I'll make a snowy Angel some will find
To cross the banks of white where depth is low
And sit among the quiet, Winter's brought
To see the landscape clean with softest glow
Shall bring to me another gentle thought
I'll lift my eyes to find a pictured scene
And marvel at the white that is pristine
written by Mystic Rose & Frederic Parker
9/20/14
Written for my heart, my son, Kyle
Wash me gentle in the river –
Ease me on down with care.
I’m an emotional giver –
It’s my song in the air.
Dry me smooth upon shore’s sliver -
Warm away my despair.
Constant tears are in my eyes,
but I’ll deny that I cry.
God loves me inside and out,
He knows what I’m all about,
but I can’t settle the shout
that sticks down inside my throat
and threatens to choke me dry.
Emotions lacking corners
have only circle borders
and trap me in feelings bleak.
Searching answers to know order
leaves me sadly limp and weak.
First I prayed, but now I rage:
oh, dear God, please turn this page.
World, you allowed darkness,
with its brutal hurtful hiss,
to maim the child life of his.
Harsh cruelness such as this
brought me to my knees
with a Mother’s enraged pleas.
Wash me gentle in the river –
Ease me on down with care.
I’m an emotional giver –
It’s my song in the air.
Dry me smooth upon shore’s sliver -
Warm away my despair.
I'm very small
I am called Standing Tall
My story to be read as i live through it all.
Our Dakota lands are forest and vast
Where our ancestors have hunted
From long in the past.
Our tribes are, a confederation of seven
With our language of Lakota, Sioux heaven
We stand proud as we remember our past
And look to our gods, to make it all last.
A silhouette on the prairie hill i see
This shape in the distance is new to me
As we sleep in the night, we hear guns and blows
We arise from our camp, to look for the noise
We creep on the prairie to their surprise
Under the moon, where the land would flow
No longer the Buffalo.
We mount our ponies to challenge these men
What gives them this right to kill and maim
Bodies of beasts, furs cut away
Missing heads, a ghastly slay.
On reaching their camp our bows stretched
Arrows screech, hit the wretched
Watch them fall to the prarie floor
Just like the Buffalo did hours before.
Years have passed as we are moved from our lands
These poisonous men, and their poisonous glands
Bringing illness fever and strife
Ending many a Lakota life.
We reach a point in History
Which made the white man sit up and see
Their Golden Child General George Custer
And the Little Big Horn, my what a disaster.
Arapaho, Cheyenne and us Lakota too
Sliced the Blue Jackets, their Scouts too
The US Cavalry would have their glee
At the Battle Of Wounded Knee
Where Siiting Bull would finally rest
Standing Tall's story last's the test
If we Indians had the same resources
Like the silhouette on the hill
These praries we always had. would be ours still.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
There is never an ending
to the spending
a world of paper
and plastic to collect
and horde
clothes
and cars
and homes
and jewelry
and fine wine
and paintings
stocks and bonds
vacations
and expectations
entire vocations
devoted to
disguising the numbers
the Caribbean masquerade
to volumes of recorded
purchases and voices
of invoices
making
discreet
choices
all
to extend
the accumulation
of dates
and names
places and faces
communications
and connections
at breakneck
speed
must fill the need
must fill the need
a shouting browbeating
broadband
handing over
fistfuls of cash
to make sure
make certain
only the best
the finest
the rarest
of air is not available
for
the underwater martyrs
the silent box dwellers
the empty bottle collectors
the wheelchair drifters
the SRO limbo sellers
the workers at
the bottom
of the
fast
food
chain
and the indigent gamblers
who line the halls
to knock on doors
of government departments
crippled by reckless
and corrupt state
administrations
choking the dwindling
sources
and resources
that have
nothing to do
but
count the days
and ways
to disappoint
disarm dismay
dispute the reputations
and applications
held in sweaty palms
eager
to begin living
to end the doubt
to end the not having
the counting of pennies
the slow heroin erosion
the unbroken hollowness
the whiskey-soaked
ravages of vacant histories
better-forgotten memories
of cold emergency rooms
to end being
in a world
apart
a world
of resentment
of fear and hate and anger
of dark empty streets
empty recriminations
empty promises
made to themselves
by themselves
harming themselves
or
arming themselves
to rob to steal
to maim
to take whatever they can
for as long as they can
to approximate
the wonder and magic
of having what you need
when you need it or want it
to not have to beg
to not have to humiliate
or be humiliated
to not have to watch
the ease of others
who have a casual
contempt for misfortune
and respect for nothing
but their own wealth
of deception
to breeze through
tall golden doors
to an unbroken string
of shiny bright todays
and tomorrows
to not have to
lunge for hope
and
never grasp it
in all ways
and forever
just out of
reach