Best Shackle Poems
Locked within the confines of my mind’s dark cell,
Both convict and captor, a self made hell.
Each thought a shackle, every memory a bar,
Confined by my own mind, a prisoner of psychological scars.
In this self-imposed exile, I am utterly alone,
A solitary figure locked in a world of dark, cold stone.
Forsaken by hope, abandoned by light,
I dwell in the shadows, a prisoner of everlasting night.
These lonely walls echo my silent screams,
As I fight with demons, trapped in dreadful dreams.
I reach out for redemption, but find none there,
In this self made prison, my remorseful soul lays bare.
For I am the architect of my own demise,
Sentenced to solitude, beneath storming skies.
Cramped within the confines of my own creation,
Condemned to a life of eternal damnation.
I am like faded leaves,
beneath my frail feet,
failing your forbidden name
that crushed the petals of
blossoming hopes,
dusted with dark
obsidian nightmares,
enclosed in
seeds of discontent,
sprinkled by sleeping
black dragonflies,
resting on fruitless twigs,
in vales of solitude.
Perhaps nature too
feels the pain I’ve been
carrying when
invisible thorns pierce
my fragile heart,
to leave me bleeding epitaphs,
of dead dreams like
an endless waterfall,
streaming venomous words,
swallowed as bitter truth,
learned through brutality.
Here I am, writing a
letter from the grave;
in a casket of chaos;
like the flower I once
used to be,
lost and withered,
beneath clouds of misery.
But skies are no longer
my comfort, and the moon
has forgotten the
healing anthem.
Hell is empty
and all the devils
are here, strangling me-
mocking the dead,
with fiery chains of anger,
that shackle me,
as I lay my hair down,
on all the blood soaked
daggers that stabbed me.
So let me sway,
to the sanctimonious
rhythm of reaper’s rhapsody,
for pain is my testimony,
that I shall heed,
whilst fallen angels
chant across the
ceremony of betrayal,
allowing my fears
to rest in peace,
no longer having to
look back for a
final bullet from
the familiar faces that
deceived me in my
walk of faith,
as luminescent spheres
are full of astroblemes,
showing me how
destiny is not on my side.
And everything I love is burned
into timeless sands of
scars that still sting.
Every flower has its own color
With annual observation,
this we springtime discover
Give a womb kernel cede
of acknowledgment
To the spectrum birthright
of each other
We are all one,
tho’ from a different umbilical mother
Notice the bloom of time,
come rain ... come sunshine
First eclipse dawn —
tyranny tares grew with the
the golden amber grain —
The face of nightshade oppression
had a dark tone
Steel magnolias was the fetter fragrance
of the pyramid rule chain
Pharaohs, (of no melanin discretion)
who wore the ornamental godhead,
sat atop the pinnacle
While the slaves were downtrodden fed
at the bottom below
Their crowning achievement
was to erect great tombs
But papyrus thieves in the temple
stole the toil of the ruins
Skin for skin,
this is a-fertile sowing season true
Each summer solstice empire
passes into autumnal decline view
Every bird has its own color
And the length of each wingspan
differs from one another
Take an umbilical hover,
acceptance flight
To the spectrum birthright
of each diverse other
We are all one,
tho’ tear delivered
joyously from a different womb mother
Notice the migration of time
come swaddle skybound ... come burial ground
Last obscure sunset
was the Legion silo bane talon —
The thorny wrinkles of oppression
had a pale monotone
Caesars, (of no pigment distinction)
who wore the prickly spiked laurel bled,
sat atop the carrier chariot
While the plebs were commercial shackle led
to the amphitheater above
Their crowning achievement
was to deify great destructive bombs
As scrip crooks in the palace
pilfered the taxable gift of the palms
Skin for skin ~ Epidermal blend,
this is birds of prey a-nesting season true
Autumn equinox tech empires
passed into cold war, nuclear winter view
The nature of wisdom
teaches cross-pollination pure acceptance love:
Tho’ each fruit has its own color
Why then, doth this root of affinity divides us?
This is crystal clear!
Yet, what is the color of water,
of which thee Mist of Life doth bring?
It is snowflake known —
Tears of repentance
is from whence salvation doth spring
Hear the screams in the night, they are shattering
moonlight breaking, reverberating, splattering
Down the hall, she feels so small, cradled by the dark
blood red like roses are finger petaled swelled slap marks
Makeup smears with tears like a clown in a funhouse mirror
With a voice of a mouse in a barefoot house, no one hears her
Body is sore she explores all the aching joints and pain
replaying the nightmare she steers through the shame
And the stories of "if only's" are jokers justifications
A marionette that never forgets the devils grin
This endless circle like the phases of the showoff moon
comes the ride of the tide the anger drowns her too soon
Licking wounds she is a submissive to the open hand
convincing her legs she is too weak to ever self stand
But she whispers "heaven help me" as closes her swollen eyes
raw throat choked she prays to God to let her die
Hear the prayers in the night, they are streaming
shackle freeing, hope believing, promise keeping
Just listen.
Frightend children under the baobab
Of elders discourse playing
At the deep edge of rites
Of passages
With no Atlantic dream.
There is a beauty here
Before the other world began
Forgetting its origin
And taste
Of white milk in black breast
Beautifully caressing
The tongue
Outside the jaws of greed.
The time of pyramids
Lolling
On the golden sands
Full with the jewels of history
Civilizations gone
And dead sphinx to come
To Alexandria dreaming
Far from the distant
Wonders of Timbuctu.
And after all that gain
Suddenly a flood
Of nothingness
Carrying totems
Of laughed animism
On children's head
Like weed.
Stale rum sizzling
In the heat
Of deception
Crackle lies
The missionary and prelates of doom
Smile when the boom
Behind us burst
Crankling chains
Move to the shackle of the feet
The heart coffled
To the suddeness of defeat
Stared at the deception
That could not win
Without the foul
Practices bred in smoke filled bars
Of cold desolate
places making a wave.
We come
From banks of river
Surety to insurance companies
For new ships
That carry us promisary notes
Of golds to cotton and cane
Replacing the earth hidden
Treasures
In a mother's bowels
We come
Dying
To change the mosaic to come
Into a place
Where you know may know
I am
The father of the race.
In the dog-days of summer of so long ago
there were bear-hugging moments I like to recall
Like leafing through pages of ram-shackle books,
that are dog-eared, and faded, wearing hound-tooth worn seams
I had a bull's-eye encounter with puppy-tail schemes
There are cat-walks through memories, over turkey-trot trails
wearing pigtails, and Mother Goose, and laughter would peal
Where pony-tailed hairdos would swing like a bell,
and where kids could play leap-frog, and happiness dwells
We would run like the roosters and bull-doze the grass,
picking puffed dandelions, to blow with our breaths
Spreading the catnip and watching it gasp
Grasping the wind, while it wolfed-down the rest
Blooming sweet dogwood would bend in the breeze
Elephant-ears would line every path
With cattails and polly-wogs, we would bunny-hop home
for chickpeas, and monkey bread, and gooseberry creams
Then hug little teddy-bear, in our goose-down reclines
while dog-days of summer would live for all time
I am frustrated and annoyed by his ticking,
or perhaps it should be labeled the 'tocking'
By the never-ending tongue wagging clicking
in the language better known as 'clocking'
Must Grandfather Time command my life?
He so rudely continues without a thought
that his hammer yammering rhythm of strife
mocks the beating pulse of my human heart
What a wonderful fantasy my life would be
if for one day I'd not hear his unrelenting beat
I'd be stress free if time would stand still for me
for without his gonging life would be so sweet
In solace of night, I seek sleep and close my eyes
in need of escape and retreat from earthly chore
but I cannot find a moment of tranquil paradise
for his insistent knelling peals out once more
Each quarter hour his mallet chimes out to me
but his clappers sing off key in monotonous song
Not a lyrical lullaby, but a torturous rhapsody
whose tireless verses antagonize me far too long
I'm tenacious to put an end to his wagging tongue
and shackle the swinging motion of his pendulum
Each hour of the day and night would go by unsung
Being silenced is the price paid by the meddlesome
For love comes not to shackle but set free
To allow strangers to know its splendor
When they find their bond is from heart's decree
A kiss from this love turns soft and tender
Hold not the argued edge to quell love's dream
Nor each sigh or tear kept along the way
In such a malady, love must redeem
And bow with a warm heart so love will stay
Though years passing move as forever still
The tightly held fingers will bind the hands
And hold the precious trust true love will fill
Through the days traveled love steadily commands
To reveal a keepsake a lover's scroll
Whose well-torn page was written by the soul
1/25/20
contest True Love Poetry contest
** A protest against the hypocrisy of the death penalty and the decadent environment of the prison system where a simple thief or criminal is unleashed on society upon leaving worse than they went in**
The days are short and gentle
in the pillow of truth;
gentle like rain-fallen feathers,
yet the gallows bleed
and the hangman smiles
at justice unjust,
and his lazy solution:
that death brings life
Death, brings life
to the children of judgment ---
life, then death
and prison be not cruel enough ---
awash to the brim,
undeterred ---- by the hangman's promise
Like a rat the prisoner awaits
in a cell built by cruelty
and fear ---
that our most precious things
be stolen by mere hands
By mere hands we have built this place;
shackle, lock and bar,
cold, with empty promises
and rigid worry
and desolate hope ---
we esteem the prisoner shall not return,
though his soul is filled with tears;
and the day seeming not his friend ---
alone,
the night speaks to him
yet he knows that day will come again
Who are we to poison hope?
Who are we to celebrate the pain of another?
Is this not the very thing we punish?
Unseen but ubiquitous,
Savage and surreal,
If not curated but contagious,
Annihilative and aerial,
Then lurking, now loose,
You are the silent stone sepulchre,
Tangling, tormenting; transient truce,
An asphyxiating, aggravating and apocalyptic aperture,
You might among countless thriving throng induce fear,
Cause bountiful bouts of darkness and despair,
You might perhaps possess lives of mankind in multitudes,
Cripple economies and ravage revenues.
Say, can you cease the blowing of wildly winds?
Say, can you banish a bridal blush or a child’s caprice?
Say, can you hold the hanker of a koel for its lilting lyrics, while it sings?
Say, can you shackle the Sun, or rob its rays with your bitter malice?
You are nothing but an atomic annihilator, a sombre spree,
In vain you strive to rule over our spirits free,
We would surmount all sufferings and decimate your derisive decree.
Saptarshi Mukherjee
I am, I was and I will be
As I live in each heart through death;
I yield to no oath or no shackle
I stimulate all with my breath.
I speak the words of love's passion
I know the damage of sorrow;
I hold the reigns of compassion
I reach for the dreams of tomorrow.
I dream in the fire of the jewel
I sleep in the blood of the tree;
I speak to the beast of the forest
I walk thiis earth and am free.
I've felt the sharp arrows of pain
I've joined in the laughter of mirth;
I've danced to the devil's refrain
And know death is not better than birth.
I don't live in a convent or cave
Or in an ancient kingdom above;
Here on this side of the grave
Is where I shall labor and love.
Jerusalem, in the white of night,
with all the ages steeped upon your shoulders,
and the tombs of fading kings;
history has been unkind to thee,
and the desert sea laden with endless enemies ----
thou shooting star who shawn too bright! ----
how wan the dying rose with Mecca roaring in the wind!
how it whispers a new witchcraft....
A new shackle the zealots bring, on hallowed ground....
where angels fear to tread, lest they spill blood,
like the lot of man, the rockets shall bring peace, they say!
and from the east the Palestian, crushed like grapes in a winepress,
betwixt Hebrew and madmen;
'O Jerusalem, how the Lillie's lilt in thy wan shadow,
how the purge of men shudders to hear your final breath....
no sun shines on thee like a risen Christ;
no banner he bears but love,
no weapon formed but wisdom to silence paranoia;
lay down your swords, and he shall rebuild thee in three days
'O Jerusalem,
you old arrid hero,
who needs but the nectar of peace to heal thy ancient bones,
an old name whispers on the wind.....
Who are you to put restrictions on me?
I will not let you control my muse
She may roam free as she pleases
Even if that means soaring to the moon
or swimming across the atlantic ocean
She will not be silenced or bound
Do what you must because there's no
shackle "strong" enough to bind her
My muse is very bold
My muse is a lioness
Her roar commands all to listen to her
And she will be heard because
She is Free
She is Free
Her remarkable spirit can not be tamed
4-5-17
Inspired by the unshackle my verse contest
Bind my hands
Shackle my feet
Rain lashes on my body
Prick, prod, impale and crucify
You can impound my freedom
You can bludgeon me bloody...
Still, I stand tall
Proud, unbowed,
My spirit is yet free
I am yet, the master of my soul!
(Inspired by W.E. Henley's Invictus)
~Contest: A Freed Verse
~Sponsor: Brian Strand.
~"I Stand Here" contest
Sponsor: craig cornish
"Bliss like thine is brought by years;
Dark with torment and with tears."
Emily Bronte - Sleep Not (1846) st.1
_______________________________
often, I am in the throes and agony of my mind
I am tortured and each day I grapple with sad thoughts
that pinion and shackle me to the past
with anchors unyielding, yet beautiful
with memories vibrant and ever and immortal . . .
and in meditation, I look beyond the firmament
to a heavenly utopia where there is only stillness
a celestial unearthly place divine
a paradise, tranquil and lovely
where I sojourn in serenity . . .
and there, lissome and graceful I glide- a butterfly
I float and drift among ethereal emerald trees
yet, the foul besmirch of my past follows
all those shadows that restrain me
but the beauty beckons me . . .
I wish for silken repose and to rest my mind of thoughts
to dream- to sleep and slumber in total stillness
but, in dreams I struggle with the past
so in blissful contemplation
I find my peace in my quietude . . . .
______________________
May 21, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Vibrant, Blissful, Quietude
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1024-942-21
All Rights Reserved, 2018, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Eight Word Challenge
sponsor, John Hamilton, Judged 2018
Second Place
Submitted to the Premier contest, Vibrant, Blissful, Stillness
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 02/25/2022
Fifth Place