Best Sinews Poems
love is a marionette, kissed by kismet,
stitching in secret ~
the cursive cure from Cupid’s strings,
whilst this ink slowly breathes
on the silent sinews of devotion,
as if the heart never knew
the synonyms of the soul’s touch,
too afraid to embrace
the sound of the wind ~
caught in your dreams,
for the inner child
harbors bruised blues,
b r e e z i n g through abandoned dawns…
and I sit in my seclusion,
sipping the aftertaste
of a sad surprise ~
haunting my psyche,
knocking on my cruel conscience,
for romance has always been
the start of an undeniable unraveling ~
of hurt and illusions,
of sorrow and helplessness ~
a peony that pains and pines
beneath its own lament,
yet still I muse ~
tasting the testaments of truth,
of what could have been
and what almost was,
for the ending was the beginning
of my heart’s harp harmonizing,
plucking aching echoes
from coffin-colored chords,
cryptic cadence,
that still lives in the afterglow
of an amethyst sunset ~
painted with tears and time…
so remember me
as more than a poem
spun from metaphors of misery ~
in desolate delight,
as I am the silhouette
of your solitary scribbles,
the sigh that drifts
between your syllables,
a rhyme of what was crafted
in silence,
and what bleeds on endlessly…
Would you still love me ... perchance I was half a man?
My carnal, physical core torn from me like ragged raiment,
Off to war in courage and heroic sacrifice ...
Returned by God and country, as barely half of what I'd been -
The half that could never again join with you in passion ...
Would you still love me?
Imagine I was a monster ...
Deformed by happenstance or accident,
Still a man in the technical sense,
But with face and sinews that repulsed even himself,
Though the heart and spirit you adore still thrummed inside ...
Would you still love me?
What if the day came - a reality as viable as any,
When I lost everything of earthly value and worth -
All possessions, comforts, conveniences, and financial securities - gone,
The talents and abilities and experience to support even myself,
Blown to the four winds by careless fate or folly ...
Would you still love me?
Consider if I were human, inside-out ...
The abyssal and dark, troubled corners of my being
Worn on hapless bones like sodden skin,
The fearful ids and psyches, thus laid bare by illness or substance -
Free to dance like a demon for the porcelain moon ...
Would you still love me?
And pray, what if I were YOU ...
And you were the reflection of all that your dreams dare weave,
The horror and ecstasy that awakens you in the night -
Shivers and turns to ice on your faultless, barren skin,
Choking the screams from your chest ...
Would you ... could you still love me??
~ 10th Place ~ in the "2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 25" Poetry Contest, Mark Toney, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Would You Still Love Me?" Poetry Contest, Edward Ibeh, Judge & Sponsor.
WRITING IN A BLACK PERSPECTIVE
Why is it that someone's pain is felt pleasure to another?
I arrived with fears. I cared to find a friend, anywhere
But I wasn't taught to be my own; no school helped me to look within
I heard of God of deep blackness; with words, inciting light
One voice, one eye in our universe
My voice to converse felt crippled.
My family pools held many colors; warm as Caribbean sea breeze
Each person was of significance. Two were like gazelles, alluring
One was as dark as night, the other was near blinding white
Those in between were earth tones.
I looked out beyond decked windows. Multicolored Christmas lights blinked
Nonchalantly in dark of morning; snow was falling, and had covered bare
limbs of a cherry blossom tree- such picturesque view, i decided:
'On this most snowing, all white reigns supremely pure, as the black of night.'
The irises of my eyes were dark brown pools, merging with black pupils...
I was cinnamon; yet found solace in my shade of dark, no harsh light
Soft was my dark. No more depression lurked within. Mine eyes, my ears craved
Transparency; then came clarity. I understood triggers triggering depression
Revelations were as treasured as exercise. Fresh air, rain, sun, I was in awe of
My Higher Power's helpful hands- simplicity and clarity were blessings
I needed no Prozac.
At the start of a new day, I'd submerge in warmth, and baptize myself
I would bring soothing light to mesh with quiet dark
I would lounge, meditate, and pray. Sometimes I'd sing or hum a tune
I'd go fearlessly in the dark, knowing when not to rush
I'd go fearlessly near blinding lights, knowing where to focus.
Who am I? i am as soft as the sinews of you; yet steadfast
A dessert flower with dew of faith- even in winter
I am a flower, thriving like evergreen...
Amid histories fiercest touch to my roots
I know of grace, granted by the Source
Transcending me to live as never before understood.
I need not cry out my fears, in ways that let others fear
I must cry out injustices, so that others, too, may sing
I go fearlessly to face my fears, knowing scars are lessons learned
And good visualizations are as friends, not foes.
*
Such a finely honed sword is this loneliness
Slicing through tenuous sinews of yesterday.
I search for obscure corridors of happiness
Knowing that somehow I forgot the way.
From gloomy clouds I harvest the sorrow
Dripping into the cupped hands of my heart.
For there is no optimistic promise of tomorrow
As I curse my ship and unintelligible chart.
How bitter sweet this gateaux of quiet solitude
I garnish it with sprinkles of immense silence.
For loneliness is but a mere shift of attitude
From peaceful design to destructive violence.
I gather the jigsaw pieces of empty conversation
Falling snippets swirling on the winds of sound.
A soliloquy of madness expressed in futile oration
In chilling isolation the laughter of my soul is bound.
I strain to catch the words swirling on the breeze
Yesterday was surely a symphony of chatter.
This finely honed sword cuts deeply with ease
And though I bleed... it surely doesn't matter.
I mourn for the death of my former youth,
a time of innocence and naive bliss
which hid from me life's dark, unpleasant truth,
but now holds all the pleasures that I miss;
a time of handsome beauty, brawn, and thews,
as of Greek gods in their Olympian prime,
like Hercules of fabled strength, sinews,
and might of past renown from mythic time.
But, O Cupid!...how I do most pine for
your renewing of my dead, barren life,
which now lusts for the nubiles of folklore,
whose maidenheads can quench my burning strife!
Because of my decline's ever-growing years,
I've lost both youth and love as old age nears.
you course in my veins with prurience, wild
immersing my marrow in urge, recompiled
teceptors abducted the instant you smiled
love's effigy flaming, my sinews defiled
all virtue forsaken, as tears from a child
fidelity's prospects are henceforth reviled
I inject you, narcotic - my opiate, pure
a caustic and carnal contingency's cure
delectably dressed with diabolic allure
such dermal sublimity, surface demure
I taste of your shapes, corporeal contour
skin softly savored, goosebumped and bare
your tang on my tongue, the nectar I share
our sugar rush potion for ravishment, rare
mixed in a kiss with the strands of your hair
your ecstatic delirium inculcates my core
I'm lost to a lust that's not lasted before
tinged with an aching that day would abhor
velvet and warm are the walls of your fire
addicted to you with a crave to be higher
you are my medicine, the tonic I chug
I am infected, lubricious and riled
lavished in sensual senses so sure
imbibing the essence of you without care
mixed in like poison, I stir you and pour
swallow in gulps, the consequence, dire
you are my opiate ... you are my drug.
addicted to you.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice M, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
( This is a new form I created named "Minuanetta", with a rhyme scheme of aaaaaa, bbbbb, cccc, ddd, ee, f, abcdef g (title) ).
Friends?
Are we still friends?
Can we JUST be friends?!?
Oh such a horrid, charity-stained question!
What a keen and salient dagger it wields!
The pity that you wear like black lace finery,
Is as deadly and whetted a sword as any raised in battle ...
The patronizing look in your eyes presses on its hilt
With the agonizing weight of feigned cordiality,
To pierce the tender flesh of my hopes,
Deep and quick and precise.
Why ... why this last dose of bitter passion??
To ease your careless conscience?
All you've done is make the blade more jagged,
The wound more brutal and raw.
Now here I lay ...
Exhausted in spirit and sinews,
By what I now realize was lovemaking for clemency's sake ...
One last, tender moment to minimize the blow.
Shards of moonlight through the louvers,
Lay like broken pieces of porcelain on furrowed bedclothes,
As my passions bleed out at your feet,
Draining my heart of the realities
Of what I thought we had ...
What might have been, beyond friendship.
My love for you collects in a puddle of one-sided regrets,
And now this dreadful question makes all a travesty,
A mocking, cruel, pitiful farce ...
No, my love, I can NEVER be just ... your friend.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "My Friend, My Love" Poetry Contest, Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, Judge & Sponsor.
Winged Steeds of Mist
Out in the vales of freedom,
of rippled hills and plunging canyons,
there is nought but wind
to carve through the wild horse
Light mane, nostrils flared,
veins like sacred rivers;
heart with a hawk spirit
flight strikes music from
bright pinioned hooves
Coats of shimmering autumn,
pied shadows, blinding snow
Time and mist have scribbled fear
into the sinews
Winged at the first breaking
sounds of intrusion
fear of capture awakens a scream
far older than the sound it emits
escape,escape
pound,strive, wild horse
snort fire and acquire
the secret of flying
We start at the end, with the warmth of his breath on her skin
Baulked by proximity, he never knew how to begin
A golden-tainted obsession, bitterly laced with lead
Transformed rapture to quicksilver the instant Cupid fled
A moment held, made static, tender touch met with distress
For seeded in her veins, lies a stem of the wilderness
Pursuit stalled just in time, yet time itself recalibrates
Supplanted upon breaking, a laurel shoot germinates
Oh, what should have been the faintest touch cannot be undone
Rooted in the throes of escape, bound to bask in full sun
Sinews harden to fibre, each pulse springs a bonsai tree
Bark chokes her voice box; silent screams nest in the canopy
Locked in abjection, as her praying hands first plead then splay
As liberty, though not consciousness, is taken away
Overruled in evergreen, contortion as regal crown
Petrified white marble shall become her eternal gown
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the god Apollo mocks Cupid for wielding a bow, claiming it unworthy of a child. In retaliation, Cupid shoots Apollo with a golden arrow to ignite love, and Daphne a chaste nymph with a leaden one to incite revulsion. Though innocent, Daphne becomes the target of Apollo’s relentless pursuit. Just as he is about to seize her, she prays for escape, and her body is transformed into a laurel tree. Bernini’s stunning sculpture captures the precise moment of this metamorphosis
‘Come bring my bow of English yew and raise me from this bed
And let me look upon the wood where once I lay my head’
With fading sight and wearied limb through window rose he gazed
With summoned strength and trembling arm his mighty bow was raised
Sinews drawn to fullest test he let the arrow fly
And sinking back upon his bed he breathed a heavy sigh
‘Follow yonder willow shaft through forests darkened keep
For flighted by the angels, twill appoint where I shall sleep’
The stalwart oak tree caught the shaft, appointed by Gods grace
Beside a brook, in bluebell’d wood, there marked his resting place
In tunic Gold and Lincoln green, his sword upon his breast
Beneath the trees of Sherwood green was Robyn laid to rest
That mighty heart, its labour done, when stilled its Valliant quest
All England mourned its stalwart son who bore the Locksley crest
And through the silent forest, soft April showers wept
To wash that place from hearts and minds, a secret ever kept
One maid, one Friar, with little John, in sombre vigil stood
In silent witness mourning, the passing of the Hood
On England’s green and pleasant land was played a Hero’s part
And Never more on sceptre’d isle will beat a truer heart
The water tinkled down
My memory lane
Sweet was the sound of pain
As I gently remembered her face
Moving along the rim
The angel softly touched
My heart strings one by one
As emotions danced their
Rawness away, glowing
In the afterthought of achievement
Weak fountains sprung thru the sinews
Awakening the darkening desires
The flowers sighed and fell
Before her teary grave
As passion held in its arms
An empty mind, an empty body
19-11-12
By Tahera Mannan
For Nette’s SYNESTHESIA : INNER BODY MOVEMENT
The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.
Once, though, every eternity the cords of
patience snap:
Justice is demanded and swiftly she comes.
It's time for revolution, the clash unto ash
between the classes.
By saw and seesaw there'll be newness abroad:
The old system teeters as its sinews are severed
And from cakes of blood springs another;
That long denied by law is now seized by claw,
And from star to tar the mighty tumble
As their thrones are lowered for dwarfs to
mount.
Upwards go the erstwhile low
To be class dwarfs no more
But the mighty of the land.
Amidst this newness, though, an old song
soon intrudes:
In voices faint and mournful we hear it sung
By those from star to lowly tar fallen.
In fields and taverns, at work and at play,
It dwells on lips bright and sullen;
But up above behind stately walls where
stands the palace
None but the children dare sing it—
The song they once heard old papa sing,
Which loosened his lips like a wicked brew
But now binds them shut like a glue.
When from frolics they break
In their playfields green
And in palace parlors
At once warm chants from their breasts erupt
Which with glee and charm they long sustain
Till every soul feel their lips beguiled
To render accompaniment in a whistled melody.
Then swirls the music about every ear, and all can
hear the palace ring:
“The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.”
stretched taut against a golden sun
whipped by a salty breeze
white sheets entice sea-fragrant skies
earth's pungent scent seize
weary skin and bone . . . sinews worn
surrender to the fine
cotton softness perfumed by clouds
heaven and earth entwine
Faye Lanham Gibson
© March 26, 2015
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?
Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soul mate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?
From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
Placed Eighth
April. 29. 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)