Best Sense Of Touch Poems
(this is not a comment on gun rights in U.S.A. I am from Canada where we do not face the same challenges. rather i seek to speak to the creative mind. the search for the peace in our hearts. the gun is not literal but represents the violent soul. i hope i have not offended anyone.)
almost everything that wraps
the bone structure of the hands
is responsible for its sense of touch
touch,
the neck of a guitar
a lover’s hair
via a pen
through and to the end
of a paint brush
our sensitive
our creative
side
flows through our hands
the first time i held a gun
my skin melted off
than the
tendons
muscles
veins
arteries
followed
fell off the bone
stripped to its empty frame
i held the gun
with a raw naked bone
pulled the trigger
with a cold dead hand
i never held a gun again
the flesh grew back
in peace and love
my creative voice
is alive again
travels easily
through my brand new hands
Categories:
sense of touch, passion, peace,
Form:
Free verse
Her hearing and sight were taken away
When she was just about two years old,
She struggled to become what she did -
An example, brilliant and bold.
Helen Keller was bright minded,
On hope she always did dwell
She was not only an icon for the struggling,
But for the fit and healthy as well.
“It was in the dreary month of February”
That into emptiness she fell -
She lived with her sense of touch,
Taking walks was her respite from hell.
She was seven when Annie Sullivan came
And completely changed her life,
An amazing teacher, sincere and kind -
Soon, Helen was over her strife.
She learnt to ‘hear' by touching
The lips of those who talked,
She could only manage random sounds -
Yet she was never mocked.
Under the guidance of Ms. Annie,
Helen improved in her speech,
She perfected herself in the art of Braille
And soon, she began to teach!*
She dreamt of going to college -
Her wish, of course, came true.
Her caring classmates bought her a pup
And wrote a verse on her too.
She had a group of admirers
Like Graham Bell and Mark Twain.
She gave her life to study and learn -
Her efforts did not go in vain.
Helen Keller was a great woman -
She’ll forever stay in my mind,
And I hope in the midst of her troubles,
That happiness and joy she did find.
She never bent her head, she always held it high -
She looked at the world straight in the eye.^
-------------------------------------------------------------------
* :- She taught people about values, once able to speak understandably
Her classmates' poem wrote for her :-
Beside her task our efforts pale,
She never knew the world for fail;
Beside her triumphs ours are naught,
For hers were far more dearly brought.
^ :- From her own quote
Categories:
sense of touch, tribute,
Form:
Rhyme
That Bench
He goes there every day; to that bench in the shade;
Where his shoes have formed small clearings in the gravel;
where his wool sport coat has rubbed smooth the paint.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
where the squirrels eat straight from his hand
as little birds frantically snatch up seeds he's sprinkled about.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
but not today…and not again.
08/30/15
Submission for Contest: The Sense of Touch
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
Categories:
sense of touch, bird, blessing, death of
Form:
Free verse
He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen, unfurled
and carried aloft in chilly air.
The flickering street lamp understood
as long shadows on a cobbled walk
slow danced in the warming glow.
But the music was not for them tonight.
The musician’s voice transformed
and angry staccato flares broke.
Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree!
He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick.
Snapping of limbs and morality
but the tree was just a thug anyway.
Indignant “Quiet downs!”
rained from high-rise windows
mingling in the blood of the fallen;
and tears…so few tears.
Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight.
Yet they could not escape the song,
that guileless voice in the darkness,
which once again transformed.
Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass
amplifying every tremble of the lip.
Pitiful notes, harsh on either end
and broken by uneven vibrato,
yet piercing in their rawness,
turned away the wrathful storm.
Tremulous begging it seemed,
accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn,
which lulled to sleep the very stars above.
The moon halted to listen as well,
before tucking itself in, cathartic,
as the pitiful busker concluded his song
of remorse for un-lived dreams
and unspoken things
The music wasn't for them tonight.
10/18/15
Categories:
sense of touch, introspection, music, night,
Form:
Free verse
As a child,
I always imagined God
being so far away in the sky, caressing his long, white beard.
I imagined Him
sometimes looking at the stars,
forgetting to focus on His most important creation: Earth.
I wondered if His absent-mindedness caused all the troubles we have
in the world today.
I imagined demons watching the diversion of His eyes very keenly….
My grandmother then told me:
“Clouds have very keen ears.
They listen to your mouth and heart.”
“Trees have keen sense of touch.
They can feel your emotions, as they brush past them”.
“The Sun has keen eyes.
It sees what you are thinking”.
She told me everything was part of God,
waiting for me to accept myself as part of God….
Everything was chaos and order intertwined in a web
we call time…
In a distant future,
A child imagined God
being high up in the universe, weaving magical links here on Earth
She imagined Him
sometimes looking down on men's creations: Virtual Life, Automated Machines.
frowning and at the same time amused
She wondered if His frowning meant disapproval of men's stupidity
or if he is amused at men's conflicts of morals
She imagined devils lurking in the humanoids planning a rebellion
Her ancestors' words ringing in her mind:
"Cameras are everywhere now.
They watch your every move."
"Walls have interactive sensors.
They can feel your pulse and heartbeat."
"The AI has invulnerable algorithm.
It sees what you are contemplating".
They told her everything was created by men,
catapulting the human race into a machine-dependent complacent beings
Everything human was diluted and morale intertwined in a virtual web
we call internet…
A Collaborated Poem with Angeline Haikutwinkle
Copyright © 2016 July 20th (Japan Time Zone)
Categories:
sense of touch, child, childhood, imagery, mystery,
Form:
Free verse
In the dead of night, the crickets holding their breath
Our love brooding the full moon's tide on our anniversary
The wind stirs our risen ashes and revived passion
That had remained dormant down eternity's timeline
Tonight, we're reunited once more as we'll be forevermore
Our ghosts dance in the shadows of our old, forgotten steps
Down this moonlit, memory paved path to our short lives
Past the traces of chalk where we laid holding hands side by side
Thabang J. Ngoma
08-30-2015
Nette Oclaud's Sense of touch contest
Categories:
sense of touch, anniversary, love,
Form:
Free verse
amused
by my muse
never having
even seen
snow
she saw
in photos
but never
having ever
felt feeling
deprived of
one of life's
wonders her
starving mind
wanders
i tell her facts
about flakes
never having
ever one
the same
then throwing
snow soft
to shape
but hard
to take
shaping men
and women
people in
frozen
memories
but i've
said too much
no sense of touch
all this knowledge
falling in flurries
but my muse has
a bucket list
snow drifts
across her
paper
she starts
waving her arms
wanting more words
for me to extend knowledge
for her lexicon of snow blizzardly blur
with her feet on the ground not able to
fly knowing not now how strange
to explain to her that she
has opened wings
of a snow
angel
Categories:
sense of touch, muse,
Form:
I went back recently to the park of my childhood,
Where I once sat on a worn old bench with my father . . .
And as I walked the winding path I saw the old bench,
Down by the flowing river and I caressed the wood and wept;
Stroking all the beautiful flaws, it whispered to me of memories,
And I was taken back to another time when I had felt the warmth;
I rested on the bench fingering the worn surface with love,
Wondering how many have caressed this old wood, weeping.
________________________
August 29, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/Park Bench of My Childhood
Copyright Protected, ID 08-704-648-29
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, Sense of Touch,
sponsor, Nette Onclaud, Judged 2015
Third Place
Categories:
sense of touch, memory, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Down many of the coalmines in Yorkshire , Safety dictated that an alternative means of escape
had to be found just in case anything ever happened to the shafts that raised and lowered miners to their work.
This usually involved keeping a single route open underground to the next nearest colliery .
Old George waiting by the mineshaft
Spitting his chewing tobacco juice
Today with his apprentice
They must survey the mines escape route .
1000 yards underground
In darkness as black as pitch
They reach up to their helmets
Turning on the headlamp switch.
George prodding at the timbers
That support the roof and sides
His apprentice grows more nervous
With every single stride .
A mile down the escape route
The roof is seven feet high
They see a little fallen rock
but manage to squeeze by .
The roof is getting lower
George hears the scurrying of mice
Brought down the mine in bales of hay
When pit ponies and the miners destiny were spliced.
The apprentice is visibly shaking
but only one more mile to go
When a piece of falling timber
Dealt his torch battery a glancing blow.
George could see the boys panic
and as the leader of his team
He reassured his apprentice
Then they shared the single beam .
Suddenly they hear a crack like thunder
Then the splintering of wood
George pushes his apprentice
but a fall of rock stands where George stood.
Young boy on his hands and knee's
Screaming Georges name
More terrified by the second
When no answers came.
Now in total blackness
He inhabits the world of the blind
If he is to help his leader
The boy must use his senses and his mind .
The faintest hint of breezes
He feels on his face
Air sucked down the mineshaft
Just might be his saving grace
He crawls along the jagged floor
Using his sense of touch
Soon in the distance he hears machinery
A sound he has never loved so much .
He tastes the ever freshening air
Hope inside him grows
Then the tiniest speck of flickering light
His tears overflow.
Help, Help, he's calling
As the miners come into view
Two men want to hep him to the surface
Burt he awaits his friends rescue.
Old George didn't make it
He sacrificed himself to save the boy
Broken hearted the boy had a breakdown
and had to leave the mines employ.
The boy became a father
Then a wonderful granddad
but he never tired of telling the story
of the best friend he ever had.
Categories:
sense of touch, heart,
Form:
Narrative
This old wood bench feels splintered
as does the old gentleman beside me.
Strong enough to hold us both however
in our conversation as afternoon fades.
Cannot turn away from the kindness
in his eyes as I gently stroke his craggy face.
I crush a handful of fragrant flowers and offer
them to my sweet grandfather.
written by Deb Wilson
for Sense Of Touch contest
9/1/2015
Categories:
sense of touch, feelings, granddaughter, grandfather,
Form:
Free verse
Forever etched within the meadows of my mind you stood silent in wait of me
amid the flowering Lithrope, snuggled deep beside ornamental irons, I did watch
only to find your eyes waver fearful a passerby may intrude upon your pounding heart
I must be courageous in God's glorious garden or forever be hollow and set aside
The sun and breeze kiss a Paulownia tree sending the leaves lovingly onto my path
crushing phlox and coneflowers beneath my feet I muster courage ambling forward
to meet the most beloved creature I've ever beheld, the same I seek forgiveness from
" I love you please allow time to know me further than empty words on a screen"
Judy Konos
8/30/15
Sense of Touch contest
============================
Central Park Manhattan, New York City
Opened in 1857 on 778 acres
Categories:
sense of touch, life,
Form:
Free verse
The sense of sight…
To picture our world each day.
The sense of touch…
To kiss the pain and tears away.
The sense of smell…
As lungs fill with the air we breathe.
The sense of taste…
As flavors on the tongue they weave.
The sense of hearing…
For the music of children at play.
But the most valuable sense of all,
A sense of humor…
So no matter what, you can laugh each day.
Categories:
sense of touch, inspiration, senses,
Form:
Rhyme
Beneath the deep blue ocean waves
In coral crevices, holes and caves
Exists a creature of the deep
There upon the rocks to creep
While through the water he jet propels
With muscles that contracts and swells
This invertebrate is soft and pliant
From smallest to the biggest giant
With bulbous head and eyes with slits
It waits and watches using wits
Anticipating its prey to grasp
And then with suction caps to clasp
With no bones to keep its form
It can change and so transform
And squeeze into the smallest spaces
Into tiny fissures and thin ledge places
With eight long arms and caps in rows
If losing one a new one grows
And when afraid or to confuse
They squirt out ink a flawless ruse
Or change their color with special cells
Intent on using magic spells
Their blood is colored blue not red
They have two eyes upon their head
Inside their gills and body parts
They have three beating, blood filled hearts
Their intelligence is far superior
To other fish, that are inferior
They have good memories, both long and short
And can learn new tricks if they’re taught
A shark it can so easily kill
By holding it so very still
With camouflage it can achieve
A form and shape that can deceive
They have an excellent sense of touch
The Devilfish its other name
An octopus, yet just the same
Categories:
sense of touch, animals, inspirational, life, love,
Form:
Hammock's swing brings out the sun
half asleep I feel its warmth
sea breeze touches both my eyes
whispers dreams of distant lands.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Placement:4th;(September 2012)
By-Kash Poet
Contest-Hammock of sky in Tanaga
Sponsor:Nette Onclaud
5th August,2012
TANAGA:tanaga has four lines with seven syllables each, thus, 7.7.7.7…in its traditional form, all lines are rhymed at the end, although the modern form tends to be written in free verse...
for this contest, quill me a NEW, ORIGINAL tanaga on the theme ‘ HAMMOCK/S OF SKY’ in free verse (modern form, non-rhyming)… to add a little twist to this challenge, use the sense of touch in creating your piece...
Categories:
sense of touch, nature
Form:
Verse
Job 12:12English Standard Version (ESV) Bible Gateway
12 Wisdom is with the aged,
and understanding in length of days.
Much closer than like
Too far to push away
Yet never too far to share a loving heart
Much more than a friend
Much farther than the eye can see
Much closer than the sense of touch
Much more than a friend.
Elder than
the knowledge of young
Younger than the wisdom of time
A special word in the pages of our hearts
not so easily defined...
Likened onto one we know
Yet still one of a kind
One of which we share
much more than friendship
of deepest respects and love
as family and Kin
Much closer than like
Too far to push away
Yet never too far to share a loving heart
Much more than a friend
Dedicated to, Larraine B. Harris, Best Friend of My Late Grandmother, Frances B. North
You Are More Than A Friend. You Are, Auntie Larraine.
Happy 93rd Personal New Year
Categories:
sense of touch, care, dedication, family, friend,
Form: