Best Skulls Poems
The gourds were really jealous of
the pumpkin's orange hide.
The golden corn was long, long, gone
the scarecrow did confide.
The old oak tree was worrying
for he'd TP on his crown,
and the barn's backside was plastered
with a witch who's falling down.
The plastic skeleton rattled
in the evening breeze
laughing at the harvest moon
he was trying not to sneeze!
Soon the kids would bob for apples
and eat candy till they hurled
Oh yes Halloween's a grand old time
for all the boys and girls!
10/2/13
Pro Patria Mori
Missouri volunteers bit bullets, watched
as Santa Ana's baggage washed
their brazen hair, hip deep
in the Rio Grande.
The ancient river moved across the land
Like slow drool down a leather cheek.
Bang! Paul Bunyan's balls
rolled down the Great Divide, rattled
across the porcelain sea.
Oh, the girls!
Hair hot and black, Whoopee!
Their tongues as pink as baby fat.
Now tongs drop a hissing crepe
on the defoliated plate. Butter complicates
our fingers, soils the bib.
We crack a claw. Like a crib
at Benin, wary and dull,
the eagle fills his nest with skulls.
Hold in abeyance
A sub rosa confession
A mystery concealed by science
“Veiled in allegory”
Impossible evidence and concrete lessons
“A Peculiar system of morality”
“illustrated with symbols”
Quoted definition
Of Freemasonry
Complex bureaucracy
A tyrannical
Secret society.
Life begins, with morning dew
Beneath the earth a small pod waits
Till the eyes of winter steals
A glimpse of spring, then knows its fate
Among remains of those gone past
There is hope left on their face
To most, it's viewed as death
But life still leaves its trace
And when the sad tail ends
Those that passed, will lie there rotten
Till the blossom reigns again
Upon the forehead, of the forgotten
The Crushed Skulls
the crushed skulls
and the
torn-off legs
and the
single shots piercing countless heads
women, men, children
young, old, everyone just a human being
when will we tire of the senseless killing which we keep on impotently seeing
the gaping wounds soaked in blood
dismembered corpses piled high in some humid make-shift ****-stenched mortuary
who will remain to someday write, war's final obituary
for the killing goes on in the name of tribe
faith
race
religion
caste
sect
and the vested interests above all
but who really hears the whimpering sobs of a 4 year olds call
for her mother, father, brother, sister
as she lies dying, bleeding out like a gutted animal, on the stinging gravel
while we deliberate and engage and while to Geneva we always travel
to sign some scraps of paper that merely postpone the killing for a while
while the putrefying carcasses of human beings lie side by side, mile after bloody mile
war is ugly, they tell us
but necessary too
and we go to war for peace
while the generals and the money-men and the politicians drink and dance and screw
war is ugly
it is indeed
but so are we
if we fail to see the humanity stripped away
and peeled off the skin of that 4 year old girl
and if her cries for help we do not heed
war and guns and bombs and the very latest smart nuke
sickens me as it should us all
making us retch and puke
but who gives a **** about the bombs falling far away
we've got chores to do, margarine to buy, and take the family out for the day
war is ugly
so they tell us
while loading the magazines without much of a fuss
war is ugly
and cold and brutal and evil as the hounds of some distant hell
but who gives a **** for we have sneakers to buy and stocks to sell
war is ugly
but so are you and I
for we remain silent
as the bombs fall incessantly on
out of the open sky
shame on me and shame on us all, that much I believe is true
for our silence in the face of misery is tacit acceptance
and try as we might to inure ourselves
I am as complicit in it all
as are you...
(For: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
(for: those who fell on the hills of Liberia)
I hear a song from my hills
I hear it sound from afar;
And towards my homestead
Near those aging banks of the Niger
I feel the disturbing songs
Of drummers announcing with cannons
The ravages of Monrovia
Like ancestral funeral men
But these drummers are different:
A shadow of their ancestors?
Is it something beautiful
For Doe’s ever-haunted soul
That Sulima should breathe of
Blood-fouled air?
Does it touch the heart of Taylor
That St. Paul’s river should mirror
The dying souls of pregnant mothers
On forced premature delivery mats?
The guns are eating
New diets in broken skulls
Everywhere!
And all my kins
Are traded for the mean
Prosperity of war
The smell of their black blood
Slapping the face of our dignity:
And does this dunghill of skulls
Touch on the human side of Johnson
And those other warlords?
How long would the orphan’s bones crack?
When would a man walk freely
Across the streets?
Tell us! you noble warriors, tell us:
When the guns would stop singing;
When would fear stop celebrating?
Here as I sit in my hut
Fully fed-up with homicide news
Of thousands and countless of my kins
Dragged into early and tombless deaths
I dreamt of slow-walking hunger
Load-bend of the souls of my kins
Like ants in a dry season:
Would you tell me the number
Of black skulls cracked
On the top of every hill?
Tell me the quantity of black blood
Spilled each day along those currents
Of Mao and Sherbro rivers
And the quantity of children’s bones
And ribs ript open near Monrovia:
Would you be brave enough
To tell these and more atrocities
To the deaf ears of the world,
O! strongmen of noble Liberia?
The air-ward climb –
On the weaver’s hill:
Ozone-layered: across
The delight of new eggs;
Soft – in my intent, brief!
Transitory; leaping
From side to brighter side;
The non-conceived patterns
Growing in frequencies
By our sea-storms and dead deluge:
Are they brief?
Are they intent?
These cata-combs of broken skulls!
Are they the import of our essence?
He is a professional, let him call out the skulls.
I wondered what this meant, but I trusted the gulls.
The drummer began, and the skulls came out of their hiding.
I was shocked at first, but soon recognized his abiding.
They love him, I said. They still have emotion.
The came from the meadows, the woods and the ocean.
These are the lost skulls, the gulls told me with a hush.
Don’t scare the drummer. We don’t want him to rush.
Lion sits at his table with appetite
to enjoy fruits of his daily labor
Those with him during every feast
are invisible skulls of past meals
Friends and foes sing and dance
jumping all over the table at meal
lion harshly bickers, denies rights
some he praises and honors bitterly
Bed time lion scatters his eyes all over
traumatized by vision of crying skulls
yet his appetite grows day and night
to capture friend and foe for meals
Legion of weeping and dancing skulls
frequently disrupt joys of stolen meal
crystal skulls
some are repulsed
others are drawn in
feeling the purity of them
mystics state they have healing powers
can enhance your psychic eye
pull energy from your root chakra
use them for successful scrying
important in cleansing rituals
oftentimes have an alien connection
paranormal phenomenon
produce miracles
rose quarts skull can talk to you
will share tales of love
tigers eye skull will help you solve mysteries
amethyst skull brings you prophetic dreams
choose your skull wisely
Fractured Skulls With Barbed Wire Fences
Today I'm in a trance to learn to dance
I'm lost in a visible circumstance
Through a velvet wire proned in torment
A chosen quest for inner silence to rest
Vanquished & torn
Through a velvet wire proned in torment leading to sorrowful fear
A chosen quest toward that of abstinance
Although its twilight sun had tainted my inner vision
Reflection,
A quaint stream nearing to a pool of radiant light
Some may insist in blaming it on the night
Instead of living by faith they will choose to accept that of sight
With desperated choices that I made remorseful
Tormented in the flames of waiting desire
Pillaged through then scorned,
Some may even curse the very day they were actually born
A sonnet in conquest in vengeful passion leading to eternal death
Torn,
Fractured skulls with barbed wire fences
A lone survivor will chose to take their chances with disaster;
Into its viable pasture will long to capture
A lone survivor will chose to take their chances,
Within intense inner conflict desolate pain in clear anguish we will stake our claim,
Forbidden,
As in radiant charms enhanced by sound
With viscous long hanging teeth fractured then smeared in saturated blood
Left outside as desolate roadkill at the side of the road
In vanquished dreams pierced beneath its seams
Living in darkness with its madness we will learn to appreciate its light
On a lone pilgrims progress to never give up on the fight!
A graduate devastated over the lose of their dreams not being fulfilled
The evil tension equated to pierced teeth cleched deep within its fright
In timeless caged rats with sullen inner darkened pitch
One day will rise with riches,
The next to quit then to fall headlong in some ditch
To realize that the beautiful wife that you once wed is actually a *****
Fractured skulls with barbed wire fences in sonic trances,
Thank the good Lord for his second chances!
Las Pas Bolivia
November 8th
Day of the Skulls
A bit different than Mexico’s Day of the Dead
Prehispanic belief says people have seven souls
One of them is located in the skull
If they do not have an ancestral skull they will dig one up
They are respectful and decorate the skull with reverence
Their skulls are treated with awe
taken to cemetery church where priest blesses them
Not a Catholic priest, they frowned on this practice
And got their church windows broken as a result
These skulls are thought to have protective powers
They are treated with respect
Pampered with cigarettes and cocoa leaves and other treats
Dia de las Natitas
Day of the Skulls
In the fields,
On the dry cold land,
There are monsters.
Torn up skeletons,
Lying on the ground.
One by one.
Swords inside the skulls,
Slicing through brains in half,
Blood trickling down their heads.
The demon within,
Daemons of Hell.
All dead...
Dusty bones,
Bloody puddles,
Lie by my feet.
Nothing but bloods and guts.
What a horrific battle.
The skeletons are destroyed.
This is the battle,
Of the dead...
It was like spidural
dry crumbs of silence descending,
a still born sun popped out
through a raw hoematoma :
mountain was guilty of something,
it changed its mood and started
talking to clouds until the sky
turned crimson. The fountains had
a question for the bald owls, who under
the lidless eyes, always carried a massage
of colossal waste after the unholy
dinner. I know your glory was beckoning
to unflesh the bones in mass grave
of winged seeds who died in unsewm
pods of violence. I have still not come to
terms with the neck high milkless gaze.
SATISH VERMA