Best Ragged Edges Poems
Damaged Goods
In summer sun’s sagacious rays
A butterfly with ragged wings
Settled on the sidewalk
In search of food or rest or other things
Slow, strolling steps brought me to her side that day
Her wings were slowly yawning to and fro
I saw the ragged edges marred
A predator had tried to take her life
She got away but bore the scar
Now she flies erratically, and slow
But ah, her colors shimmered so!
Blue purer than the air
In the sun, sparkled like a million atom stars
Yellow so shy it was hardly there
Emerald splashed like strokes by Michelangelo
They froze my gait
And captured my eyes
‘til I was lost in a universe
of delicate size
and majestic fate
I held my breath
My throat grew tight
I fell in love
With the spirits’ fight
To live beyond its brush with death
Feelings tumbled from my breast
If I could only paste a part of my soul
On her wing to repair its ragged loss
I gladly would, to make her whole
Who more than measure, she had blest
But hope and want rarely comply
With harsh reality
Or the step of time.
Nor can beauty cure insanity
Or heart enfold a butterfly
So I stood entranced by her beauty there
And caught the spirit of her bravery
Though torn and damaged goods
She was the loveliest butterfly I shall ever see
Her injury made her only all the more fair
She could not have known how much I cared
We both were bound by destiny
The moment passed as moments do
And then she flew away from me
Fluttering and stumbling through the air
Just a shadow
of who I used to be.
My heart has been scorched
my soul sun bleached
Both full of holes
and ragged edges
I gave up what defined me
I dropped my morals
I raised my boundaries
and I've pushed everyone outside
of the walls I have erected
around me.
Still I smile
I hug, I kiss, I laugh.
All hollow, empty echos
of how I used to
The brightness that was me
has faded away
like old blue jeans
parts of me are worn threadbare
I can't get myself back
Who I used to be has died
I can simply try to play
this empty echos part
a simple understudy
an empty heart
a devastated mind.
The words beg, haunt incessantly push to be
heard -Dripping forth like a venom- too vile-
about to kill it's own master
Poisonous desecrator
The scream, they push-
I offered refusal and they gathered together a great
army to slay me,
ME! Their owner, their creator- their God!
Soulless bastards each and every one of them
No peace- not ever
Sometimes they will wake me in a cold tremor
Pushing to remember (fu**ing) with me
They then concede into dark corners waiting...
waiting...
Oh! how those bastard words love to trick me!
In conversation they allude me- just barely out of reach
daring me- daring- as I spatter on like a fool!
Then finally when sleep decides to come-
(oh sweet sleep)-
They crowd, screaming, jumping all over my brain!
Daring me- but the body says no.
They love to scream,
those little elusive bastard words
For days and weeks I can search
behind every rock
or blade of grass
They are as free as any bird- at times
they take to flights a fancy-
Other times they are as the wily fox- just never...
can- quite
reach-
them.
Those bastard words never come when I call to them-
begging, crying, pleading with them- driving me to the
ragged edges of sanity-
but those words, always around the next corner-
or down the road
And when- finally I give up-
(I swear I heard them smirk) they
breech the threshold - offering themselves
Those little bastard words.
On blue-black beach the waves abate
and toss about the chips of slate
to wear the ragged edges round
ensuring skipping stones abound.
The swirling mist, the diamond drops
race up the beach with frequent stops
to put a shine on stoic stone
and soak this hiker to the bone.
There are those who rue a day
of mist on Resurrection Bay
when Sol, he is a shaded lamp
and all is quiet, subtle, damp.
But rain that makes the trail so slick
will leave the mosses mattress thick,
help the spruce grow stong and tall,
give substance to the waterfall.
The dancing mist has no regard
for angry rock, sharp and hard,
and in a soft and cool embrace
will smooth a wrinkle from a face.
This foggy day confirms belief
all need not be in sharp relief!
why the hurry? Find a way
appreciate this gentle day.
A book is the beginning of a prayer born of hope, faith and love discovered within the pages of some writer’s glistening ink - quote by poet
Dust piled in layers
On books and anthologies, laying
Silently along the shelves
Where my thoughts would reveal
Endless moments spent traveling
Through page after page
Of poetry and promises
Pure, potent prayers
Praising with ink
Reading like an embrace
To the heart and the soul
Of one who knows that life
Lived on the ragged edges
Of a paperback dream
Is a life lived in light, laughter
Love that grows wilder
With each passing prayer
Yearning for a chance to whisper
Thank you in God’s ear
For the music of mystery
The longing in literature
The friend in fiction
The praise in poetic prose
The rushing winds beneath
A romance beckoning for joy
Found within the creased pages
Of history and happiness
A book is a brilliant blaze
Of inspiration and hope
A colorful creation crafted
On the empty page
As it’s filled with delight
Insight, a stirring of faith
Falling across the spirit in waves
Of grace and inspirational
Musings to reach out to the one
Who knows that a book holds the key
To creativity in tears of
Sensitivity and soothing solace
Awakening the mind to knowledge
The heart to feelings fully alive
And the spirit to the warmth
Of a soft, gentle affection
Flour sacks I remember you so well
full of golden grain, bran or flour
a slight but delightful musty smell
perambulating the atmosphere
Sacks cut up for all sorts of things
cloth shoes and dresses even trousers
rough coats that did not keep one warm
scarecrows dressed in sacks
Vegetables stored in sacks that are stacked
in rows inside the dutch barn ragged edges
where the rodents have been chewing happily
a veritable feast they will not go hungry
Sacks of cloth rule in my book
paper is not the same no way
a soggy mess when it rains
ripping as you carry them
Hessian sacks people knew would last
paper is only good for bonfires
or as twists to start the parlor fire
airless no good to store food through winter
written 11/22/2013
contest Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
I don't know any African heroes
Only the city slickers on their quest for seven zeroes
Teach me the names of the fathers of prose
And how , with blistering fingers and eager minds of listeners from ashes they rose
Show me how the doomed generation told the tales of today's black nation
Show me, I say, show me how my imprisoned ancestors emancipated today's indoctrinated
I yearn for soulful the teachings of coffee stained pages with dog ears and ragged edges
Africa who are you children?
Africa where are your heroes?
Form:
STORM CLOUDS
Storm clouds gathering again from the Pacific
Over this graveyard and its winged totems,
Cedar stories rich in legends, these items
--- Of far-off people, Shamans, and soaring spirits prolific.
--- Of the sea Indians - salmon fishermen - now absent
From the Weywakum cabins at the choppy anchorage, *
Facing the ragged edge of the Inside Passage *
With its grey waves and treacherous current.
Graveyards always feel shivery and cold,
But these souls are sealed at peace from storms.
My eyes begin to brim as I read the stones
Marking the changing currents of life age-old.
The chill wind pierces my jacket, waters my eyes.
Gathering in the darkling day without any dawn,
Storm petrels from far Quatsino Sound blown *
Into the ragged edges of grey clouds in the wintry skies.
………………………..................................................................…
NOTE
*Weywakum Indians, Inside Passage, Quatsino Sound are all
well-known local people and places around Campbell River, B C
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
Written by Sydney Peck 13th August 2011,
For Francine Roberts’ Contest “Totems in the Darkening Sky”
Old sentries standing guard for centuries
Exposed rocky ledges staring outward
Like true natives with rugged determination,
Nature's hieroglyphics in emerald green
Reflect gold splintered sparkling gems
High above savage river's ragged edges,
Far below the sounds of rapids whooshing
Unaware the circling echo of eagle overhead.
written February 13, 2022
Strong Voices, Fixed Opinions.
"Bashing",
the political warfare,
of the uncommon man.
The rights of all those in power,
ungodly "saints"...
that walk on higher ground,
to prove they are better than the rest.
Alienated and disturbed...
by the fact,
we put them there,
on top of the world.
Famous for all the wrong things.
Not for saving people,
or heroic acts,
but for keeping the small,
ever smaller.
Eat your dogs,
and say little,
that is what is expected of you,
and you and you and you.
We are your betters,
and fretters best beware,
or we will quietly send you...
down the stair.
Some heads will role,
some broke the law,
more are far above it still.
While others, only tried to call out
the ragged edges for what they were...
or are... or will be.
Bad words they speak,
while we dine at the 5:00 o'clock hour.
Pressing their agenda,
into our faces,
until we can not eat...
anymore.
Everything comes and goes like this,
boringly fast drills-
look and it's passed. Sadness and thrills too
are soldiers. There's no point in turning it over,
and over. The visit, however quick and smooth
warrants the quick and harsh pains. We're used to
never going back.
How is it sad?
How can it be anything else, but we're miffed
for thoughts of the ragged edges of what we've had-
and all this, carrying our shiniest wrappings
for merrymaking instruments to one day tarnish,
that we'll collect as antiques and garnish
our mantle-piece with them.
Nostalgia is all the rage,
so ignore the tea and collect the dish.
Sagittarius
Strike true the star sign of the archer hunter’s heart true north while
Arrows of artistic aspiration fly free from optimistic opportunity in
Grand views of grace to stumble over humility’s stone in blunt speech as
Inquisitive innovations turn eyes to heaven’s crystal river in the
Thrill of effervescent infectious energy for risks of happiness and
To the trusting essence worthy of compassion’s trust where
All creatures great and small hear bubbling music’s fresh fountains while
Ragged edges of unfinished rhapsodies, abandoned in new crusades of
Insatiable quests for authentic unexplored astral eternity,
Understand restless feet rushing in the wind - sign of fire adventures -
Searcher of the stars and soul revels in laughter and vision’s arrows
3-30-21
Contest: Star Signs
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Would that I could be made beautiful again
after being broken, withered and wrinkled.
My aged parts, especially my heart,
given new life like pieces of sea glass
gently washed upon an amber shore.
No more complaints then would I offer
to my coffer filled with miseries.
Free from clicking knees and blurry vision
preventing me from seeing clearly, things
I cherished and lost. On waves, I'd be tossed.
Would that I could be made beautiful again
like frosted glass in pastel hues from the deep,
I'd be prized and valued enough to keep.
No longer would I weep over jagged shards
with ragged edges that I have sadly become.
If ever again, beauty is found in me,
let waves deliver my body as bounty from the sea.
Weathered skin, emeried smooth by grains of sand,
would find me renewed when I emerge,
purged like sea glass, polished until I shine.
He binds my hands and wrists behind me
struggling to escape I see
the fury of the coming storm
arising high beyond the trees
I know too well the chance I take
when I accept a stranger's ride
beneath my knees, cold earth awaits
for this will be the night I die
As the growing black enfolds me
stars are blinking far above
Goodbye, earth and sky and music
Goodbye, everyone I love
Something murmurs very gently
while I spiral further down
voice and spirit leave my body
as in Death's dark pool I drown
Just before my flame's extinguished
what, I wonder, is my purpose?
with that riddle left to answer
I fight hard and break the surface
Breathe again the cool, moist air
feel my own blood fill my mouth
gasping for the breath I lost
as my life almost flickered out
As I look about I find
to my relief, I'm quite alone
with ragged edges of my mind
I long for those who wait at home
Lying still beneath the pale moon,
waiting for the sun to rise
knowing Dawn approaches soon,
I think about the night I died
And though I almost left this world
I'm far too numb to feel the fear
I realize because of me
a fool was almost buried here
I dont know any African heroes
Only the city slickers on their quest for seven zeroes
Teach me the names of the fathers of prose
And how with blistered fingers and eager minds of listeners
from ashes they rose
Show me how the prisoners of yesterday freed the modern-day indoctrinated
show me, I say. show me how the doomed generation told the tales of today's black nation
I yearn for the soulful teachings of coffee-stained pages, dog ears and ragged edges
Africa who are your children
Africa where are your heroes
Africa who are you?
Are you the mother and bearer of all things dreaded
Blistering sun, venomous gun, father of famine and
Saviour to none?
Are you the giver of disease
That brings demise with utmost ease
Your off-spring hangs from crippled trees and their breed dies of HIV
Africa who are you?
Show me the ladies of literature
Who's sudden death was premature
They once upheld our heritage
Their souls replaced with hearts of rage
Show me my Africa
I read of her in history books
I saw her flaunt her flawless looks
In the words of the fathers of prose
Where are they?
Those African heroes
Where are they?
Form: