Best Marked Poems
Our veins are veins in leaves,
and even if you hate them,
without them, the world would wither.
Our scars are maps of storms we survived,
and even if you wish they weren’t there,
they trace the paths that made us strong.
Our tears are rain,
and even if they fall too freely,
they flow through the rivers that make the earth bloom.
Our freckles are the speckled moon,
and even if you wish they would vanish,
the night would be empty without them.
Our hair is a field of wild grass,
sometimes tangled, sometimes soft,
and even if you fight it,
it grows freely, reaching for light,
holding the small storms and sunlight of your life.
Our hands are rough,
our nails chipped, our knuckles bent,
and even if you hide them,
they build, they hold, they reach.
Our lips are dry,
chapped, sometimes trembling,
and even if you hate them,
they speak our truth, carry our laughter, and taste life.
Our eyes bear the weight of endless nights,
the bags under them formed by studying, by striving, by thinking too much,
and even if you see only fatigue,
they have witnessed dreams, hope, and all the worlds you’ve imagined.
They say our bodies are too thin, too fat, too soft, too strong,
and even if the world tells us to change, to cut, to sculpt, to mask with plastic,
we do not need to.
They move, they hold, they love, they are home.
We are perfect..
Every vein, scar, tear, freckle, strand, hand, lip, eye, and body
is exactly what makes us alive.
Do others think of you the way I do,
the embryo that grew beneath my heart?
There is so little proof you lived . . .
a metal marker on a grave,
a lighter, a wallet
that they gave . . .
two certificates, official,
like parentheses -
beginning,
end.
I sometimes see your friends . . .
on those days,
you seem alive in little ways.
Do others think of you the way I do,
the boy who grew into a man,
unspoken dreams, unfinished plans.
There is so little proof you lived . . .
some childhood books
and art, and yet . . .
how deeply marked
your living carved my heart.
© March 5, 2014, Faye Lanham Gibson
Pock marked
Bert was cooking in a bucket,
Knew his hide at any rate
Pock marks on his thighs an biceps,
Shot that day by a sniper, mate,
Sniper chopped by Aussie Bren gun,
Fell from palm in many pieces,
Driven back by charging soldiers,
Jonno’s mates were ‘ridge e didge’,
Next day they drove off the Japanese,
Checked the cooking pots for tucker,
Fermenting rice, not much chop,
Starving Jap’s, not any luckier,
Two armies starved, no tucker,
in these green mountains, grim,
slaughter at point blank range,
shoot first boy, or get done in,
Evidence at the war crime hearing,
Jonno and the Doctor gave,
Several cases were reported,
Of Kokoda’s missing brave’s.
Don Johnson…true story…16-aug-11
This Aussie war in New Guinea, was concurrent
with Gaudacanal's desperate U.S.fight with around 20,000 Japanese
...We only had 13,000 armed Japanese bent on coming over Kokoda
mountains, and then on to Australia, they had the Japanese
10 shilling note occupation money in their pockets. The Japanese
say they were ordered back over the mountains to Gona and Buna,
it saves face hey. The reality was they were dying slowly from starvation,
malaria 2 types, plus Dengue fever was killing many,
and the 2500 fresh Aussie blooded veterans drove them back
from Irobiawa mountain top with fixed bayonets.
After a day or so of our 25 pounders blasting them. Time to leave.
The very hot summer is coming to a close,
fresh cool weather is in the air.
I love my walks on autumn days,
it puts a giddy up in my steps.
Off to the pretty park we will go,
looking for the In Marked Territory area.
The grass seems much greener,
with a very deep rich smell.
Open the gate quickly before I let loose,
a fun doggie park is the way to go.
Behind those hidden marked wrists
Are lies, skepticism and fears
Behind those calloused, clenched fists
Is a cauldron of uncontrollable tears.
Behind those evident scars
Is a constant cycle of sorrows
An imaginary fiend that mars
A twinge that only herself knows.
Behind those unappealing blotches
Are griefs, worries and insecurities
Inflictive pain worth a million degrees
Coupled with regrets and negativities.
Behind those ugly knife marks
Is an unfathomable, aesthetic heart
Who got fed up with judgment and remarks
But was actually dauntless from the start.
Behind the so-called 'stupid cuts'
Is depression that she tried to overcome
Abaft her courage and remarkable guts
Is a doltish move for some.
Behind those wrists is the sickening dogma
On people's choices regarding suicide
Cowardice- that is society's stigma
But the truth is, they're already dead inside.
Dr. Evil,
pacing back and forth in his laboratory,
had a vexing problem he was trying to solve
How to get the masses
to let corporate government
have complete control of their lives
Then came a thought from the dark side
Give them free access to all
Let their greedy little minds
be able to lust after all they see
Give them internet with content unfettered
Keep them chained to the screen,
to thwart their ability to not comply
Condition them to believe mind-control is better
No more free thought or free will divine
Herd them into sites
that will allow them to gorge with delight
on all of their most lewd and animalistic desires
Buy this, sell that
Indulge in banal, weird chit-chat
Every perversion of the mind is now hardwired
Let their imaginations run free
Then offer them a microchip
for a small fee and a snip
Oh they gladly will do all that you say
if you promise not to take away,
take away their virtual stimuli fix
Resistance purged, resistance nixed
Once they willingly go under the laser knife,
those poor bastards then will be marked for life
Once their freewill is willingly sacrificed,
yes, those lost souls will then be marked for life
The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth
The jokes on you, I was fine
Just keep it real, that's my line
Little did u know
It's part of my flow
From this game I do resign.
Every word from my pink lips
There Were no mistaken slips
I never once felt love
No wish from God above
I played you with all my tips
hate the player hate the game
No matter it's all the same
The one biggest lie
I'm sure u will cry
You've only yourself to blame
Germaine Pasley
Doncha' see this here battle scar
That I bought at a hard-knock bazaar?
I admit I'm a fool
Yeah? What about you?
Ain't half the idiot YOU are
***For PD's contest
In Marked Territory 10-28-24 - Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
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In Marked Territory
Midnight tightly clasps the darkness,
Like a wounded heart,
In between topaz edges of twilight
And pastels of first light.
Jealous of its cosmos
Shoos away the master of the day
Turning the face of the daystar
To other skies
To claim small hours.
Guardian of vanishing infinities
Speaks
Indigo borders
For moonlight
Moonbows
And wishes on the first brave star
Where waves of the galaxy
Break
Over unseen edges of stellar sands.
Lit only by celestial lanterns
Enchanter
Conjures sovereign spells
Declaring jurisdiction over platinum roses
And
Lover’s sighs
That wax then wane under polar stars.
Night rules this welkin magic,
A sorcerer hiding a book of spells,
This realm under the starry arch
The moonrise
The nebulae decorating the firmament,
Where gravity hems in epiphanies.
The fates of newborn children were marked in separate cards
Long before their souls flew in their clay figurines like birds.
Beyond doubt, all cards are marked and all fates will collide.
Like the clashing objects in rough whirlwind or Tsunami tide.
My destiny is written, imprinted in a veiled card, so too yours.
All of our fancies, desires, wishes, aspirations will encounter
With engraved truth in cards. The Reality always overpowers
The fake phantoms of Fancy. More or less, we all must suffer.
Let the Cards clash in swirling winds, waves of Providence
For we all are destined, bound with a resilient string of Fate.
Some unseen Hands are weaving the gyrating yarns, hence,
The clashing Fates will blow the trumpets of Love or Hate.
The shadow of his flight swept across the ground.
Always the vigilant hunter at twilight's time of day
No swoosh heard from the hawk's feathered wings.
This swift and silent predator never makes a sound
when soaring through shrubs and trees after prey...
lizards, snakes, small game and other furry things.
His territory, the conservation lot next to my house,
is marked with many dried and brittle skeletal bones
and guarded from his perch high atop an ancient oak.
A mated pair moved in soon after me and my spouse.
She said he's a good neighbor and calls him Mr. Jones,
who keeps our yard free of mice, a congenial bloke.
One day the pair were flying together as if in a dance
when I noticed another hawk had sights on moving in.
To defend their territory, they gave it a raucous chase.
The battle ended quickly once they took their stance.
We also protect our home from intruders. We're linchpin,
at keeping it safe because it's our chosen nesting place.
I mark my territory by trimming the hedges and lawn,
keeping watch over it with eyes as keen as the hawk.
That mailbox bears my name proving this is my land.
I own all of it where the boundary lines have been drawn.
From one end to the other, I'll not surrender where I walk.
Anyone who tries to take it will feel the wrath of my hand.
Ironical pain
By paths filled with crimson tears;
May it be finished?
Alive with all hope heartfelt,
Within now confused visions...
Lost, broken belief;
Remorseful mists messaging;
Aching unbelieved,
Scarred warrior wanders through ways;
On stained decisions to waste?
Battles could soon end;
Finish my calm aggressions,
My restrained instincts.
A bitter blur messages
My instincts beneath lost thoughts...
In my broken heart,
Ironic wishes revealed
Muted wars inside;
Hidden voices within me;
Suppressed shouts, silent screams found...
In dead, silent pain,
My serene light and darkness
Quietly call me;
Beasts, demons, dreams, angels, sins;
Fighting for heart, mind and soul...
Once the calendar was designed to calibrate
We took the liberty to mark days to celebrate
And revere all that we treasure
With appreciation, reminiscence and pleasure
We revere the struggles and the freedoms
The pride and the establishment of kingdoms
The love, the births and all anniversaries
Sparing that day to tell the stories
Same way for the birth, death and Resurrection of our Savior
And Church on Sundays is more frequent than behavior
Taking time off labour
But are you a good neighbour?
If today is the day that the Lord has made
Why not chose good words and deeds to trade
Mark no annual day to be special
And make special to be life as usual
amid shackles and ropes
with fire burning
hatred into eyes
a child stood
without understanding
seeing tears wet
on mama's cheeks
and papa's goodness
spread hatefully
upon tracks
displayed as flags
of their righteousness
worth descended
into slavery
of white opinions
placed on heads
bleeding into
superiority
expressed in violence
he grew to become
the hate
that hate produced
with a fierce
determination
to offer freedom
for all peoples
who suffered at the hands
of racist oppressors
by any means
necessary
became the creed
adopted from years
of watching whites
cover their crimes
with veiled innocence
what is not given
freely
must be demanded
for to suffer
in silence
is complicity
to accept
is stupidity
to do nothing
is cowardice
and he was none of these
no one race
is divine
only God is thus
and so he stood, tall
against all those
who deemed him
unworthy
taking his seat
at the table
of humanity
demanding to be fed
as all humans
have an inalienable right to
demanding that truth
be served
on large platters
for the world to consume
for where there is truth
lies can not hide
and hope is born
into minds and
hearts
in his life he struggled
to find that light
but in time
he stepped into it
basking in its glow
ready to shine
enlightenment
on a world
still shadowed in
hate's darkness
but he would pay
the price for dreams
with his life
yet the price
was never too high
for the dream lived on
and thrived
giving birth
to a future
that he marked
with his
X...
My life became a song of lark
When Iris spoke to me from Denmark
When I first saw her getting embark
My life reached a decisive landmark.
My life got an important bookmark,
When the message came from Denmark.
My life will become the rainbow arc,
When Iris will come into my park.
I long for Iris in my garden to empark,
Feeling her in my touch question mark,
The soil is there, the seed is hot stark,
What needs be is a single spark.
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