Best Sclera Poems
When I gaze into this realm, I see more than the dazzling array
of golden starbursts floating in a cosmic sea of blue-green-gray,
photoreceptors painting post-Impressionistic explosions of colors,
fibers and dilator muscles servicing your ocular aperture.
I see distinctive melanin patterns of a truly original individual -
a retinal scan of exceptional singularity,
each nebula unique, every supernova peculiar,
no quasar like any other.
I passionately absorb with one brief glance
an infinity of nuance,
an eternity of historical archives,
a heaven and earth of emotional journeys.
I am reading your autobiography, the encyclopedia of you.
I remain a student of your sclera,
a pupil of your pupils,
a Vincent of your irises,
going half-mad with the dizzying vastness
of the starry night within your eyes.
Appaloosa Horses ( Poem )
Bloodlines have influenced breeds
For beauty and performance needs
Native American horses on t.v.
Used decades in western movies
Identified mottled skin note
Colorful leopard spotted coat
Emphasis in the muscling thick
Strong physical characteristics
Defined vertical striped hooves
White sclera eyes have looks improve
Establish an easy cantering
Well behaved, high head holding
Ride with a floaty, pacing trot
Light, airy movements that can stop
Become a judge and see yourself
On my playlist all by itself
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeDDBJWyV8iI-DtHmCYI_d-1hExKZUJgH
By: Doris Anne Beaulieu
Her Eyes
Have you seen how ravishing is a pearl
Inside the mouth of a shell?
How it illuminates underneath the sea,
Imagine if it had a pupil and iris as well.
Her Eyes!!!!
So big they could see right through your bones.
A glance into her eyes I could feel my heart depart my soul
As I see the reflection of my heart displayed in her eyes,
At that moment God put an infrared between my heart and her eyes,
I mean how can eyes vacuum my emotions without touching my flesh.
Her Eyes!!!
Angelic, enchanting and prepossessing.
Makes her whole face appear alluring and captivating.
Beauty that makes atheist believe she’s a Goddess.
Roses wish to be watered with her tears as a beauty process.
But where does a poor writer like me fit in?
If I handed her my eyes would she look in?
Her Eyes!!!
An oxymoron of good and bad to my own.
Her Eyes!!!
A lonely demeanor to my soul.
Her Eyes!!!
Makes a cold room feel hot.
If I make a proposal will she accept it or not?
I wanna be part of her eye,
Like a sclera be with her everyday and night
And maybe behind my darkness she could see the light,
Because her eyes is light.
Brittle Bones Break
It is heartwrenching to read today of a grotesque medical anamoly…
When a cute little girl of four suffers from a cruel bone malady…
The medical journals have identified it as Osteogenesis Imperfecta…
A dreaded enough disease that begets in a baby at its mother’s placenta…
The scientific explanation is plain and simple enough, a flawed DNA strain…
It is usually non hereditary, it is by a cruel twist of fate, merely a mutated gene..
There have been cases of passed down defective genes, regardless who is to blame..
This disease is crippling enough, there is no need to play the blame game..
The odds of getting an OI baby is astronomical, yet it is enough to happen…
Yeah, this dreaded disease strikes in six to seven children in every 100,000…
What a living hell these unfortunate ones have to suffer in their innocence ..
Having poor bone collagen, they have fragile bones that are glass brittle….
Having bones that brittle, an OI child have a most challenging time upon birth…
Some severe cases are designated type II OI, they die shortly after birth…
Growing up is such a challenge, they have all kinds of medical problems…
They tend to be short statured, with brittle teeth and breathing problems..
Limited in mobility, they have curved spines, blue sclera and muscle weakness…
The severity of the symptons vary according to type, confirmed after proper diagnosis….
There is no cure, only proper treatment can make the insufferable symptons manageable…
OI kids, they grow up needing assistance for daily activities, on their own they are unable..….
....continued in Part 2
http://www.star2.com/people/2016/01/03/her-bones-are-so-brittle-they-can-break-like-glass/
Magnificent gifts
Equals luminosity
Of one called the Sun
Red rivers run smooth
Flowing to mesh with life's pool
Gifts reservoirs cool
Sclera of twin orbs
Posing where the whole world looks
Foes surface like crooks
Blue veins quiet streams
Where the heart is, you have been
Though obscure you're clean
Blue skies white nimbus
Red silent sun simmering
I've angered no one.
*
I am reading your autobiography, the encyclopedia of you
yet I remain a student of your sclera
a pupil of your pupils
a Vincent of your irises
An excerpt from the poem "A Strange Galaxy" submitted to the
Liberum Divisa 8 Poetry Contest
Today's date: 16 Nov 2021
See the full moon's bright eye,
Use her as guide.
Imagine her sclera, pupil, and iris
Capture in colors you see fitting on a clear evening.
Cut out her yellow yolk of an egg
Reveal just albumen as if to mix in potent drink.
Look at the moon, it is a silver balloon
Suspended high up in space.
Feel the moon, it is a heavy ball
It is holding a patient's leg in traction.
*
I see
the radiation is rolling off my eyelids
right into the sclera
white to red
I can't remember how to pick grapes
with arthritis of the mind
going north towards
the wanderings of the crows
that found that the cows
have had all their ticks picked off their hide
with smiling teeth
so hiding from you
seems an appropriate situation
as the cacti gel makes the tongue swell with words
that have a prickly nature
the ice on the fence post makes
for a new religious icon
and breakfast is nearer to your derangement
of conformity
the hogs are rife with anticipation
as the sun hatches
new moles on your
soul
I see the contrast is too low
for this all to become an apparent
apparition to swallow
especially when everyone looks at the holes
in my hands
like they had a magical worm hole
to thinking correctly
anyway
Said the pea of pupil, "I don't like the eye"
And so like faith, the universe implored, Y?
Does not the eye herald pupil?
Does not the eye look after pupil?
Be it bulging, eastern, wide, or otherwise -
The eye, like a rainbow in the sky memorizes...
For the pupil in all of us seems composed
Though smaller within iris of our eyes,
Within sclera, declaring something of us.
How could it be we observe a rainbow?
Still, some seem oblivious to calm following storms.
How could the pupil not revel in the eye?
The very universe would ask Y?
*
THROUGH THE POET'S EYES
The soul that can speak through the eyes
is the thought that execute it infinite mastery
with a passion like a refiners fire,
unquenchable by roaring waters.
Just like the window to the body
where the soul is housed,
In the in-depth eyes of a poet,
unique light strikes & turns it into a color
that doesn't exist except in the moment.
The world see the lens,
the poet sees the tense,
the world see the sclera,
poets see words & paper,
the world see the cornea & Iris,
creativity oozes from the poet's chambers;
word darts makes his soul restless,
shooting punchlines that becomes endless.
The poet eyes sees beyond this realm,
and so...this eyes:
Seen the highs & lows,
witnessed the maglinant friends & foes,
peer through impediments with allergies
of fear, of self & frienemies,
seen darkness you could ever imagine
and the illumination that finally transform
this embodiment of grace.
The mastery of my pen has always been
and is in the mystery of my being.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © June 24th, 2020.
The smell of an iris flower is like
A clean whiff of Gulf breeze,
Independent of clinging debris.
The iris is prissier than a rose;
More colorful than carnations
It is guardian of the pupil in you,
Ask the sclera.
*
You left. I’m not full of anything but nothingness.
It’s an interesting feeling, nothingness. It hurts so badly you’d think something was there. But when I check, it’s empty. There’s nothing there.
I wept. My eyes burn like a thousand blazing suns, full of dust and grit that scrapes away my sclera until tears of blood drip red tracks down my cheeks.
There was something there.
No words. They erased my poetry the day you left. The words are forgotten and tasteless on my tongue. I lit a candle and seared my flesh to burn away any trace of myself, like a thousand blades tracing red lines into my skin. Was something here?
No songs. You took my voice with you beyond the veil of human sight. The phantom whispers will forever echo into the speechless abyss of my mind. Feeble scratches into my frail human papyrus, a promise never to be fulfilled. Were you ever here?
I’m empty. An emptiness so full of hate and pain and grief that I will never again be filled. It soaked into the lining of my chest cavity until every breath I take is drowning, seeped in sorrowing despair. The vivid imagery of a charnel house in human flesh. Death is here.
sclera scared of
protecting the pupil ~
rulers citizens
23 December 2021
• Blue eyes with a red sclera
• Lashes as yellow as the sun
• He always saw the world differently
• I figured he was just having fun
• He would jump the fences of school playgrounds
• And spend hours on the swings
• There were even instances where he broke into classrooms
• And steal some of its things
To ponder or not to ponder - that is the question.
Is it a waste of my precious seconds, minutes, hours
To dwell on the questions that plague my mind?
I spend my waking and waning hours mulling and considering,
Crashing waves of question marks and possibilities
Dance around in my mind's eye, quelling the beast of sleep.
A skeptical girl's dream is a paranoid's nightmare.
The mind wanders the winding path, ways blockaded by the
immaturity of age's eye. Paths extend,
arms outstretched, sclera comes into view. I enter the land
of darkness and trivial trifles, numbers rapidly rising.
To observe then look away - oh what a gift.
The fluttering, juvenile gaze upon life offers a plethora of privileges.
A jovial demeanor, an emaciated ego, a blithe smile -
charities that are given to the majority.
The plights that plague me are mere afterthoughts
in the meandering mind of the thoughtless. Idealizing,
reading, puzzling reserve themselves for the
fragmented, slightly distorted. And now I must
ponder, what the slightly distorted
save themselves from.