Best Sterilized Poems
We hadn't planned his birth like this...
Taking breaths as I was taught,
the pain dissolved my gallant front
and tears have come from eyes squeezed shut
I heard a voice unlike my own
The room is filled with some concern
I groan, the doctor takes a turn
Quick-fire decision, a swift incision
... a tug, a void,...a cry... a baby born..
The next several hours are a bit of a blur
until everything clears, alone in my room
on sterilized sheets, too stiff, too sleek,
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleep.
Suddenly, all I can think about is mother
and how different it was for her,
especially, since her young husband was so far away
This miracle I bore, as soft as fine silk,
with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, I am filled
with a deep pang of grief
for a long ago thief
I can feel the connection, mixed joy, and compassion
I'm bathed in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream back to a time long ago
to a hope that ended that I've been told
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, in her bed, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own
I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
as I cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast
The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death
_________________________________________________________
3/14/14
Contest: A Hundred In a Row
Sponsor: PD
Categories:
sterilized, baby, birth, death, mother,
Form:
Narrative
[ a nette onclaud collab ]
As twilight moves through the glass of dawn
I catch my shadow hiding among trees,
like ripped gauze from a withering leaf,
that slips into the brazen darkness
weary from cracks of brittle tears,
alone once more
looking for souls who are not there ...
and I weep for unfinished dreams
upon a mute moon,
while begging for fate’s new postscript
to hurl the way, a different song this time.
Unfinished vows left behind, on this night,
I cast light from the sterilized room,
matching shadows throughout the twilight
something of dreams creeps below the pillow
searching for peace and serenity
numbers become numb
I can't breathe, knowing I'm incomplete,
trite tears longing to be together
lyrics become darkness,
the sun makes laughter once more
leaving a plume of dreams above the sheets.
A Poet Destroyer Collaboration
..........
Contest: Collaboration Celebration
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer
Categories:
sterilized, angst, longing, love,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
I've been contemplating the tastelessness of the soup being served on site.
The difference between what's sweet and sour is noticeable in every bite.
It's not just the infusion of artificial intelligence that leaves the soup bitter,
but poetry that's been stolen from others that stinks worse than kitty litter.
Months ago it was perceived by many PS poets, that there had been an influx
of so called 'poets' posting 'poetry,' but quite frankly... most of it just sucks.
And then there is the returnee woman who holds contests entering her own
with names who returned with her in a scam that no one should condone.
There remains the do-goodies, who continue to claim they've been victimized
but that story is so old that it is known as garbage and needs to be sterilized.
A butcher, baker and candlestick maker, who burns his candle on both ends,
still hangs around but nothing he says is believed and cannot make amends.
A quill is meant for writing and not for fencing with neither parry nor thrust.
Take care who you accept to be a friend for it's not always one you can trust.
I've turned off commenting or the trolls will be feeding on my every word
those floating in soup's toilet bowl, who should be flushed like a stinking turd.
I'll also post this as a poem in the usual manner of poetry on this flawed site
for those who wisely don't pay attention to blogs where bullies post smite.
The soup kitchen needs a Gordon Ramsay visit to free it from rats and mice
because it's been infested with toxic waste that some have labeled 'spice.'
Categories:
sterilized, community,
Form:
Rhyme
Pride and prejudice has been ripped from me,
and my strength has abandoned me,
yet my will still crashes against the
breach within.
My citadel a long forgotten fortitude
left to rot and decay.
As my soul seeks refuge in other hosts
to take and mingle while balancing
my mental ballast before it erupts.
With guilt peeking in on me
to remind me i'm still in debt.
While my Autumn years have yet to arrive,
I feel vandalized,sterilized,and alone.
The very root system of my essence
has retracted the twilight of my descent
is not as dark as one would imagine,and
yet I am still a minor in time and
I can not consent to my downfall.
Categories:
sterilized, imagination, inspirational, introspection, autumn,
Form:
Free verse
With painted face and silent smiles they light the night so dim,
Oblivious to their stalker and his diabolic whim.
They'd come to sunny Florida to flee Maine's winter snow
And play their silent pantomimes on sidewalks as they go.
But the analyst has programs and experiments to run;
Methodic’ly he thus connects the silencer and gun.
Onlookers claim the analyst did murder them that night,
Then calmly pulled his pencil out, his test's results to write.
But as for wherefores and the whys, when asked of him a reason,
If these are not fair game, he cries, Why call this 'Tourist Season'?
His court appointed council does the best that he is able
To win the jury's pity for this client so unstable.
This man, his sobbing lawyer pleads, was brilliant as a child.
He never was a vicious lad, and next to most, quite mild.
Such things he pondered others wondered, if indeed they never spoke them,
As, to what hue those Smurfs, now blue, would turn, were one to choke them.
The lawyer then begins to quote behavior science stats
Of those who make their living pulling habits out of rats.
If in his heart a man resorts to rationalization
A wrong might seem a right when there's sufficient provocation.
As situations worsen and confusion grows with time;
Seems right, when with a silencer, one shoots a silent mime.
If innocent is how you find there's none 'twould you disparage,
For squelching this inquiring mind would be a grave miscarriage.
Those murders were experiments, not born of animosity;
Performed were they to satisfy a morbid curiosity.
Still the jury found him guilty and to ease his troubled brain,
Ordered soon a lethal potion be injected in his vein.
When asked before the gavel rapped for any final comment,
The killer scratched his head as if his muddled mind to foment.
Yes just one further question in this form of execution
do they disinfect the needle in a sterilized solution?
Categories:
sterilized, confusion, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
Categories:
sterilized, death, loss, mystery, philosophyold,
Form:
Free verse
In 1985, we had three daughters.
They were 5, 10, and 11.
So life was fun, of course.
Each daughter had a gerbil.
Flopsy, Crumbone and Taylor.
Don’t ask me which is which.
They are rodents.
I broke my leg on a Thursday.
In 5 places, trying to ride a bike to the day care
Center to pick up the 5-year- old because my
Husband had the car, and the police will come
Pick up the 5-year-olds who are left after 6.
This is California, where everything is weird.
My mom who had never flown on a plane,
Flew out wearing wings pinned to her bosom
on Saturday.
It’s a wonder I wasn’t already dead.
I was expecting that actually.
By evening she had fought the dogs
For their cooking pans full of water.
These dog-food pans were soon sterilized and
cooking spaghetti. And there was garlic
bread too, hot, piping, out of
an oven or something.
Home-made food!
My daughters were astounded.
They thought food came from
Styrofoam with restaurant
Names on it.
On Tuesday Mom was doing the 18,482
Pieces of laundry we had used the week
Before, and she said, “Caren, come over
Here.” I hobbled over on my crutches,
Which was not easy.
“I think a guinea pig is dead,” she whispered.
I poked it with a hoe. It did not move.
I poked it with a broom.
Nothing still.
We have to announce this
Delicately, my mother said in
Hushed tones of reverence.
We did not mention it during breakfast.
We did not mention it during lunch.
My mother kept looking at me expectantly.
By supper time after yelling for the three
Girls to come downstairs, and being ignored
I lost it and yelled, “A GUINEA PIG IS DEAD!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Wailing and keening began.
“That was subtle,” my mother told me.
Yes, it was.
Categories:
sterilized, 7th grade, 8th grade,
Form:
Infection Sublime
by Odin Roark
with his lone return
on this New York street
in middy’s humid heat
he did see shutters closed
behind antique glass
whose reflection reminded
he wasn’t born there
only grew up in the embrace
of a brownstone haven
the oldness
now new
restoration hipster style
closing his eyes
he remembered
battered front door
yapping terrier just inside
forever on guard for landlady safety
the nightly dash
up dark stairs to the 3rd floor
evading the heel-nipping
four-legged devil incarnate
opening his eyes
blazing sun reflected back
like a searing message
“isn’t it time to move on?”
he sensed the warning
but no one appeared
no one stared from behind
invisible lace curtains
there was no one
sidewalk bare
street deserted
not even the ubiquitous taxi horns
no
he was alone
in Manhattan’s summer heat
the kind of thermal suffocation
forcing the discomfort of false memories
the kind he didn’t need
when melancholy’s purity
would always walk beside him
such was the newly sterilized street
the occupants unaware
how sublime yesteryear’s infection
Categories:
sterilized, nostalgia,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.
Categories:
sterilized, girlfriend,
Form:
Sonnet
Once a nation
Supremely white as driven snow,
Singularly Christian, white and male,
Purely untarnished, and aglow,
Grandeur unparalleled in fairytale.
Hence a grievance
Punitively bold as bloody hellfire,
Potently prosecuted in seats of power,
Oppressively waged against objects of ire,
Prisms of nonwhites seeking justice in the hour.
Now a leader
Colossally void as sterilized weaponry,
Glibly sanctions white phobia and rage,
Lethally enflames this proto-fascist fancy,
As corporations provide aid to the rampage.
Thus a faction
Devoutly for leader, they stand down,
Steadfastly ready for the order to kill,
All woke-ish elitists, and enemies black and brown,
That white men reclaim their rightful place at the till.
Violence of mind
Shocks no one in America,
Where thugs are part of romantic lore.
With our ascendant authoritarian replica,
Are we ready for what washes ashore?
Published in Dissident Voice: 01/09/22
Categories:
sterilized, america, anxiety, culture, freedom,
Form:
Rhyme
My friends, an article has been published by a gentleman by the name of Guy Crittenden titled "That mask is giving you lung cancer" Please google and read the article. Why is this important? Well because the gentleman that wrote the article spent 25 years as editor to the Trade Journal HazMat Management, Which incidentally is an award winning magazine. This was posted on Facebook. This is specifically the typical blue mask. This information was also given in the edition of Dell Bigtree's program, The Highwire. When two OSHA experts explain the dangers of wearing a mask. Mask were never design to be worn for long periods of time. When worn for lengthy periods they are very harmful. The Blue mask contains Teflon, and other harmful chemicals. He claims that the mask are Sterilized with Ethylene Oxide, a known carcinogen. Many teachers in various school boards have been experiencing significant symptoms. PTFE when added to the mask can lead to lung cancer. Dont agree, argue with the experts at OSHA. Also he claims wearing a mask all day, will, he claims, cause brain damage. Surgeons wear mask in operating rooms, but those rooms are oxygenated, because of them wearing mask. He is concern for the students and all wearing a mask for extended periods of time. Please google Guy Crittenden " That Mask Is Causing You Lung Cancer. Also be advised that the Powers that be will try to discredit him and lie about the facts and the Truth.
Stay well my friends, be Vigilant and May the good Lord watch over you... Please tell others...
Categories:
sterilized, truth,
Form:
Narrative
World Assimilators
More and more to our suburban sprawl
Proliferating roads with rush hour crawl.
Crush of humanity completely unfurled
Replacing an irretrievable natural world
Along with farm lands never more tilled
Buried by progress that’s never fulfilled.
Identical houses lined up in many plots
On biologically sterilized landscape lots.
Residers never happy with their things,
Joneses always having the latest bling.
We look in wrong quarters for invaders
Thinking foreign, possibly alien raiders,
Imaging assimilation coming from afar,
Blind to how much like the Borg we are.
Categories:
sterilized, creation, death, earth, environment,
Form:
Shape
I’m sharing
Thanksgiving
For this life
I feel like I’m in paradise
My heart and mind has been sterilized
As in super sized
Not like Mickey D
More like jubilee
I’m counting my blessings
And not my problems
I don’t need the drama
Period. No commas
Life is good
It’s an awesome tour
For the ones who are mature
It’s greater than diamonds and its allure
Categories:
sterilized, blessing, heart, life,
Form:
Rhyme
I have not ceased—
I have not.
The things of the past
Do not rot, do not decay,
But I have not ceased—
I have not.
Once the pitchfork's prongs
Did so deafeningly twang,
I shriveled and cowered,
And found myself prancing
With the headless chickens.
Beneath the naysayer's feet
Are six cockroaches:
One for good luck,
One to ward spirits,
One to find holy favor,
One to initiate a curse,
One for venting,
One for simple disgust;
And the massacre was denied.
I stopped,
Trapped in translation,
A transparent body in an opaque cage;
Bleeding profusely on a sterilized table,
Compromising the hygiene of this place
And questioning my helpless wounds.
Please, where is the salt?
The bitterness to cleanse me?
Pain before numbness before death?
He blinded me with a sound,
With the violent beat of drums
The size of islands,
Jarring my excitable pupils
Forever.
Who is she?
Then came a day of mourning:
On the morning of a day
Of mourning
Of a day,
Lost.
Belief is philosophy.
An idea was conceived,
Was found to be nonsensical,
And standardization transformed
Into an inert totalitarianism,
But who are we to rebelliously be
The pompous leaders of nonconformity?
We write poems
That influence books
That influence manifestos
That influence wars
That influence consciences
That influence bodies
That influence wars
That influence wars
And wars
And wars
And dullness
And brokenness.
Why do we detest exhibitionism
But complain about kept secrets?
When the first snowflake fell,
She was a star of beauty,
And lauded by many,
For she was unique and unmatchable.
The Satan cursed his creation
For being whiter than the pure,
And she melted, never to return.
And then she said,
"Hell spoke to me to say,
"'My little girl, come hither,'
"And I went and was felt
"For insecurities,
"And they were removed from me.
"I was like the waterfalls
"And tingly with bees beneath my skin."
Categories:
sterilized, confusion, dark,
Form:
Free verse
O Fault!
Horrendously I believed, a man solitary,
Was real alive stood, aftermath Tsunami.
On top of a roof, standing overwhelming,
Looking towards wreckage and towns’ declining.
Devastation of property, food water shortage,
Ancestral heritage, swept away by chase.
Culturally rich even, 100 years liven,
No escape what to do, in front of threat.
Earthquake shook foundation, with nine Rector Scales,
Tsunami you remained disheartened in mid of wails.
You forgot to wait albeit; they’re previously swept,
Probably tremor sent message, to frozen Japan the best.
World remained sterilized, forgetting heavenly shape,
Life swallowed grief, at the mid of deface.
Such irrational calamities, occurred upon lives,
Stop genocide heading, towards human’s face.
Without noticing, why did you demolish race?
Love us then only, we stir to generate lives,
Otherwise we’ve to chain sack, for next sister planet.
We’re poor creature, you’re great genuine,
Bureaucracy impinged, havoc terminating shrine.
O fault! Mind your business, if you want life to begin.
Categories:
sterilized, bereavement, conflict, death, funeral,
Form:
Concrete