Best Pool Of Blood Poems
A Shattered Peace
(as a privileged white man searches his soul)
A shot rang out that gave a fright
and shattered peace in dark of night.
For just a while I gave a pause
then ventured out to seek the cause.
I saw a shadow in the dark
as I approached the city park;
the cop stood tall and at his feet
a young black man lay in the street.
"He tried to run," the sheriff said;
reported crimes from which he fled.
(‘twas later found upon research,
the man was heading home from church.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I noted it to be dark red,
the pool of blood beneath his head;
a shocking moment to define,
it’s color was the same as mine.
Are we that different, he and I,
this inbred guilt which you imply?
For which he died, his only sin
‘twas darkened pigment of his skin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How many times must this repeat
these black men dying in the street?
How many times must this repeat
these senseless shootings indiscrete?
How many times must this repeat
until our bias we defeat?
‘tis in our soul the answers lie,
and in the hearts of you and I.
June 21, 2020
*BLACK~RAIN*
**My wedding day**
***********************
my finest moment
washed away with white satin
nightmare from heaven
**Bleeding Love**
********************
dreams never revealed
swimming in a pool of blood
dark clouds forever
**Eclipse with tears**
************************
Dark Crystal Lightning
blue skies, deep watercolors
over the rainbow
**Gods Punishment**
*************************
useless way of life
40 days and 40 nights
grave yard promises
by;p.d.
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
You stood in the dock when the guilty verdict was read out …
Just a spotty youth with a cocky look in your eyes
Now sentenced to five years in prison, I hope you rot in hell!
The defence team tried to make out that YOU were the victim
You had drug and alcohol issues, which catapulted you into a life of crime
I had to sit there and hear about your past
Was I supposed to feel sorry for you?
What about me, the real victim…
You’d entered my house, hell bent on stealing what little I had
I handed over my widow's pension but you weren’t satisfied
Demanding more, you began shouting obscenities at me
You started trashing my house trying to find my jewellery
High on drugs - you were like a wild animal
Your fists rained down like bullets … you beat me senseless
My daughter found me unconscious, lying in a pool of blood
I spent weeks in hospital
Now I’m terrified of being on my own and have moved in with my daughter
I couldn’t go back into the house I so loved
You will be out of prison in a few years…
I have a life sentence
Through their eyes 2 – Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
08~12~16
The Play Bill for the Godspeed Opera House fell from my sweaty palm to the floor. 9/08/01. I’m still alive; it’s a miracle. Pushing my bifocals back, I frown. I can’t remember anything after arriving at 11pm.? A cell phone rings. I stumble toward the buzz; bend over to look for it, when I’m tackled from the wing. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I’m down.What did you do? You bastard,he bawls; looking toward the old theater house’s stage. He grabs the phone, retrieving the last message— Fred get to the opera house by midnight or you’re both dead.
the curtains part
revealing a pool of blood:
a chord is struck
Seems I’m alive and after midnight too. I had a moment’s relief. My arm’s wrenched to my back. The pain’s hard to ignore. I feel cold metal; he shackles me. There’s a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall fixing the cuffs to the door pull. The theater hall is empty except for the two of us. Through an open door, he charges.We’re back here guys. It’s clear.That moment alone was all I had. The SWAT team arrived. Smells like the dead in here Marco’s where the body?“Ask him why don’t yah. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya. Two of the gorillas toss me out on the porch for a closer look under the moth ladden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head—a woman screams.
The Play Bill falls from my sweaty palm to the floor
September 8, 2001 and I'm still alive; it's a miracle.
Pushing my bifocals back up my nose, I frown.
I can't remember the play at all?
A cell phone rings. I stumble toward the closed doors.
Bending over, I'm approached from the wing and tackled.
My heel slip-rolls on a broken pencil; I'm down.
What did you do you bastard, he bawls.
the curtains part
revealing a pool of blood:
a chord is struck
My arm's wrenched to my back the pain's hard to ignore.
Arms back, I feel cold metal, he puts on shackles
From the outside, there's a shout; a cop's siren sounds;
he lifts and shoves me to the wall.
One hundred percent, can you see it?
Maybe - imagine if that were a pool.
A pool of water maybe or a pool of blood?
What power dictates true endeavour?
What justifies what stakes rise?
Perhaps we stand here in front of pure evil?
Perhaps it’s pure love we see under a reddening sky.
How dangerous is it?
How sharp is the hand that slices to kill, how blunt is the fist that strikes for the freedom of you and me to survive?
One hundred percent is every fibre, every thought, every sight seen through the eyes and deep in the minds eye. All the pumping blood, heart beats, memories of love and hate draining into the sea, rotting on the ground or exploding in the vast sky. Every feeling felt, every tear, scream or cry in an instant goes by.
What of those who give one hundred percent for our lands, for our democracy. What of those out there today or tonight?
To give one hundred percent for most is too much because you can never be free. To give one hundred percent for those who you love do you separate yourself from humanity?
Imagine the pool of darkening water, imagine the lonely cloud in the deep blue sky.
Those who give one hundred percent for you and for me on foreign fields, in foreign seas or skies.............
.............die.
...They were the dedicated leaders who endured gigantic sufferings for this house
Their red waters flourished the freedom we are enjoying today
They rested for good in the pool of blood until were found by their spouse
Their hearts stood beating, but were beaten ’n bones broken for this way
But people of today depicts not even tiny gratefulness for what they have done
Today leadership is an opportunity to develop one’s house
Unlike in the past where leadership was intended at developing the house of S.A
Party manifesto is their only way to steal people’s house and win their position.
Lord have mercy, OUR house is sinking down the drain
This is not what they have fought for is it?
Change the course of this house into house of fair and plain
Promote equality, one house, one nation, one kit
In leadership, Lord change the love of money into strong passion
To change the world into a better house for all in nation not CORRUPTIO
~Born In The Slums.~
She was born in the slums
sixty three years ago
by a mother out of wedlock
delivered her all alone
In an empty dirty corridor
due to a mistake she
committed one night out of
lust, or maybe out of love,
we will never know.
New born first cry to freedom
Mothers last cry from freedom
New born first breath to live
Mothers last breath to die
Echoes of life and death
In that empty room.
A mother laying on the floor
In a pool of blood,
A new born attached loosely
To the mothers last breath
As her destiny short lived.
Nobody to welcome that new
born alive with no flowers
no balloons no father nor a
grandmother no doctor nor
a nurse no bed not even
sheets on the floor.
No decor for a new born baby
with no name alone nude no
one to clean her up, yet that
last link between mother and
daughter a cord separating
life from death.
Rescued by that stranger
living in the slums
He carried her in his arms
covering her fragile body
with his shirt walked towards
the church rang the bell
and delivered her
to the priest.
Today she wrote;
here i am today
grown up and happily
married with
two children.
Terry
16/1/2013
I watched a shocking video today,
It’s an example of animal cruelty,
A variety of them killed without mercy,
Skinned to the bones while it breathing heavily.
A heart with no soul for doing this activity,
They are so scared shouting for their last day,
Pool of blood pouring to the ground of hell,
Small voices of dying animals, furs will sell.
The savaged men tossed them to the side,
A mountain of bloody creatures for sacrifice,
Looking at them begging to stop this inhumane act,
It breaks my heart and tears flowing down in fact.
The best thing we can do is to pray,
Show our love to animals every day,
Be vigilant, be concern, and do your share,
They are God’s creation, please show your care.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE56fAD3HyE
This is the link
February 28, 2013
6th Place Winner
For PD's Contest
September 25, 2013
Dialogue
When 2 people each have a glass of wine, and listen to the others viewpoint
Debate
When 2 people each drink a bottle of wine and make damn sure the other person knows they are right, both argue until one falls asleep.
Battle
when each person drinks 6 bottles of wine each, fiercely argue their point, breaking all 12 bottles in half to be used as weapons of convincing, until both lie in a pool of blood.
War
When each side drinks 6 bottles of wine rounds up all the villagers and they each drink 6 bottle of wine, and attack the other village for not agreeing to their point of view. When one village is almost wiped out then the other side with all their wounded wine drinkers, then declares victory.
United Nations
When to stop the two sides from debating their opinions in war like manner, they come and set a boundary between the two villages. Of course because they are unarmed, they bring cases of wine to give to both sides, to sooth the wounded and calm down the rest. Any minor conflicts are resolved with a glass of wine and a mediator.
A Vineyard somewhere in France
ahh Jacque, regarde, look, this beautiful vineyard of grapes, and this beautiful summer morning! ah oui oui tres beaux! Yes Monsieur Antoine, so true, what a wonderful trade, satisfying the thirst of people and knowledge, that you bring such peace and protection to the world, Antoine truly, bless you.
Yes ma, mother tongue
my ears are not deaf to your calling
even when I am dead at night
and far I have gone in the world beyond – world ceiling
for not like others, stumbling
waddling
falling
dying
is your voice in their ears
I have wanted to die my ears
to this calling
to die it like a day old life-less infant
for even if it is animate
it could neither see nor hear
O what a powerful! Pricking my ears
your wailing a spear
Now I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
I have gone and I have seen her prettiness
I have moved close to her and smelt her scent
O sugary!
This strange tongue is fascinating
her luring tone is so sonorous
instant she sings
your children sleep and snore as frog
O mother tongue!
Opened are my eyes
and covered are my ears
tightened, tightened like thin can
but only your wail rooms my ears
O mother tongue!
You are a mother
whose belly is the ocean
that streams in the flesh
You are a pool of blood
which within flesh you room
Can someone dry water and blood in the flesh
so that you can be no more?
You are a mother
whose no child can tell of her beginning
You are umbilical cord
You are immortal, yet you are dying
O mother tongue!
I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
The children
which because of them your eyes stream
will neither listen nor ear you appalling
O mother tongue!
I am set and it is time
to embark on this errand of yours
Perhaps if their sense would sense
and their eyes would see the beauty in you
and your tone that as sweet as honey
that can never bereft it taste
O mother tongue!
If you die in their house
who will, indeed, cry if not them
in amidst of mockery eyes
or can a strange tongue be their tongue?
A wake up write for whoever cherish other culture above his or hers.
I've been digging through my past
Like a miner digging for gold
But all I'm finding is coal
So I reset the path to my goal
To cleanse the depths of my soul
I bury myself in a pool of blood
Pouring it in until it floods
And I'm wiping away the mud
Of a thousand poetic duds
That dropped like bombs
Sifting through the words to keep calm
I'm a stoic soldier reading the psalms
And I can fabricate my own way
As I wake up to a new day
Knowing I had been led astray
By the very words in my own head
But I'll thread all these words together
As I seek to make myself better
I'll be as light as a feather
No longer chained by the debtor
And upon my head I'll wear the crown
As I march with confidence through this town
Drownin' nouns in the frowns of clowns
I'm ready to get down and get around
With my poetic verse being the only sound
As I've shed the shackles of the past
And as the spirits have massed for my verse
I've reversed the course of my curse
And turned a gift that had gone the worst
And transformed it into a savage thirst
As my words burst through the speech bubbles
I'll eradicate my past troubles
By salvaging my spoken word
Spurred to take flight like a golden bird
And on the strength of my wings
I'll proudly proclaim the return of the king
Sudden as thunder they crack in the night,
the boys in the lane leap over fences,
bottles crashing into stone walls,
and bullets whistle with echoing sound.
Political war,
Tribal war,
Gang war.
The boys fight with one another for the release of "the Don"
they rampage in the little town,
and round up all the informers.
Night comes alive,
doors open wide,
then suddenly,
"Lord, someone shot Sammi Joe!"
Lights bang!
and everyone rushes to look at the innocent one
lying peacefully in her pool of blood.
"Sammi Joe is dead!"
Her frightened mother yells.
Gunshots cracking in the night,
smashing glass,
and chiseling walls,
the burning night heat,
people scatter in the street.
Mr. Crow pisses his pants when the boys spot him as the informer
Dragged in the streets,
Crow's face flushed with the wall,
bullets puncture his head.
Further down the road,
the innocents grip tightly to their beds,
trembling,
wondering who will be next.
Bullets dances around the walls,
wailing heightens,
The massacre begins.
Blood washes the street,
dead bodies blocking the gate of the little town.
©2013 Christine Phillips