Best Segmented Poems
Segmented silhouettes
inked by a setting sun;
merge with ebon shadows
as twilight summons Dusk.
As romantic dreamers
welcome Night with a kiss;
azure waters reflect
a blood-stained, scarlet sky.
Twinkling stars confetti
the ebony of space;
and as darkness descends,
Dusk snuffs out Sol's last light.
Time appears to stand still,
reality's on pause;
as synchronized lovers,
swim the depths of their souls.
And inseparable,
two souls morph into one;
subservient to the
whims of compliant hearts.
Cry Mama! Cry!
Let your tears clense this barren land.
Let them wash the depravity envaded
Taste the honey and see the blood full of sorrow.
Painting there, a masterpiece of an apocalypse
'Clink, clank' went the sound and the orchestra pitch
was the screaming of their slaughtered daughters.
A symphony orchestrated by greed
They, all the spectators, listen to their amusement
Like a carousel, there was no ending to this music
Love was a scar bore by many soldiers
as a tale of their foolish days
A journey imposed by the old world
Please Mama, your tears are needed
Cry, clear away the segmented pathways and free your children
Let your river flow,
Cry for us salvation
Raise up your faces please and see this beauty,
the hope of hoping,
the faith of healing,
A new paradise luscious in its virtue
And now,
Now mama,
the only symphony is the chorus of the hummingbirds,
the pitch of the gurgling streams,
Amen
Tears of hope, a new beginning, the tender shoots of possibility.
Now i see morning from noon, clear skies once more
and to this I greet you with many tender kisses...
Good morning
Oh translucent the body takes it's ovoid shape,
An amalgam of life from inside it's bloated state,
Pro choice and glistening,
latching in a confined space of creation,
As outside light penetrates to it's depth and core,
Taking energy blessedly to it's segmented form,
Steady development throughout the course of time,
White connecting with the embryo as the blastoderm grows,
From a yoke source of life in the balance and throes
Great challenge in this incubation period,
With passion for life and birth,
A deep search for air cells breathing the first inhalation of spacious scenes
We've crept through evolution with the same stages reached,
We step past our dreams shell shocked we walk on by,
Casting this shadow over death like we are all god like,
No type of crack shows how perfect certain skins can be shed,
Blessed with new life like hatching from an egg
When And Why
Concepts of right and wrong
White and black without the shades of grey
Where did those ideas come from?
Whose warped mind divided the world into two?
Murder is murder unless it is done on a battlefield?
Killing an unborn child is ok but only until it is born
It is okay for people to starve
But it isn’t legal to steal a love of bread to feed a family
Pets are left to waste away on the sides of the road
Or take them to a shelter and have them kill it for you
After all…it is painless to die
Animals can die for sport as long as they die running
It is okay as long as they don’t fight
People can be crippled for sport
It brings in the money
But we are told that it is not right to inflict injury
As long as the owners count their millions
It is alright to be a man until a woman wants your job
It is alright to be a woman until a foreigner takes your job
When did the world become so segmented?
So indecisive about what is right and wrong
When did we screw it all up?
Oh no! Train again!
Perched upon parallels of steel,
You roll your way on heavy wheels.
Thundering through town
With a rhythmic rattle and clickity-clack.
Your deep throat rumbles diesel black.
Cars convey a cargo of corn syrup,
Commuters and coal.
You are an ant trail of steel
Packing prizes from a picnic port.
You are the artery of America’s life blood.
--Four full sets of dominoes
Laid in one long row.
--A segmented serpent
Slithering on shining steel.
--A bright-eyed Cyclops screaming in the night,
Awakening children with a fright.
--A termite traveling through boroughs
Beneath the “Big Apple”.
You are the canvas of gangland graffiti
And ferry for freight hoppers
Who dare to hitch a ride.
A network linking limits sea to sea.
Now, rattle past, and make it fast.
I’ve places I should be.
Friends , while reading the History of the Incas , I came across the wonderous story of their
mail runners , the 'chasquis' ! Kindly read their story !
THE MAIL RUNNERS - ON THE INCA TRAIL !
(COURIER SERVICE)
The Inca Empire during their hey-days, *
Controlled a large Empire of an elongated
shape!
On the western coast of Latin America, -
All the way from parts of Ecuador and Colombia!
With parts of Brazil in the east;
Including Chile and Bolivia in the south and
south-east;
While the Pacific Ocean washed their long western
beach!
Where the great Andes range like a raised spine, -
appeared out of reach!
Yet on the central verge of this Andes’ range,
Was located their capital Cuzco with its grand
defence !
The Incas had no horses or wheels to facilitate
communication,
But had an efficient courier service within their
nation!
They relied entirely on their ‘chasquis’, - those
valiant mail runners,
For sending messages within the Inca Empire!
These runners ran on that historic ‘Inca Trail’,
Crossing gorges(pogos) and mountain tracks, -
before night fell!
And rested at ‘tambos’** during their segmented
race!
Those Incas had no written scripts those days,
And used knots in ropes as coded messages!
These ‘quipus’ at relay stations changed hands,
While their runners took them to the remotes corners
of Inca land!
Their suspension bridges with ropes indigenously
made,
Formed their roadways as their Empire spread!
And those bridges were maintained every year,
By villagers rendering public service to the Inca
Empire!
Those valiant runners could run in a day, -
A distance of 250 miles , as experts say !
And could put to shame the Marathon runners
of our day!
I salute those sturdy Incas for their unique stone
architectures,
Who honored their Gods and their ancestors!
Their ‘chasquis’, those valiant mail runners and
their nimble feet;
Without horses and wheels the Incas ruled a mighty
Empire complete !
-Raj Nandy
Notes :-
* During the fifteenth century Incas were at height of
their power!
**Tambos’= relay stations , for the Mail Runner (chasqui)
to rest and handover the ‘quipu’ containing coded
messages to the next runner - to follow the Inca Trail!
Thanks for reading ! - Raj Nandy
Caterpillar
Segmented, Colorful
Crawling, Nibbling, Hiding
Larva, Cocoon, Wings, Freedom
Fluttering, Landing, Pollinating
Pristine, Delicate
Butterfly
By: Greg Stanley
For Brian’s “Sixes and Sevens” Contest
Running cracks of lead flaked paint, spiders across the front door like a grandfather's
forehead.
Its hinges squeal from years of inattention and forgotten maintenance
Floor boards moan a song of dismemberment and forgotten age
While musty gloom thickens the air – inhibiting, restricting, compressing breaths
Entrance ways lead to hallways which culminate and connect enclosed spaces,
hovering in an atmosphere of haunt and mourn
Conversations linger, echoing within walls of dine and feast
settings arranged from ritual –
two plates,
two bowls,
two cups,
two knives,
two spoons,
two forks,
two napkins,
two chairs,
with only voice and ephemeral trace.
Twisted unleveled stairs, escalate to second stories
letters to love and hate cover ancient mourning boards.
Segmented space divides the infant from maturation.
Cracked spine, chipped rails, exposing the wooden crib core
Superficial angst and rage characterizing the infant's facade,
yet delicate love exposed in clean white linens pressed and laid in perfection
sets the bedding stage for stuffed bears and embroidered blankies
Toppled bookcase defecates bound knowledge across adult wooden bed frame
disheveling sheets, rugs, and right angles,
its half fallen posture exposes entrance way to hidden passages.
Between walls, moving slow as not to catch thread to exposed nail, pipe, or wire
shoulders grazing support beams, pace entranced by flattening florescence bulbed ceilings
Each step enclosing space tighter and tighter
Climax turns to anticlimax as exit opens to
a hermetic cell of textural paint echoing skin blotched and boiled.
Surrounding walls of tattered gold, ulcer red and puss filled purple,
each based with blotched skin.?Encircles full length mirror exposing views of deceased
discomfort –
Black glass glows within frame of ornate wood
spiking and curling with baroque transcendence
Reflecting back a ghost of future deceased persona.
The Horn of Africa is where I am from.
I am just a simple woman with her children.
Lord God is our seeker and natural disaster will come.
I must conserve my last drop of water.
I see the sunrise high in the east.
In bottles, water exists.
I know that a drought is on the horizon.
My swallow of water is in my eyes.
My struggles have been many.
My strife is a way of life.
Never do I blame Lord God for this evil.
We live side by side.
Segmented are our families tribal to their forms.
We have seen droughts before and we know this is not the worst to come.
A bottle of water I take to my mouth to drink.
I treasure the quenching and feel the relief.
I look inside and see my last swallow of water that I will swill.
My tongue touches my lips and I think about the last drought my life seen.
I thank God and say – Hallelujah Amen!
User Name: Verlena
Pseudonym: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Motif: Imani
Sun Shines On The Righteous
93,000,000 miles from the earth, the sun heats our planet in varying degrees.
If the sun were not appropriately set in place by God, life could not exist, because we would certainly freeze.
Though it be true that the sun shines on the righteous;
it is equally true that the sun also shines on the unrighteous.
I cannot imagine a world of sunshine only upon the righteous,
because the righteous are comparatively so few.
Our prosperous planet would appear as one with beautiful and pleasant strips of light and comfort; but so much of the earth would be in a sad state of neglect and unused potential. There would be breathtaking views of high snow capped mountains and grassy valleys, sandwiched between blue skies, clear waters, and greenish landscapes.
Nevertheless, such beauty would, in turn, be painfully segmented by massive strips of the pure ugliness of cold, darkness, and death.
It is so incredibly descriptive of a benevolent and magnanimous creator, that he would design and engineer a “sun” which dares to
express, like him, a love so far reaching and unconditional.
04112016 PS Contest, Sun Shines On The Righteous, by
Seren Roberts
Satsuma, were you Man's first attempt at cloning,
neither orange nor tangerine,
misshapen orange, misspelt tanggerine
as you left the Japanese test tube,
ends flattened through lack of genes,
did they call you Fatsumo
ready to be fed by the thousand
into the bottomless pit of the revered wrestlers,
or did they call you Squatsuma,
yes, that would be more accurate,
no 'r' to confuse with 'l's
no 'l's to confuse with 'r's,
olange would not fit the birr,
tangeline, no-one would buy.
Your skin takes the traditional colour,
it hides a unique aroma,
and a deadly shot of acid
released when a manicured finger invades your very being.
Oh bad tempered offspring
you do not appreciate it when the pith is taken.
Within you resemble your fourbears,
segmented, regular,but one taste,
one simple taste, for the aficionado, heaven,
fulfilling the promise aired when your skin was violated,
for others, 'Yuk'
a taste not to be acquired, a failed orange,
a poor impression of a tangerine,
Satsuma, Fatsumo, Squatsuma,
Toysuma, Suzsuma, Madzuma,
only the japanese could have invented you.
I cast a line on pond to fish.
My lure plops,
and triggers circles to radiate out
as rings of ripples emanating
from the surface deformed, disfigured
by weighted lure on the end of the line.
My line sinks from view,
slack and camouflaged
by transparency.
The pond has no lines of its own,
everything is curved -
lily pads, ripples, bubbles,
and even the shoreline
is all a set of curves;
not a straight line-segment
in sight, anywhere around this pond.
But, I can think like a fish,
I know where fish are at,
where to cast, how to trick fish to bite.
I wait on end of my line,
which is slack and drooped
over a finger, listening.
Ah ha! a nibble, a peck, a bite and the fish is on!
The only line in the pond, suddenly
lifts and twangs;
the fish has taken the bait.
The rod straight and true bends to a curve,
that wiggles with tension as fish tugs and fights.
I haul in the fish, which struggles
mightily on the end of the line.
At last it is done, the fish is bagged.
The line is reeled-in, segmented
in successive curves wound on the reel,
till the line is entirely negated, coiled.
The pond sighs in relief,
happy to be rid of any and all
stray straight lines cast upon it.
The happy fisher heads back
with a fish in his bag, carrying
his rod, lures and gear home
to fish another day
with line and reel.
The image of morning mapping from the four cardinal points at the center of
busy pedestrians running ups and down to the bottom of their energies,
Chasing the note they never designed to decimate
ownership.
The smiling morning bubbling their imagination to the high magnitude of
Success languishing behind heart seeking to control situation to the center
of the market, number of desperate merchandises queuing to drink their
Imagination protruding bellies where Satan jolts their hearts to refine
thirty with disastrous desires.
The noise is enough to tantalize the talon of termites boiling at the
center hopping to solve dove segmented wants which never will be OK to
Occurrence of the occupation that too schlock to crumble tantamount to
desire of the heart.
Despite the pain still depicted on his hustle still never give up searching
the treasures that he never keeps no he pinpoints the right place, but just
Living in dilemma of success rocked of magenta quill of shaving beard.
The center of plying to control the Flocks moment of people from all
Angles, prices are bargain with sometimes smile with sometimes waged with
Sadness, the sanity of controlling the market trends is far from certain.
Stalls from left to right which drank the movements of people from one
Place to the other impossible night mad with workaholics perambulating with
Stitches ideas like the mountains of women flashing around with eagerness
to cook the dinners for husbands paying the prices for being too long away from home.
I blame the desires that preoccupied the daily lives of individuals
Superseding with treasures that don't accompany neither nor accomplish your
Bills for the prayers you missed and messed your time behind rouged
the Treasures that still is your colonial master.
Deep the pond
sweet the water,
Tranquilly placid
nestled in safe abode,
Nourished by tears of yester-years.
Vast the spaces
of times immemorial,
Condensed to serve
in segmented places,
Striving and continually
seeking the birthing waters
of the placid pool.
Vain the vanities
of immortal entities,
Chasing shadows
in spiraling obscurities
floundering, for a way to find.
SEAHORSES
We ride ocean currents
We are small marine fish
With segmented bony armor
Such an upright posture, swish
A curled prehensile tail, a tubular snout
A head and neck suggestive of a horse
Mythical creature with horse's head and fish's tail
We are masters of disguise of sort
We camouflage game is on point
You may find us on a shrimp boat
We whom swim in groups are “frys” no joke
Our courtship begins with a daily dance
We gracefully swim together
As the little assassins of the sea at glance
When not courting we feed, as successful predatory killer's
We ride ocean currents
Hippocampus we are Sea Horses
4/26/18
Copyright © 2018
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
For Poetry Contest: SEAHORSES